CHAPTER 16 Soulless Statue

CHAPTER 16 Soulless Statue

The Brown Plaster

The morning sun poured through the opened window, golden and warm. Haze and dust danced in the winter light, casting the room in welcoming glow.

On a biting winter morning, a little songbird flitted through an open window, fleeing the chill like a tiny, feathered fugitive. It found refuge in what seemed an empty room—quiet, still, and oddly solemn, save for the presence of a strange, lumpy statue in brown plaster perched awkwardly on a hospital bed.

The statue had a hole where a face should have been—dark, silent, unmoving. Creepy.

To the songbird, it was perfect.

Shivering, it nestled atop the limp limb of the statue, chirping softly, like a lullaby for itself.

Chirp—Chirp—Chirp

The little tune filled the room with a brief moment of serenity, as if nature itself had tiptoed in to tuck the place under a warm quilt.

Then—

A voice mimicked the birds chirping.

“Chirp Chirp Chirp Chirp—hey wait come back!”

The bird gave a squawk of betrayal, flared its wings in panic, and launched itself toward the corner of the room.

From the hole in the plaster cast, a pair of emerald-green eyes peeked out. Beneath the crusty encasement, a grinning girl wiggled her nose like a mischievous cat.

Kimberly Mae Gustmill.

“We can sing together…” Kimmi cooed, trying to coax the tiny songbird into chirping again.

The bird blinked once, fluffed its feathers and promptly flew off through the open window.

Kimmi gasped, betrayed. “Fine! Fly away then! I sing better than you anyway, birdie!” she huffed, cheeks puffed in defiance as the cold breeze swept in behind her feathery deserter.

Kimmi sighed, her voice muffled inside the cast. “Great… it’s gonna be long days.”

Kimmi entire body was encased in a stiff, brown cast. Her arms and legs dangled from ropes strung to an iron frame, turning her into the worlds saddest display of a plaster statue. Only her face poked free—barely—and only her eyes were left to dart around.

Ever since the elderly healer Raimund Warmheart performed successful surgery on her, the eerie voice that had once hissed Cripple at her had gone silent. Well, mostly silent. It still whispers Critical now and then—but she figured that was just its polite way of reminding her that she was still injured in someway.

The plaster cast was her personal hell—itchy, stifling, and damp with sweat. When the window stayed shut and the air grew thick and stale, it turned her cast into a slow-baking oven. But winter, in its mercy, lent her a touch of relief—the cold would seep in from outside, swirl beneath her cast, and cool her fevered skin just enough to bear it.

Kimmi hummed a cheerful little tune, swinging her body ever so slightly. She began to sing a foreign song—so foreign, even to her.

Oh well, oh well, why O filled by dirt?

O Well, O Well, why O burden by pail?

The water they asked for was only a tale.

You held your pail, on errand bound to fail.

She could not recall where she had learned or heard it, yet the urge to sing it soothed her, like a nostalgic memory eager to be found.

Inconveniently, the song reminded her of last nights disaster.

The beast. The courtyard. The end and outcome.

Kimmi remembered trying to nap on the cold stone at the courtyard, not out of physical exhaustion, but because she was emotionally drained. Though in truth, her limp, unresponsive body—burned and broken—was far more than just a mare tired. It was barely holding on.

She had tried her best to delay the disaster, to protect whoever was still in danger out in the courtyard. But the beast had bested her, and its final roar told her she had failed.

Yet she bore neither guilt, nor sorrow.

Just satisfaction.

She had done something amazing for herself and the urge—and together, they felt accomplished.

In the face of the beast, she had felt invincible. Even if the victory was fleeting, even if all she did was delay the inevitable, she had fought against certain death. And for once, she was proud of it.

Kimmi smile blossomed, warm and radiant like a sunrise—only to fade just as quickly, like the last light of dusk.

A flicker passed over her face, like a shadow crossing her thoughts. Something inside her shifted, half-formed idea and the calm on her face began to fade. She felt a change taking place within her personality—her thoughts, her nature, no longer entirely her own.

She liked to think of herself as rational—her decisions driven by logic, unmoved by emotion. But lately, things had begun to shift. Her choices grew increasingly unrealistic, as if the urge were not just whispering anymore, but taking the wheel. She was becoming more eccentric, oddly naive, and less like herself with every passing day.

Kimmi closed her eyes, trying to quiet her racing thoughts and ease the growing unease in her mind.

