CHAPTER 18 Missing Patient

CHAPTER 18 Missing Patient

Cheeriest Order

White District—the innermost sector of the city—was encased within a towering barrier of reinforce stone concrete. Revered as the last and the only important Limelight Cities walls. It safeguarded the elite the most powerful, the most privileged, and the most obscenely wealthy nobles ever to walk in the Lands of Curse.

Unlike the clamour beyond its wall, the roads within White District lay quiet, undisturbed by the rumble of wagons or the cries of market barkers. There was no need for hustle here. The nobles, ever so leisurely, preferred to walk. After all, the district itself was compact—far smaller than the outer city quarters. There was elegance in the silence, a curated calm born not only from wealth but from trust. It was also the least guarded and paradoxically the safest, for the threat of crime was almost non-existent.

Every resident had private guard and knight hired in gold or born in oaths. And the checkpoint at the districts entrance was notoriously strict. The commoner could not so much as glimpse past the gates, let alone step through them and those with invitation were permitted to enter the inner wall.

And yet today, a carriage rolled down the granite-bricked road.

It bore no crest. No flags of any house. There was no shine of polished steel nor emblem etched into wood to suggest the occupants belonged to nobility or anyone powerful.

It was plain—too plain.

It was a leisure carriage from the outer district—modest in design, but polished enough to grant a commoner a hint of dignity among the highborn. The kind often rented by merchant or middle-class people hoping to appear just respectable enough at the gates of nobility.

Inside the gently rocking carriage, three adults sat cloaked in silence.

A woman in a bright blue dress embroidered with delicate floral patterns sat near the window. Her dark brown hair framed a face marked by quiet distance thoughts, and her sea-blue eyes stared blankly out of the window, unfocused.

Beside her sat another woman, draped in a plain grey dress with a hood drawn over her head. Her hands were busy shaping a small block of wood no larger than her palm. Shavings curled to the carriage floor, which was already littered with failed carvings—unfinished, broken figurines scattered and abandoned. The wooden floor groaned softly beneath them, a quiet chorus of creaks and chirps echoing the carriages slow pace.

Opposite the women sat a young man in a neatly pressed uniform, draped in a blue cape. A silver pin fastened it over his shoulder, bearing the same emblem embroidered into the fabric—a mark of his station as a government officer. Though his posture remained upright, the slope of his shoulders betrayed the weariness he carried.

For a long while, no one spoke. Only the quiet rasp of sandpaper brushing against wood filled the space.

Moments later, the woman in grey stopped. She gently blew the dust off the figurine in her hands—she had finished it. A child carved in wood.

The young man cleared his throat before speaking, his voice steady despite the weight behind it. He was Lawrence, the eldest son of the Frasier family.

"It’s… it’s beautiful, Aunt Cane," Lawrence said, his voice tentative, as though afraid to disturb the fragile silence. "Kimmi would have loved it."

The woman in grey paused, lifting her head. As her hood slipped back, it revealed the worn face of Catherine Anne Gustmill. Her emerald eyes, rimmed in red and shadowed by sleepless nights, still shimmered faintly with life.

“Do you think so?” Catherine asked, her voice a whisper of disbelief, as if someone else words might anchor her to hope.

“Yes… I’m certain of it, Cane,” said the woman in the blue dress gently, placing a hand over Catherine. Her name was Emeline Frasier, and her touch was warm, steadying.

Catherine exhaled softly.

“Thank you… Emily,” she murmured, curling her fingers protectively around the tiny figure in her hands.

Emeline Frasier had returned to the White District with her friend Catherine and her son, Lawrence, on personal business. They had come to bring Kimmi home.

She had stayed at Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store, Catherine home for nearly two days—two long, heavy days meant to keep her friend from drowning in sorrow. On the night of the disaster, when Lawrence and Catherine finally returned home from the Royal Infirmary, Emeline saw Catherine store ablaze with light.

She knew, without needing to ask, that her friend—an untrained mage—was letting her emotions bleed into the world. And with untamed magic, grief could become dangerous. Wild magic was unpredictable. Volatile.

Knowing this, Emeline stayed, just to watch over her.

In those two days, Emeline cared for her daughter Leyla next door, often walking between the two homes. During the day, she stayed with Leyla, but at night, once her daughter was asleep, she quietly returned to Catherine home to keep her company.

She watched Catherine bear her grief alone, throwing herself into endless work. Night after night, Catherine would sit in her workshop without rest, carving statues of her daughter—frozen in countless poses, each with a different expression.

