Early morning in Eddleguard began with a soft drizzle, the kind that blurred the edges of rooftops and turned the cobblestone streets into shimmering mirrors. The rainy season had officially arrived — and in a port city like Eddleguard, that meant one simple truth:
The weather obeyed no one.
Gray clouds rolled low over the harbor, heavy and restless, while the distant cries of gulls cut through the damp air like fleeting notes in a solemn symphony. Fishing boats rocked gently in the tide, their masts swaying like sleepy giants waking from slumber. The scent of wet salt and fresh rain mingled, weaving through winding alleys and bustling marketplaces in a heady, bracing perfume of the sea.
Despite the drizzle, the city was already awake and alive.
Vendors pulled canvas awnings over their stalls with practiced ease, shaking off droplets as they arranged fresh produce, dried herbs, and crates of river fish. Their motions were precise, unaffected by the persistent patter of rain; Eddleguard's people were long accustomed to weather that changed its mind with every hour, and had learned to move as though it were nothing more than a gentle companion.
Children splashed through puddles, laughter ringing across the streets, while mothers scolded them half-heartedly, a faint smile betraying the affection hidden beneath their words. Dockworkers hauled crates across slick planks, boots thudding against the soaked wood with a rhythm as steady as the tide. Merchants hurried toward the trade district with cloaks pulled tight, muttering about shipments that needed to leave before the next storm rolled in.
Even the knights patrolling the streets moved with calm precision, water beading off their armor in silver trails. Rain or shine, Eddleguard moved forward, unbowed.
And somewhere in that lively, mist-touched city, preparations for the Healing Hall's opening quietly stirred.
Ordinarily, the citizens of Eddleguard began their mornings by visiting the church — a quiet, habitual ritual marking the start of their day. But today, the usual flow of worshippers found themselves drifting elsewhere, drawn like moths to a new source of light.
Instead of the church steps, the people crowded before a structure so immense and imposing that it seemed to reshape the very skyline of Eddleguard:
The Healing Hall.
It loomed over the square like a man-made mountain, its towering walls crafted from polished white stone that gleamed with an almost divine radiance. Even under the drizzle, the surface shimmered softly, as if the building itself exhaled a gentle, welcoming light. The walls were seamless and pristine, reflecting the sky in smooth, pearly hues that lent it an aura of untouchable serenity.
Six monumental pillars framed the entrance, each carved with meticulous artistry — curling vines, blooming flowers, and mythical beasts intertwined along their length in elegant fluidity. At their bases, delicate leaf patterns spread outward as though nature itself were claiming the structure, rooting it in the world outside.
A massive wooden door, hewn from ancient timber and reinforced with dark iron, blocked entry to the interior. Its carvings were stories in themselves: a healer tending the wounded, a mother holding a child, a knight resting beneath a tree, and, at the very center, a simple pair of gentle, open hands — a silent promise of safety and mercy.
A set of wide, sweeping stairs led upward to the entrance, broad enough to accommodate dozens of people at once. Beside the steps lay a smooth, expertly crafted ramp — a rare sight in noble architecture — ensuring that even the frail, the elderly, and the injured could approach the hall with dignity.
The grounds surrounding the hall were no less magnificent.
A lush, vibrant yard stretched before the building, its grass trimmed into a perfect emerald carpet. Beds of flowers — both seasonal and off-seasonal — bloomed in harmonious clusters, filling the air with subtle fragrances even through the rain. Their colors painted the garden in bursts of pink, blue, gold, and violet, offering a quiet celebration of life.
Scattered among them, fruit trees bowed under the weight of glistening, ripe fruit. Apples, peaches, and pears hung heavy, droplets of rain sliding down their skins like glass beads, reflecting the gray light of morning in tiny, dazzling prisms.
Enclosing the estate stood a tall iron fence, formidable enough to withstand storms and intruders alike. Each bar ended in a sharp tip, but even these were elegantly stylized — in the shapes of petals, feathers, and curling waves. Along its length, delicate engravings depicted flora and fauna native to the region: deer grazing, birds in mid-flight, foxes curled beneath bushes, even insects rendered with loving precision.
The Healing Hall did not look like a place built merely for treatment.
It looked like a sanctuary.
A beacon of purity and hope — standing proudly beside the church, yet distinct in its purpose. And today, the people of Eddleguard gathered before it not with routine reverence, but with anticipation, gratitude, and awe.