Now her mind turned toward the mysterious eerie voice—the voice that had gifted her powers, abilities that allowed her to face danger head-on. It had whispered in her mind at moments of peril, guiding her, yet also holding her back.

The first time she had heard it, she was in Limelight Park, surrounded by landmarks and points of interest—statues, fountains, and engraved epics recounting tales of renowned leaders. At that moment, the voice had granted her the strength to escape Ruben and Logan grasp, but it had also ensured she could not harm them.

They also prevented her from harming living creatures—she remembered one peculiar experiment with a flipped cockroach. She had tried to hit it with some dice, watching closely for any sign of divine interference. And she saw it—an unseen force subtly shifting her aim, dulling her reflexes, guiding her hand just off-target.

Most of her attempts failed, foiled not by chance, but by something greater. Still, one lucky toss of a die struck the insect. A glancing blow—but it told her enough. The gods power was not absolute.

The rules could be bent, maybe even broken. But doing so might invite divine displeasure. She was not sure—and that uncertainty lingered like a weight in her chest even now.

Now, with the giant bird threatening her, it had protected her once more—steering her away from harm, making her body move on its own to dodge the beasts attacks. But, just like in her experiment, she could not avoid everything. Sometimes the creature managed to strike, leaving her injured and close to death.

And even then, it also dulled her pain, making even the most gruesome wounds feel like nothing. It was clear divine intervention—ensuring she survived.

Critical

A voice lingered in her mind—low, distant, like wind through a cracked window.

Kimmi heard it.

“Could it be... this is your doing? Is this what you intended? The path you demand me to walk?” she whispered, speaking not aloud, but inward—to whatever presence stirred in her head.

The voice—eerie and ever watching, might very well belong to a god. It reminded her of something she did not want to remember.

Death.

Punishment.

The first thing she felt upon waking in this strange, bewildered world was not wonder.

It was fear.

Fear of dying. Fear of divine wrath. A fear so primal it kept her behind doors, flinching at shadows, light, and every noise alike.

Even then, she had believed in gods—though she could not recall how or why.

Maybe all living beings were born with that belief, etched into their marrow by nature itself.

If so, then she was nothing special.

Just another creature trembling before the unknown.

And yet, the voice chose her.

“Could it be... the god wants me to be a hero?” Kimmi scoffed at the thought and burst into laughter.

“Oh, mightiest god,” she declared theatrically, “I will not be your little tool for divine drama. I'd rather have a quiet life, a warm bed, and absolutely zero prophecies. Go find another chosen one—I’ll be using your powers strictly for my own survival and snacks.”

She gave a smug grin, quite pleased with her rebellion, and snuggled herself comfortably into her plaster cast.

And then—the warm morning light suddenly darkened, replace by an eerie shadow looming over the room like a divine omen announcing its arrival.

Kimmi paled.

She stared at the darkened wall. “I was kidding! Please don’t smite me. Don’t smite me, don’t smite me, I swear I’ll be nice! I’ll listen!”

Then, as if in response, the air seemed to thicken, and with a deafening loud crash echoed through the room—the sound of a wooden door slamming violently against the stone wall.

THWACK

“Please don’t hurt me!" Kimmi voice squeaked, as she squeezed her eyes shut. She instinctively curled deeper into her plastered cast.

Kimmi waited the in pending doom, oddly it never happed. but she sense someone was in the room with her right now.

Squeak—squeak—squeak.

A sound of a small roller cart being pushed closer to her bed reached Kimmi ears. As it got closer, her emerald pupils darted to the side, and she finally saw who it was.

A young woman with short green hair and heavy black circles under her eyes stood beside her bed. Her brown eyes held the exhausted fury of someone who had not slept in three days. People around the Royal Infirmary called her V.

“Viivii, you're going to murder me... even with a god's blessing. If I die by your hand, I’ll haunt you forever...” Kimmi muttered, her voice barely a whisper.

“I don’t meant to scare you child, it just that the door was stuck… I had to use force it open…” V smiled innocently. “I had brought you a breakfast…”

Kimmi realized that V was not coming to deliver a divine punishment. She smiled and swung her body ever so slightly, her mood lifting.

Then V noticed something odd with Kimmi plaster. A bit of the plaster had fallen off, revealing a large fracture on the surface, especially around the joint. Her head turned directly toward Kimmi casted body, and she saw a slight movement.

V raised an eyebrow, her smile faltering as her gaze sharpened. “Child, did you move around?” Her tone shifted to one of quiet concern.