The work was quiet, relentless, and disheartened.

Emeline had seen this before.

When Edward Gustmill—Catherine husband—was declared dead, she had done the same. Except back then, she carved her husbands likeness. To this day, Kimmi room was filled with wooden statues of her father, all smiling. All peaceful.

Perhaps it was Catherine way of showing Kimmi that she had never truly been alone—that her father still lingered, not in soul, but in memory.

When the letter from the Royal Infirmary arrived, they read it together. And so, together, they prepared themselves to welcome Kimmi home.

They did not know what to expect. The last time they saw her, she was horrendously wounded and burned.

But Catherine did not care.

All that mattered was that her daughter was coming home—where she would be safe, shielded from any danger lurking beyond the safety of their home.

Lawrence had his own duties. As a young government official, he was expected to report in at the district office soon. He did not yet know where he would be placed or stationed.

But for now, they had all come here for the same reason.

The carriage came to a slow halt.

They had arrived at the gates of the Royal Infirmary.

The door creaked open and the three passengers stepped down onto the stone path.

No sooner had Catherine boots touched the stone paved than another carriage arrived behind them—a vehicle marked with the emblem of the Simix Cheeriest Curator Order. It was modest, far plainer than the polished transports of the more prominent faith orders, but its frame was solid, built for function over form.

The wood was worn from frequent use, the wheels chipped at the edges, yet it held together with a quiet sturdiness that spoke of long journeys and humble purpose. It was not a carriage meant to impress—but one that had endured.

From it stepped a small group of clerics dressed in pale saffron robes, their demeanour serene, their smiles gentle and soft.

One of them, a pink-haired woman with kind eyes and a large colourful feather as hairpin holding her hair together, immediately spotted Catherine.

“Ah—Lady Gustmill?” she said, offering a small bow. “It’s been some years. I’m Cleric Ilea of the Cheeriest Order. I heard… about your husband. May he found peace and embrace of all that’s divine.”

Catherine blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the greeting. Then she gave a polite nod, her voice soft. “Thank you… it means more than you know.”

Catherine was unable to know much about the Cheeriest Order. Her late husband had once mentioned that they only appeared when it concerned their daughter, a detail she always found oddly curious. Still, one thing was certain—whenever they offered help, they never asked for anything in return.

Their aid came freely, without condition or expectation. It was simply their way, quiet and unwavering.

Catherine had been given an allowance of 20 gold each month by the Cheeriest Order for her daughter needs—a generous sum, equal to nearly two months of an adults wages. She never spent it on comfort or leisure.

Instead, she poured every coin into searching for a cure for her daughter ill—consulting healers, alchemists, even scholars who spoke in riddles and charged by the hour. Every lead, no matter how small, was worth the price if it meant even a chance of curing Kimmi.

Kimmi suffered from Mania Sickness, a rare and serious behavioural affliction that deviated sharply from the norm. It caused people to distance themselves from her, offering wary glances and hushed whispers. Even Catherine, though she loved her with all her heart, could not help but fear—if only for a moment—that her daughter had truly gone mad.

In deeply religious societies, such behaviours were sometimes revered as signs of divine touch. But none of that mattered to Catherine. What mattered was simple and real—she just wanted her daughter to be normal, and that alone was enough.

Ilea stepped closer, concern plain in her expression. “We were told young Kimberly was admitted here. If it would not be intruding, we came to offer our prayers… and any assistance with her care. The Order has allocated funds for cases such as hers.”

Catherine’s breath caught. “You would do that?”

“Of course,” Ilea said with a calm smile. “Kimberly was a special child, she was listed and under our watchful care.”

Before Catherine could respond, a new voice cut through the chilly air, old and commanding.

“That won’t be necessary.”

All turned to see an elderly man making his way toward them, flanked by two junior clerics dressed in white coat. He walked with a dignified gait, his ceremonial robe bearing the emblem of the Crescent Cleric Order. His long white hair framed a face both stern and watchful, with eyes closed.

Grand Elder Raimund Warmheart.

Even the Cheeriest clerics stood straighter at his presence.

“There are no fees for the girl,” Raimund stated calmly, looking directly at Catherine. “Her medical expenses have been fully covered—by order of the royal family.”

Cleric Ilea blinked, clearly taken aback. “The royal family?”

Raimund nodded. “Indeed. And I’ve come to greet your Order personally. It is rare that the Cheeriest Order cross the capital’s threshold.”