It was a place that had promised them free healing.
A promise that was about to begin.
A hush gradually settled over the crowd.
The rain softened into a fine mist, drifting like silver threads through the air. Hooded cloaks, straw hats, and simple shawls dotted the mass of citizens, all faces turned toward the grand stairway as a familiar figure stepped forward:
The High Priest.
His white-and-gold robes fluttered gently in the breeze, the embroidered sun sigil catching faint glimmers of light. Though he moved with the calm, measured grace of age, his presence carried weight — the kind that made people straighten their backs without realizing it. He paused at the top of the steps, looking down at the sea of anxious, hopeful faces.
Behind him, the towering Healing Hall stood like a silent guardian, unblinking and eternal.
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd, quickly fading as the priest raised a weathered hand.
The moment he began to speak, his voice carried across the courtyard — gentle, yet strong enough to reach even the furthest edges of the assembly.
"People of Eddleguard," he began, tone warm and steady,"Today is a day we carve into memory."
Rain pattered softly around him, but no one moved.
"For years, our city has known suffering. Illness in the slums, injuries among our port workers, the burden placed upon mothers, fathers, and children alike. Many here have watched loved ones fall ill and prayed for a miracle they could not afford."
His gaze swept slowly across the crowd — not as a figure of authority, but as someone who understood their pain.
"Today… that burden begins to lift."
A soft murmur of emotion fluttered through the people.
"This Healing Hall was not built through power, nor wealth, nor politics." His voice deepened, rich with conviction. "It exists because a single young girl believed that healing should be the right of all, not the privilege of a few."
He bowed his head slightly, reverently.
"Lady Sapphire Astley… though young in years, has a heart greater than many adults I have met in my lifetime."
The crowd shifted, whispering her name — Sapphire… the child healer… the noble girl of miracles…
The High Priest continued.
"She asks for no coin.No offering.No favor.No recognition."
She gives because she wishes others to live.
A few in the crowd lowered their heads, tears forming. Mothers clutched their children a little closer, and fathers shifted uneasily, as if the weight of gratitude pressed against their chests.
"This Hall," he said, gesturing toward the towering structure behind him,"is the first place in Eddleguard — perhaps in the entire kingdom — where any person may walk through those doors and be treated with dignity, compassion, and care."
His voice softened, trembling faintly with the weight of truth.
"I am old enough to have seen war. Famine. Plague. And as a servant of the divine, I have prayed countless times for the world to birth more souls of kindness."
He smiled, eyes warm with deep affection.
"Today, I stand here humbled… because one of those souls stands among us."
A swell of emotion washed over the crowd — whispers, sniffles, choked breaths.
Some bowed their heads.Some pressed their hands to their chests.Some simply stared at the Hall with trembling lips.
The High Priest spread his arms wide.
"Let this place be a sanctuary.""Let it be a refuge.""Let it be a light in our darkest hours."
Then, with a voice that rang with hope:
"From this day forward…May no child in Eddleguard suffer without help.May no parent fear that they cannot heal their family.May no soul be turned away."
He lowered his hands, breathing deeply as though releasing years of unspoken prayers.
"The Healing Hall is now open."
A wave of emotion swept through the crowd — relief, gratitude, awe.
Some clapped weakly at first. Then stronger. Until the entire courtyard thundered with applause that echoed against the white stone walls.
The rain continued to fall softly, but today, the city felt brighter than ever.
After the High Priest's final words faded into the misty air and the applause slowly quieted, another figure stepped forward onto the stage.
His footsteps were heavy, metallic, deliberate.
A man clad head-to-toe in full-bodied armor emerged from the shadows of the stairway. The steel plates were polished to a cold sheen, reflecting the drizzle like liquid silver. His presence alone made the crowd instinctively step back.
His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass.His eyes — fierce, hawk-like — swept across the citizens with a measuring, unforgiving gaze.His hair, a deep, dark brown, was tied neatly behind him.
Every inch of him radiated intimidation.
He stopped at the center, boots hitting the stone with a dull thud, and spoke in a deep, resonant voice that cut through the rain like a blade.
"Good evening, citizens."
A hush fell upon the crowd.
"I am Conor Barrete," he continued. "Second Lieutenant of the Royal Guard's Second Division."
Gasps scattered like ripples across the square. The Royal Guard was already terrifyingly powerful—yet the Second Division was notorious even among nobles.