Kimmi eyes darted away from V face. “Noooo...” she lied, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

V leaned closer to Kimmi head, peering intently at her. “Kimmi, you moved. I can see it clearly...” Her eyes moved to Kimmi head, which was sunk deeper into the cast, indicating she had been fidgeting, causing the plaster to loosen. “How did this happen?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Viivii,” Kimmi said innocently, her voice laced with false sincerity. “I didn’t mean to move...”

V sighed, repositioning Kimmi limp body and gently aligning the fractured plaster. “You must have felt the itch,” she murmured, concern written across her face.

Then, in a softer tone, she whispered near Kimmi’s face, “But you did promise both Grand Elder Raimund and I that you’d behave…”

Her voice grew stern. “Your bones are still soft as bread dough. If you move, you’ll snap! So absolutely, positively, under no circumstances—MUST YOU MOVE!”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Kimmi immediately started move her body slightly again, trying to reposition herself, but it caused more fractures in the plaster on her arms and legs.

“Kimberly!” V cried, rushing to hold Kimmi’s body still. “Do I need to tie your entire joint together?” she muttered under her breath, her frustration mounting. “Where are all the metal braces when you need them?”

“But I’m hot in here…” Kimmi whined, pouting like a scolded squirrel.

V looked around the chilly room. The windows were wide open, letting in the morning frost.

“It’s freezing in here and you’re hot?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“Well, Miss Viivii, I’m the one wrapped head to toe in a plaster oven,” Kimmi reminded her, huffing.

“That’s not how that works… You might be experiencing cold-heat,” V muttered, reaching out to feel Kimmi forehead. After a moment of relief, she walked over and shut the window.

“Nooo! Don’t close it!” Kimmi moaned dramatically. “That window was my only source of entertainment.”

“Then go to sleep! There are a million dreams just waiting to entertain you,” V grumbled as she turned to scribble something onto a clipboard.

“I can’t sleep. I just woke up!” Kimmi protested. “And… and my dreams are just endless darkness and void. That’s not entertaining at all!”

Kimmi realized something unsettling—she had never once remembered dreaming. Not a single image, not a fragment of a memory. She wondered if perhaps she forgot them the moment she woke or if she simply never dreamed at all.

V sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I am not wasting a sleeping potion on you, child.”

“I don’t need a potion,” Kimmi said sweetly.

“Then what do you need?” V asked, already regretting the question.

“Read me a book?” Kimmi offered with hopeful eyes.

V blinked. “We don’t have any childrens books here.”

“What about a medical book? Or—or that thick religious one! I bet Grandpa Raimund got a bunch.”

V stared. “You want a sermon?”

“If it helps me sleep…” Kimmi gleefully replies.

“Kimberly… I am very busy today. Now eat and drink, first,” V said with a tired sigh, grabbing a small, rolled bread and bringing it to Kimmi mouth.

Kimmi obediently opened her mouth, chomped down, and slowly munched it like a contemplative hamster.

V then prepared a metal straw connected to a water bottle and gently placed it to Kimmi lips.

Kimmi latched onto it and slurped it all down like a parched duckling.

“Very good, Kimberly. Now, I must leave—”

“Ah! But what about a book?” Kimmi called out, cheeks still puffed from the last bite.

“Next time, child…” V turned to leave but paused mid-step, something tugging at her conscience.

She leaned down, peering into the hole where Kimmi face peeked from the cast. The girl had sulked all the way back into the plaster, only the top of her messy hair visible.

“That still counts as moving, Kimberly. Come back here,” V sighed, eyeing the crumbling plaster with growing concern.

Reluctantly, Kimmi scooted her head back into position, her expression a guilty blend of defiance and charm.

V softened and stepped closer, her voice dropping to a gentler tone. “Listen… tomorrow we’ll remove the plaster and check if your bones are healing properly. And a morrow—your family will be here to pick you up.”

“I’m going home already?” Kimmi blinked in disbelief. “But I thought Viivii was going to let me rot in this plaster cast for a month!”

V smirked faintly, brushing a hand through her own dishevelled hair. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Viivii must be a very, VERY decent healer,” Kimmi said playfully, deliberately stressing the word decent as she smiled up at her caretaker. “I wish I could be a healer like you someday… Viivii, the great mender who could fix everything.”

Kimmi spoke with quiet sincerity, her voice little more than a whisper carried by hope. She truly longed for the kind of knowledge that could heal wounds—not just her own, but those of others too. If danger came again—at least she would have something to rely on, herself.

It would make her life easier, but more than that, it would help ease her fear of the unknown that loomed ahead.