Ilea lips parted in surprise. “We were… not expecting such a reception. Our Order has never been one for recognition.”

“Precisely why I respect it,” Raimund said. “Still, today’s visit is no small coincidence.”

He then turned to Catherine and the others. “Your daughter is awake and might already at the lobby, she will be under the care of Healer Vyset.”

Catherine breath hitched. Her eyes shimmered with sudden urgency.

“Then we will take our leave first,” Catherine said softly, offering her farewell to them.

She exchanged a glance with Emeline and Lawrence, and without another word, they turned and moved in unison toward the great entrance of the Royal Infirmary.

Their pace quickened with every step—Catherine heart pounding like a drumbeat in her chest.

A restless spirit, quiet, bound, within these walls is gently found.

Room Seven

Healer Vyset stood before the door to Room Seven, her fingers brushing the doorknob with a strange sense of unease. She pushed it open slowly, the hinges creaking with reluctance. A cold draft greeted her.

The window was wide open.

Her eyes swept the room, and immediately, something felt wrong.

The bed had been dragged clumsily toward the open window, its legs scraping harsh lines into the floor. Fresh blood mottled the sheets—red, irregular stains against white linen. Ash—black, powdery, and odourless like crushed charcoal—was scattered across the room, clinging to every surface. A torn scrap of bloodied patient cloth lay crumpled nearby, and dark smudges streaked across the floors surface.

The room held a dry, stale scent—like old dust disturbed after years of stillness.

Vyset breath caught.

She stepped cautiously inside, the soles of her slipper crunching softly against the ash. A blanket, dusted and stains with thick with the same dark ash, lay floor.

She was about to pull the blanket and shake off the ash when a faint, childlike voice whispered, “Careful now... some things are safer left untouched.”

From the corner of the room, just beside the empty bed untouched by ash, a small figure a girl sat there, eyes initially closed, then slowly opening to reveal silver irises that glinted with an unsettling coldness.

Calmly, she munched on a half-bitten sweet roll, her gaze locking onto Vyset’s with a curious mix of innocence—and something far darker, a secret waiting to be unearthed.

The girls skin was pale as porcelain, smooth and flawless, almost glowing softly in the dim light. Her chestnut hair shimmered like spun silk, neatly framing a face that held the quiet grace of a noble—yet her simple patients chemise betrayed her true place in the infirmary. Vyset studied her closely, curiosity knotting her brow.

“Why are you here?” Vyset asked gently, her voice steady but tinged with wonder.

The girl took another bite of a sweet roll, chewed slowly, then replied in a tone far too composed for someone her age.

“Grand Elder Raimund asked me to remain here, in this room,” she said, brushing crumbs from her lap. Her silver eyes lingered on Vyset’s face. “You… should know that already, shouldn’t you, Vyset?”

“You’ve cared for me before… while I was still trapped.”

A faint, rueful smile touched her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, almost like a sigh. “My words… they don’t come out right… it’s as if my tongue’s been twisted.”

Her gaze did not waver, searching Vyset expression with a quiet certainty. “But I’m sure you know of me.”

Vyset blinked, her brow furrowing deeper. The girls words were fragile, dreamlike—familiar, yet fragmented like a memory she could not quite reach. But she seen an air around her, something a cleric had.

“I don’t understand… you must be a new novice,” Vyset said, half-question, half-guess.

She tried to piece it together. The Grand Elder had granted the girl permission to stay in this room—perhaps she was another unusual patient, like Kimberly. A curiosity that drew the Grand Elder attention.

“Do you know what happened here?” Vyset asked, gesturing to the messy bed, the blood, the ash. “There was a child here—small, around your height. Did you see her?”

The girl shifted uneasily, her voice smaller now. “Only echoes of me. No one else was here but me… I wasn’t involved in this mess, if that’s what you’re thinking… I swear…”

Her silver eyes shimmered, as if straining to keep something buried.

Vyset narrowed her gaze, stepping closer. “Alright. I know who to blame, anyway…”

As she moved, her foot caught on something. Another infirmary chemise—this one torn at the sleeve—lay crumpled on the floor near the girl.

The girl noticed too. She swallowed hard.

“It doesn’t belong to me,” she said quickly, her voice trembling.

Vyset sighed, her tone softening. “I’m not blaming you, girl… wait, I haven’t even asked your name.”

The child tilted her head, a flicker of quiet amusement passing over her face. She held Vyset’s gaze a moment longer before answering.