Conor let the reaction fade before he spoke again.
"I am here under His Majesty's direct command to ensure the complete and uncompromised safety of Lady Sapphire Rosabelle Astley."
His helmet tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
"And I plan to do so wholeheartedly."
The pressure thickened. Even the sound of rain seemed to soften out of fear.
"I am a man of few words," he said coldly. "So I will be clear."
His gaze swept over the crowd with predatory precision.
"You are here to receive treatment. Nothing more."
His voice dropped to an icy whisper.
"If I judge that you pose even the smallest threat to Lady Sapphire…"He paused, letting the silence suffocate the square."…there will be no trials. No hearings."
His next words struck like a blade through bone.
"You will be executed on the spot."
People visibly paled. A few staggered. Some nearly dropped to their knees.
Conor continued mercilessly.
"Leave behind anything that can be used as a weapon.Whether knives for chefs, scissors for tailors, or sickles for farmers."
His gaze sharpened.
"And let me make one thing absolutely clear."
He stepped forward, boots hitting the stage like thunder.
"I possess the authority to imprison nobles if necessary."
Gasps erupted.
"So understand this well—if I can imprison nobles, I will not hesitate to detain common citizens."
His voice became brutally direct.
"Even if you are not executed for possessing such tools, you will be sent to prison.There will be no exceptions."
He straightened, rain running down the plates of his armor.
"Citizens of Eddleguard—your safety lies in your own hands."
With that, he turned and marched off the stage, leaving behind a crowd too stunned to even whisper.
For a long moment after Conor Barrete left, no one moved.
The drizzle continued to fall, but the crowd stood frozen — pale faces, trembling hands, breaths held tight in chests. Mothers clutched their children. Elderly men whispered prayers. Even the knights stationed around the square felt the tension like a blade resting on their throats.
Seeing this, the High Priest quietly stepped forward again.
His robe brushed softly against the wooden stage.His expression was gentle, yet tinged with firm resolve.He lifted both hands, palms outward, and the murmurs — what little existed — faded into silence.
"My dear children," he began, voice warm enough to melt the frost Conor left behind, "please, do not let fear seize your hearts."
He swept his gaze slowly, lovingly, across the anxious sea of people.
"Lieutenant Conor Barrete spoke with severity because that is his duty. He is a shield — one forged to act without hesitation when danger approaches.Such men must speak firmly, for they bear the weight of lives on their shoulders."
He smiled softly.
"But we… are not in danger. Not today."
People shifted, a few breaths finally released.
"You are not seen as threats," the High Priest continued, his tone soothing like temple bells at dawn. "You are seen as sons and daughters of this land. People who simply seek healing, mercy, and hope."
A mother in the front row wiped her eyes.
"Lady Sapphire Rosabelle Astley has come here for one purpose only — to heal," he said gently. "And she does so with a heart full of compassion. Her hands do not discriminate. Her gifts do not judge."
The rain lightened, as if even the sky itself listened.
"Lieutenant Conor's warnings were meant only to protect her, as is the will of His Majesty."
He lowered his voice, warm and reassuring.
"If you carry no ill intent, then you have nothing to fear.If you walk here with pure hearts, you will leave with blessings."
A quiet calm washed over the crowd — like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The High Priest bowed deeply.
"So I beg of you… stand tall. Have faith. And let your hearts be at peace."
His words settled over the city square like a soft blanket, restoring steadiness to trembling spirits.
The drizzle continued to coat the streets, yet the crowd slowly began to breathe again. Fearful glances softened into tentative curiosity. Murmurs replaced silence, and anxious hands relaxed slightly. The citizens of Eddleguard, from merchants to mothers to the elderly, remained before the grand Healing Hall, captivated by its radiant walls and the promise it held.
The High Priest stepped back, his calm presence anchoring the gathering, while Lieutenant Conor Barrete's watchful gaze ensured order, silent and unyielding. The contrast between the two — warmth and authority, compassion and steel — left the crowd in a careful balance of awe and respect.
The Healing Hall stood tall, pure white and gleaming even under the soft rain, adorned with flowers and fruit trees, promising a future where suffering could be eased and hope restored. The citizens waited, hearts full of anticipation, unaware that the young healer who would bring that hope was yet to arrive.
The stage was set. The doors of the Healing Hall stood closed, ready to open. And all eyes, hearts, and prayers were poised for the moment that would change the city forever.