One day, Kimmi thought, she would add it to her do list—not just magical healing, but anything that might help her keep her body and mind intact. If harm came for her again, she would not meet it unarmed.

As soon as Kimmi voiced her desire to become a mender, a whisper slipped into her mind—low, melodic, and eerie in its stillness. It was a familiar voice, the same eerie tone as before, but now slightly sweeter, softer. It was her own voice—yet it lacked the soul behind it.

It was like hearing her own lullaby sung back to her.

A Mender hands bear no divine,

Yet still she turn back deaths design.

She healed with thread and bone and steel,

No god to bless, no prayer to kneel.

Blades may swing and arrow fly,

A ward turns them all awry.

As long as will and magic dwell,

The harm she brace will never swell.

With every step, her magic grew,

Nature pulse beneath her hue.

The ground beneath began to crack,

As she walked, it all turned black.

She speaks with zeal, her voice so grand,

As though she’s preaching through the land.

Unaware, she’s got the flair,

For a sermon no one asked to bear.

Kimmi eyes grew heavy, and just like before, the world around her began to blur—fading into a soft, dream-drenched haze. The voice wrapped around her like a lullaby, cradling her thoughts, tucking her mind into someplace quiet and cold.

And her wish to become a mender would come true, for it was her will—and so it would be.

V blinked, touched by the sudden sincerity—but before she could reply, she noticed Kimmi expression had gone strangely still. Kimmi smile froze. Her emerald eyes, once full of life, dulled into a glassy stare. Motionless. Unblinking.

“Kimmi?” V whispered.

She quickly raised a hand, casting a soft light at her fingertip, and moved it in front of Kimmi eyes.

No response. No pupil reaction. No nothing.

Her heart dropped.

Without wasting a second, V reached up and yanked the emergency cord above Kimmi bed. A distant clang rang out from the bell at the far end of the infirmary—loud and urgent.

The tension in the room skyrocketed.

“Kimberly Lister Gustmill, can you hear me?” Viivii said firmly, leaning in close.

The door slammed open. A rush of white-coated healers poured in, their boots echoing against the wood floor floor.

"Healer Vyset—"

They recognized her instantly.

But before any of them could reach her—a surge of energy rushed into Kimmi body, jolting her from the dreamy haze. Her eyes snapped open in shock—heart racing, skin damp with sweat, breath coming in uneven gasps.

“Huh? What happened?” Kimmi blinked.

Her voice shattered the silence like glass, making every healer in the room jolt in place.

Vyset nearly collapsed in relief, clutching her chest. “Ah, thank Lioris…”

"It’s nothing, Kimberly. You just dazed off a little too long," she said quickly, trying to keep her tone calm. She gently placed her hand on Kimmi cheek and forehead, feeling the unsettling warmth radiate from her skin. "Stop worrying everyone and get some rest," she added, sensing a disturbance in Kimmi pulse and noting the cold sweat that clung to her face.

“…Sure… sure…,” Kimmi muttered. Her face had gone pale. She did not argue. She did not even pout.

Vyset gave her a glance, then quickly scribbled a medical note on Kimmi clipboard, documenting her condition. Her usual tired shuffle had vanished, replaced by the stride of someone gripped by urgency. She nodded to the other healers in the room, and they visibly relaxed before quietly leaving.

After finishing the note, Vyset gave Kimmi another glance—and her eyes caught the pale sheen on the girls face. A flicker of worry crept in. Without hesitation, she turned and walked briskly toward the office of the Head of Infirmary, leaving Kimmi alone in the room, her steps tightening with each thought.

She spoke her wish with careless breath, and silence answered, eerie as death.

A Soulless Child

A white-coated elder, draped in robes of pale linen and gold trim, sat behind a grand walnut desk. His greying hair framed a face lined with wisdom and wear. Eyes half-closed, he read through parchment with the slow patience of a man accustomed to scripture. The desk before him was cluttered—ink pots, wax seals, bronze-bound ledgers, and a black metal plate etched with a name, Raimund Warmheart.

The room smelled of crushed herbs and smouldering incense. A small metal furnace glowed quietly in the corner, its warmth pushing back the chill that crept through the stone walls.

The windows were shut tight, and thick curtains had been drawn, their heavy fabric blocking out the morning sun. Magical lanterns bathed everything in a steady amber glow, but the room remained dim, steeped in a quiet stillness where daylight failed to reach.

Shelves lined with glass vials, dried roots, sealed crates marked in crimson wax, and olds tomes gave the room a sense of mystery.