“You’ve said my name before,” she said softly.

She let the silence stretch.

“Kimberly… Kimberly Mae Gustmill.”

Slowly, as their eyes locked, the girls silver irises shimmered—rippling like disturbed water—before settling into a vivid, emerald green.

Vyset stepped forward with measured caution, her gaze fixed on the girls eyes. Only one thing felt familiar—the vivid emerald hue, that same defiant glimmer she remembered.

But everything else felt wrong.

Kimmi leaned back instinctively as Vyset drew closer, their bodies teetering in mirrored hesitation. The space between them crackled with something unspoken—recognition and uncertainty.

“Viivii…” she said with a slight pout, voice caught between innocence and mischief. “I stayed in the room like I was told. I didn’t break anything.”

She glanced around at the ash and chaos, then shrugged lightly.

“Well… no one said anything about not making a mess. So technically… it’s not my fault.”

Her tone grew more defensive, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it, as if she were enjoying the confusion.

Kimmi watched Vyset unblinking stare and mistook the silence for simmering anger. Her eyes widened.

Without a word, Kimmi slithered through the narrow space beneath the bed. Only her hand emerged briefly to tug down a familiar blanket, which she dragged back into her hidden retreat. The fabric swept up ash and dust along the way, leaving a darker trail behind her. It rustled softly as she tucked herself deeper into her safe haven.

All of it—her crawling, the swirling soot, the dragging blanket—had been clearly visible to Vyset, who stood nearby, watching in stunned silence as the room descended further into chaos.

“You can’t reach me here… Viivii,” she whispered from beneath. “This is my domain!”

Vyset follow where the girl had run off, she was still a bit shock that the child was indeed Kimmi.

Not a single scar remained. No burns, no traces of surgery done. Her skin was smooth—pale as porcelain, and her hair, once seared away to the scalp, had returned in soft, wavy strands of chestnut brown.

Then, in a breathless whisper, she said, “…A gods chosen?”

Vyset snapped out of her daze, still bewildered, and hurried toward the spot where Kimmi had hidden.

She spotted the long woollen blanket trailing along the floor—shifting, inch by inch.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Vyset crouched, her cleric instincts overtaking her hesitation. She knelt beside the bed and lifted the blanket edge.

There, bundled beneath it like a hidden loaf, was a Kimmi.

A girl who once bore scars and burns now stood whole—healed and unbroken.

Munching all of her sweet roll.

Their eyes locked—one pair wide with guilty curiosity, the other narrowed in exhausted disbelief.

"Wharrrs arr yooou lookin' aaatt…" Kimmi mumbled, her cheeks puffed with sweet roll.

Vyset gave a soft smile. "What exactly are you doing under there? Hiding from me?"

“Noooo…” Kimmi replied, then chuckled through crumbs. “Hehehe…”

“Are you really… Kimberly?” Vyset voice softened to a whisper. “Don’t you want to go home? Your mother’s waiting. Today was meant to be the day you finally go back…”

Kimmi eyes lit up.

“My mother’s already here…” she gasped.

Then she began to wriggle forward like an enthusiastic worm toward a light. Vyset instinctively backed up, but too late—Kimmi suddenly rolled her body with surprising speed, crashing into her.

Before Vyset could sit up fully, Kimmi sprang to her feet like a released spring, jittery with excitement.

“I’m going home!” she shouted, spinning once.

But when she reached the door, she paused.

Kimmi turned and held out her hand impatiently. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Vyset reach Kimmi and grasped the childs shoulders firmly, her fingers trembling as though she were touching something sacred, something impossibly precious.

Kimmi flinched. A strange warmth surged through her—a soft, familiar current flowing from Vyset hands like a swarm of gentle water. She knew this sensation. She had felt it before.

“Viivii… are you trying to heal me?” Kimmi asked, suspicion laced in her voice. Then her eyes widened. “No! You’re trying to make me sleep again!”

She shoved Vyset hands away and stumbled back.

She remembered it all too well—Vyset healing spell, White Fire. It was too warm, too comforting. It melted pain and mind alike into dreamy surrender—like a blend of hot and cold breeze in the late afternoon, a sensation like a lullaby smothering her thoughts in drowsy delight.

Not this time.

Not when she had finally tasted freedom.

In a flash, Kimmi dashed toward the door, her bare feet padding softly across the floor. She leapt up, gripped the doorknob, and twisted hard. Then, with a mischievous grin, she kicked the wall beside it.

Bang!

The door flung open with a dramatic slam.

And just like that, Kimmi vanished down the hallway, a blur of pale limbs and determination.

Vyset stood in stunned silence, the remnants of warmth still clinging to her fingertips. The room, still full of ash and unease, now held no echo of a childs wildness.

Vyset let her magic flow into the childs body, not to heal—but to know. The moment her magic touched the child, she felt it—familiar, unmistakable. Their magical resonance aligned perfectly, a harmony only possible through deep connection.

The alignment confirmed what words could not. Her magic flowed through Kimmi like water through carved stone—unresisted, natural. In that moment, they were tethered, not by blood, but by essence. A bond shaped over days of healing and caretaking, now made visible in the invisible current between them.

But the flow was one-sided.

Kimmi body, while magically familiar, carried barely a trace of magic. Like a well that had run dry. Vyset magic filled the space easily, with no resistance, no interference. It was not strange—just unbalanced. A healers strength pressed against a patients weakness.

And that imbalance made Vyset the dominant force in their link.

Their magic alignment allowed her to guide the flow entirely, shaping it, directing it. In that moment, she could feel not only Kimmi truth, but her subtle reactions—her tension, her hesitation, the flicker of instinctive retreat. The girl might be awake and alert, but within the bond, Vyset was the one in control.

She exhaled, slow and shaken, her voice barely a whisper.

“She was Kimberly… Oh, Lioris preserve me.”

The Flair of Mender

Only moments earlier, before Vyset stepped into Room Seven, Kimberly Mae Gustmill was busy experimenting—with her newfound abilities.

After her maddening giggle subsided, she crawled out from the bed. Her mind, at last, cleared from the fog—she could finally think straight. Days spent trapped in a cast had driven her to the edge, and the anxiety over her wounds only added fuel to her growing insecurity. She liked to pretend she did not care, but deep down, it was all about which she had been thinking.

The moment she learned to heal her entire arm with her new ability, she began experimenting practicing, even. She wanted to see how far her healing powers could go.

It was not like any ordinary healing Kimmi had seen before—it was fast, suspiciously so. She did not fully understand how her magic worked or what it truly did, aside from the obvious act of healing. Her best guess was that the bandages carried some latent magical property that mended her wounds, and her magic simply accelerated the process.

Earlier, when she had tried to activate the skill while wrapped in blanket, nothing happened. The fabric clung to her like a cocoon, but no warmth filled her wounds, no dust of charcoal. Condition was not met, the voice in her head whispered.

Unavailable

She frowned at the memory and narrowed her eyes at her half-healed hand.

“What do you mean… I’m covered now… do the thing!” she mumbled to herself. “Flair of Mender—First Aid.”

Unavailable

Then she remembered, the torn sleeve of her old chemise. She tested it—wrapped it carefully around her wrist like a bandage—and focused again.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid”

A shimmer of warmth. Her skin tingled. The scar and cut faded. It worked.

Her heart leapt.

“So that’s it…! It needs to be wrapped,” she excitedly muttered, pacing slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “Something about the intent? No… maybe structure. It needs to look like a bandage. Maybe it’s a mimicry thing…”

She tried again, this time folding the infirmary blanket into a thick strip and wrapping it around her leg.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid”

Unavailable

Nothing.

“Hmph. Too loose?” Kimmi guess.

She considered using the actual discarded bandage from earlier—stained, still warm from her last treatment. But her nose crinkled.

“Unsanitary...”

Yet the idea stuck.

Kimmi redone the blanket over her leg again and wrapped a used bandage around it, tying it tightly to hold everything in place. It looked almost like a proper dressing—improvised, but secure.

She inhaled deeply and reached again.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid”

A black smoke seeping out of the fabric.

She gasped—half in triumph, half in awe.

It is not about technique—it is about replication. Her thoughts raced. It wants ritual. Symbol. The act of doing it, even if it is fake.

"That's the price for healing? Pretend well enough, and it becomes real?" Kimmi mused, her voice tinged with curiosity and irony.

"You want me to be a good girl too?" she added, tilting her head to the side as her eyes wandered toward the ceiling, a crooked smile playing on her lips.

"I'm very good at pretending," she chuckled, the sound light but layered with something deeper.

She was beginning to understand.

Her magic was not simple—no flick of the wrist, no whispered chant. It demanded a condition, a small but specific ritual that she had to carry through. The wrapping had to be just right—tight, precise, deliberate. The fabric had to embrace the wound like a promise.