Across the room, seated at a more modest desk of dark wood beneath a narrow stained-glass window, was a younger man in a matching white coat. His black hair was neatly combed, and his workspace orderly—rows of sealed sample tubes filled with red liquid, polished instruments, and carefully stacked clipboards, each with labelled name, Release, Transfer, Critical and Standby.

Raimund flipped open a thick folder, his brow furrowing.

“Coire,” he said, voice low but commanding, “is the infirmary finally under control?”

“Yes, Grand Elder,” Coire responded without looking up.

Raimund eyes did not leave the file. “Did you know my patient, the girl—Kimberly—was labeled Soulless?”

Coire looked up, confused. “Soulless, Grand Elder?”

“You’ve never heard of the term?” Raimund asked, lips curling.

“No, Grand Elder, I’ve never studied demonology,” Coire admitted, uncertain.

Raimund laughed, a dry sound laced with mirth. "Say that in front of Cheeriest Cleric, and you’ll be marked an unforgivable sinner—condemned to a hundred lashes, for daring to suggest that a Soulless bears resemblance to infernals."

“Gran Elder, I don’t understand…” Coire’s voice wavered, a hint of fear creeping in.

“Soulless,” Raimund explained slowly, “is a blessing. A curse, perhaps, to those who do not understand it—but in truth, it is something far rarer. To be Soulless is to be... chosen.”

"Chosen? a god’s chosen?" Coire echoed, the words stirring something faint and familiar in his memory. His interest now fully awakened, he leaned forward slightly, eyes alight with curiosity.

“In a way,” Raimund nodded, his expression turning serious. “It is believed that the soulless can glimpse fragments of the world through the eyes of God.” His voice grew grave, laden with weighty knowledge. “But such visions come at a terrible cost. The mind cannot bear the strain. The soulless become empty—mere puppets of flesh and bone, wandering lost in madness. At least, this is what the scriptures say...”

Coire thoughts scrambled, then suddenly focused. “Isn’t that like the feebleminded wards the Order of Cheeriest shelters?”

“Precisely.” Raimund slid a document across the room with a flick of his wrist.

It landed before Coire.

Kimberly Mae Gustmill—marked Rank S, Soulless. Issued by the Simix Cheeriest Curator Order. The girl was under divine protection, by law, scripture and faith.

Coire nodded slowly, awed. He had seen that name before—he had delivered a message to her family.

"It seems that Kimberly Mae Gustmill is a special child, one who is under the divine protection of the Cheeriest Order," he said, voice low with reverence and unease.

"What do you make of that?" Raimund asked, arching a brow.

Coire hesitated. "It seems the Cheeriest Order is… seeking a god’s chosen among the feebleminded."

"There you go again, Coire," Raimund chided, his tone stern but not unkind. "Mind your tongue. That word borders on blasphemy."

He turned away slightly, gazing toward the enchanted lantern at ceiling.

"The Cheeriest Order was founded at the behest of every major temple in Simix. Imagine that—priests, prophets, clerics, paladins, and zealots all agreeing on one thing."

"Even our own order?" Coire asked, startled.

"Yes," Raimund said, folding his arms. "In the oldest testament, it is written by the first follower of Lioris… Children of Moons.”

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor.

"Curious, isn’t it?" Raimund murmured, his voice now laced with something colder—an amused, almost prophetic edge.

"Yes, Grand Elder," Coire replied, though a trace of unease curled in his voice. "Should we request the Cheeriest Order to cover her medical expenses? You know, since divine protection apparently doesn’t come with a health plan?"

“The fees were paid by King Lux himself,” the Grand Elder said, his voice calm, but edged with a flicker of annoyance—as if the very question tested his patience more than the paperwork ever could.

Coire blinked. “Very well, Grand Elder…” He bowed his head and resumed scribbling, though the quill in his hand lingered a moment too long before moving again.

A brief silence settled like dust—only to be broken by a knock at the door.

A young woman stepped in, her short green hair tucked neatly beneath her clerical cap. In her arms, a clipboard stacked with notes. She walked with precision to the centre of the room and waited.

“Cleric Vyset,” Coire said with a note of surprise, “is there something new to report? You’ve already delivered your patient records this morning. They’re still under review.”

Vyset bowed respectfully. “No, High Infirmarer. I come with an urgent update—concerning the Grand Elder patient. Kimberly Mae Gustmill.”

Raimund raised a hand, granting her the floor with a glance. “Very well, Healer Vyset. Speak.”