Only then would her magic respond.

This was different from any ability she had used before—more tactile, more grounded. It felt less like a spell, and more like a technique.

"A chore magic... neat!" Kimmi grinned, giving it her full approval. As long as it worked, she did not mind the hassle.

But questions gnawed at her.

‘What if my bone breaks again? What if I’m bleeding too fast to bind it? Could this magic heal every wound?’ Kimmi wondered.

An eerie voice echo in her mind.

Flair of Mender — Singularity

Kimmi eyes turned cold and icy, her pupils shimmering into a sharp silver. But nothing changed in the world around her. No extra vision, no floating glyph—just the same infirmary room.

A letdown.

But not soon after, she spotted it—a faint glow coming from the wooden trolley. One of the ceramic bottles glowing softly—alluring. Curious, she approached and reached out for that particular bottle. As her fingers brushed the bottle, a sensation rippled through her skin, like static under her skins.

“Spring of Health… a rare commodity. Lacking in purity. Not even a decent healing potion,” she murmured, then blinked. The words were not hers—or did not feel like hers. She slapped a hand over her mouth, unsettled by the strange, knowing cadence that had slipped out.

An idea sparked.

What if potions, also fulfil similar condition for her magic to work?

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the small bottle. Stealing was wrong—especially something vital like this. But curiosity, the dangerous kind, gnawed at her.

Without hesitation she drank it in one go.

The taste was foul—tingling, bitter, with an aftershock like chewing on metal. She gagged but forced it down.

Then she raised both of her hand and, place it on chest.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid.”

A surge of warmth exploded within her, and black smoke unfurled around her like twisting tendrils. In a heartbeat, her vision faded into darkness as her skin transformed, turning into rough, black charcoal—like a statue carved from obsidian. Except her entire right arm, still unturn.

When the smoke cleared, a crack began to form and spread across her body. One by one, the charcoal flakes began to fall off, and beneath them, fair skin bloomed anew—white and pale. Kimmi began to stretch her arms and body like someone waking at the dawn of a new day, every movement slow, deliberate, and tinged with quiet wonder.

As she flexed, the brittle flakes crumbled away like fragile ash, drifting to the floor in silent surrender.

Kimmi rubbed her face and arms clean with the hem of her chemise. But now the once-white garment was stained black with soot. The floor, too, was a disaster—a sprawl of flakes and smeared ash.

Panic flickered in her chest.

Vyset would kill her.

She tried to clean the mess, dragging her blanket across the floor in a desperate attempt to sweep up the ash—but it only made things worse. The charcoal-like dust smeared into darker stains, spreading further with every swipe.

After a moment of frustrated effort, she let out a groan and gave up, retreating to the other bed that was still clean. But before heading over, she grabbed her sweet roll, bit into it, and let it dangle from her mouth as she moved.

At the bedside table, she opened the drawer and found a spare infirmary chemise. Without hesitation, she peeled off her ruined one—stained with soot and ash—and slipped into the clean garment, silently praying it would hide any trace of what she had done.

As she scrambled to piece together a hundred half-baked excuses—mentally bracing herself for the inevitable barrage of questions from her caretaker, Vyset—the door let out a slow, ominous creak and began to swing open.

Vyset stepped into the room.

Kimmi froze, straightened her back, as sit and smiled at Vyset like nothing had happen.

Little did she know, at this moment she would be on the run.

She knew not the how, nor questioned the why, only watched the chosen as time passed by.

Divine Healer

Hall of the Royal Infirmary

Kimmi ran barefoot through the cold stone halls of the infirmary, the soft slap of her feet echoing faintly. She darted through hallway after hallway, chasing an invisible thread of purpose. Each turn led only to more corridors—narrow, well-lit, lined with doors, and filled with the quiet murmurs of healers and the occasional cough of patients.

Healer and patients alike turned to watch her pass. Some frowned. Others called out warnings.

“Don’t run!”

“Quiet in the halls!”

But Kimmi paid them no mind—until something odd caught her attention.

She skidded to a halt near a familiar wooden beam and several stretchers stacked nearby.

Her breath hitched.

"Wait… I’ve seen this before."

Her thoughts rewound, mentally retracing her steps. Then it clicked—she had already been here. She had looped around.

The hallway was not linear. It was circular. Or rather—hexagonal.

She glanced around. Both walls were made of stone, but only one side had windows peering out into the world. The other held doors to rooms and storerooms.