Vyset stepped forward nervously, clutching the clipboard. “At approximately eight twenty-three this morning, the child suffered a seizure.” She bowed slightly but frowned. “She’s stable now, but it… troubled me,” Vyset admitted.

That caught Raimund’s attention. He turned fully toward her. “You did well to come promptly.”

“A seizure is not always a sign of trouble,” Raimund replied thoughtfully. “It may well confirm that her nervous system is functional again. Pain, after all, is a sign of life returning to the flesh.”

Vyset hesitated. “Should I begin administering a pain-calming potion, Grand Elder? The child must be suffering.”

“That is not your decision to make,” Coire cut in sharply.

Raimund raised a hand to silence him. “Peace, Coire. The question is fair.”

He turned back to Vyset. “No. Pain, in this case, is necessary. It will tell us more than silence ever could. If her nerves respond, we can be certain the deeper damage is reversing.”

She bowed slightly and nervous “and her cast… it’s crumbling. I’m concerned her bones haven’t fully healed. I’d recommend we delay her discharge.”

This time Raimund looked to Coire.

“I examined the girl myself before sunrise,” Coire confirmed. “Her bones have knitted, almost unnaturally fast. She bears the traits of a highborn warrior line—perhaps even Swordlord bloodline. Or…” he trailed off meaningfully, “she shares a rare magical affinity with you, Vyset. The healing resonance was uncanny.”

Vyset flushed slightly. “You flatter me, High Infirmarer”

“Perhaps,” Raimund mused, a rare smile ghosting across his lips. “The child is the daughter of a fallen knight. In the Limelight Kingdom, a warrior’s bloodline is never far from the roots.”

“Knight Sergeant Sir Edward Gustmill,” Coire added quietly, the name carrying weight even in a whisper.

Vyset blinked, startled. “I didn’t know Kimberly’s father was a knight…” Her voice softened with sudden sorrow.

“You knew of him?” Raimund asked, glancing toward Coire.

“No, Grand Elder,” Coire answered instead, his tone respectful but detached.

Vyset lowered her gaze, but her thoughts refused to settle. She circled back to something else—something more pressing.

“About her scars,” she said, voice quieting. “The burn marks on her body and arm. I tried, but… I couldn’t remove them.”

“That’s no fault of yours,” Raimund said gently. “Even the strongest magic cannot erase every wound. Some are meant to remain.”

“But… she’s just a child,” Vyset pressed. “The scars will stay with her for life. That has meaning. That could shape her entire future.”

“And perhaps that is the purpose of the scar,” Raimund said, folding his hands over his desk. “If the gods will it, someone may come along with the strength to heal it completely.”

“Do we even have such a healer in our Order?” Vyset asked.

“We have many chosen by Lioris,” Raimund said, “but none yet bear the gift of perfect healing. In time, one may awaken to it—perhaps even you. If you remain faithful, study well, and serve tirelessly… who’s to say such blessings are only for those born with them?”

Vyset bowed her head respectfully, though a brief flicker of unease crossed her face.

“Thank you, Grand Elder,” she said softly.

Raimund gave a slight nod. “Is there anything else you wish to report?”

“None, Grand Elder,” Vyset replied.

“You are dismissed, Healer Vyset,” Coire added, his voice measured.

Without another word, Vyset turned and exited the room, her steps quiet, her posture composed—though the tension lingered in her shoulders like a weight she could not yet set down.

Raimund suddenly turned to him. “Do we have any further records on the girl?”

“No, Grand Elder. That was the extent of her medical file.”

“I want more. Background, affiliations. Everything.”

Coire thought a moment. “I believe she had a personal healer.”

“Oh?” Raimund’s interest sharpened. “Affiliated with the any infirmary?”

“No. He’s an alchemist. Works on 17th Street. Self-taught, no known ties to the Crescent Order or any known Order. No academic record in the Limelight Kingdom—possibly learned abroad.”

“A charlatan then?” Raimund said coolly.

There was a long silence before Coire finally replied. “He supplies some of our rarer medical materials.”

“Ah!” Raimund expression brightened. “Then he must be a skilled potionier.”

“Yes, Grand Elder,” Coire said, nod his head.

Raimund closed the file, his expression unreadable. “He must have known more, something interesting about the child. I’d like to meet this man.”

“Shall I arrange a summons?”

“No need,” Raimund said, rising from his chair. “I will go to him personally.”

With no soul to tether or bind, They wandered paths the gods Unassigned.