She turned to the door beside her, as saw written number of the room.

Room Six.

Across the hall, the door to Room Seven hung ajar—exactly as she had left it earlier.

And stepping out, unsuspecting, was Vyset.

Kimmi heart jumped.

Not now. Not yet.

Without hesitation, she slipped into Room Six and quietly shut the door behind her.

The room was nearly identical to hers—clean, sterile, with the faint scent of herbs and incense. But two things were different.

On one bed sat a bulky young man in his twenties, sitting upright with a cocky grin. On the other, an older man hunched forward, blindfolded, with thin white hair and a worn beard.

Both turned as she entered.

“Well, hey there,” the young man said with a grin. “Old man, your daughter finally came to visit.” He joked.

“You idiot,” the elder snapped, voice gravelly. “They don’t just let visitors waltz into the Royal Infirmary. What is this, a public garden to you?”

“Still could be her,” the younger said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t know. You’re blind!”

“Blind, yes. But I see better than you ever will, you dung-brained rascal. My magical sense still works just fine.”

“You always say that.”

Their bickering paused as both turned to Kimmi again. The younger man tilted his head.

“You a novice? Or did you wander in here like a stray cat?”

Kimmi hesitated. She weighed her words, then raised her chin.

“Not a novice… True… BUT! I am a healer,” she declared, lying confidently.

The young man chuckled. “Oh, little healer. That so?”

“Don’t mock the profession, boy,” the elder said sharply. “She could be telling the truth.”

“Old man, she’s a child. What, ten? Eleven?” the young man laughed.

Kimmi stood firm. She strode toward the blind old man and picked up the clipboard beside his bed. With a practiced flick, she began scanning the notes.

“Hmmm... Mister Aron Tia Taller, Third Guard Division,” she read aloud. “Loss of vision due to fire… fractured ankle from a fall off the wall…”

“See that?” the old man said smugly. “The girl you mock can read. That alone puts her above you.”

“You always take the side of anyone but me,” the younger grumbled.

“My apologies, little miss,” the old man said, turning toward Kimmi. “My friend doesn’t mean offense.”

“Oh, he’s already offended me,” Kimmi said, trying to sound mature. “But don’t worry. I’m not the vengeful sort.”

“You’re a kind healer then. I didn’t catch your name,” Aron said gently.

“Oh, well… You can call me… Healer Renoa.”

The young man burst out laughing. “Renoa? Come on, she just made that up! She may be able to read, but they already sent a healer earlier. You expect me to believe they’d send another just minutes later? Total novice, pretending to be one of you!”

“If my leg weren’t broken, I’d slap you,” Aron growled. “Don’t listen to him, Healer Renoa.”

Kimmi blinked. That phrase—it stirred something.

‘So… someone already visited them?’ She wondered.

She flipped back to the clipboard and studied the recent medical notes, a spoon of Pain-Calming Potion, a drop of Eyesore for ocular nerves, and a fresh change of splints and bandages.

“When did the healer come?” Kimmi asked.

“Not long ago,” Aron replied. “A few minutes, perhaps.”

“Great!” Kimmi grinned.

She realized her abilities only worked under certain conditions. But a question lingered—if the person had not been treated by her, could her magic still take effect. Driven by curiosity, she decided to test it on this unknown patient without hesitation.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid.”

The old man jolted for a second. Wisps of faint smoke curled from his leg and foul smell linger in air for a moment.

“Hey! What did you do?!” the young man shouted, leaping out of bed.

He shoved Kimmi back, knocking her to the floor.

Paam!

“Sir Aron!”

Kimmi hit the floor with a thud—but she was not hurt.

“Silence, boy!” Aron roared.

He leaned back, slowly reaching up to his blindfold. Then, with a tug, he pulled it off.

Rubbing at his eyelids, he scraped away a black, dust-like residue. A few gritty flakes drifted from his fingers. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

White. Pale and clouded. Still blind.

Kimmi watched in silence. ‘Did it not work?’ she wondered.

“You shouldn’t have removed that!” the younger man said, panicking. “The light could damage your vision further!”

Aron ignored him. He turned his gaze toward Kimmi, who was still sitting on the floor, puzzled.

His white eyes did not matter—his expression did.

“You dare lay hands on a healer?” Aron’s voice boomed.

He swung his legs over the bed and stood tall. Without the splint.

The younger man stared, stunned.

“Sir Aron, you’re standing! But your leg—!”

Then he saw it, Aron pupil slowly turn to black.

“QUIET!” Aron barked. With surprising speed, he raised a hand and whacked the young man on the head.

Baam!

“That’s for striking a Divine Healer, fool!” Aron yelled.

He turned and offered a hand to Kimmi, helping her to her feet. Then he knelt on one knee to meet her eye-to-eye—his leg, clearly healed.

“My deepest apologies, Divine Healer,” he said sincerely. “My friend here—Olle Bretha—is young, fresh recruit from his station at the Bastion. He still has much to learn.”

“Bastion?” Kimmi tilted her head. “Never heard of it. But don’t worry, Mr. Taller. I won’t pursue him. Though… I do need a favour.”

“Anything,” Aron said at once.

“Well… my caretaker is probably searching for me by now. She’s very… thorough. I need to leave this infirmary without being seen. Can you help me with that?”

Aron raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Olle—who was still frozen with guilt.

Then he sighed. “My lady… this may be too bold, but… could you heal my foolish subordinate first?”

Kimmi stared for a moment. Then shrugged.

“Yeah, sure.”

She walked over to Olle bed, raised a finger, and touched his shoulder.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid.”

A warm pulse surged through Olle’s body. His eyes widened.

He pulled his shirt up, revealing a bandaged wound. In awe, he tore the bandage away.

Where the wound had once been, there was only faint, charred residue.

“I’ve never seen magic like that…” he whispered.

“It’s divinity, you dolt!” Aron smacked him again. “To speak lowly of it is an insult to the gods!”

“I’m sorry, Healer Renoa,” Olle stammered, pale with fear and awe.

Kimmi smiled sweetly and clasped her hands. “Don’t fret! Now… can you help sneak me out?”

The two guards exchanged glances.

Then, with solemn nods, both stood—ready to serve.

A few minutes later, the once-quiet hallways began to stir with urgency. Healers moved briskly from room to room, their voices hushed but tense—searching for a missing child.

Amid the rush, two patients strolled calmly down the corridor. Aron walked beside the older man, Olle, who cradled a large rolled-up blanket in his arms with unusual care. Step by step, they made their way toward the entrance that separated the patient wards from the central wing of the Royal Infirmary.

None of the rushing healers spared them more than a glance—until they reached the checkpoint.

“Hold it,” a healer said sharply, stepping in their path and eyeing them suspiciously. His gaze flicked between the two, then settled on the bundle in Olle’s arms.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just stepping out for some fresh air,” Olle replied with a polite smile.

“And that?” The healer nodded at the blanket.

“This?” Olle looked down as if surprised. “Ah, well… I’m ashamed to say I soiled it. Thought I’d take it to the washing room myself.”

“Your caretaker should handle that.”

Olle shook his head, almost offended. “I couldn’t possibly ask a lady to deal with such filth on my behalf. That would be disgraceful.”

The healer narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical, but after a pause he sighed. “Fine. Just be sure to return before late afternoon.”

Both men bowed respectfully. “Of course,” said Olle.

They continued on, unbothered, slipping past the checkpoint and out through the main entrance of the Royal Infirmary.

Once they were far enough from the building—beyond the reach of curious eyes—Aron gave a small nod. Olle gently set the bundled blanket upright.

It unfurled with a soft rustle.

And from within it, blinking against the sunlight, emerged a small girl with chestnut hair and emerald, green eyes—Kimmi.

"Ahh… finally, fresh air!" Kimmi breathed out, stretching her arms wide as the sunlight kissed her face.

Then she turned to Aron and Olle, her eyes bright with gratitude.

"Thank you—truly. I’m so grateful." She gave a quick, polite bow, then straightened with renewed determination. "Now… I have to find my mother!"

With narrowed lies and righteous deeds, she struck the guard to sacred creed.

Return

Royal Infirmary, entrance.

Raimund continued to speak with the clerics of the Cheeriest Order, his tone calm but foreboding. He told them of the surgery he had performed on Kimberly Mae Gustmill, detailing her critical condition and the miraculous recovery.

The clerics were stunned. One of them looked visibly shaken, while another pressed a trembling hand to their chest, murmuring gratitude to Raimund and to the goddess Lioris.

“We had no idea… the child was in such a state,” one whispered.

“We are deeply thankful,” added another, “to you… and to the goddess Lioris for guiding your hands.”

They bowed their heads in gratitude, but Raimund gaze grew sharper.

“And tell me,” He said, “what is it that your order truly seeks? You shelter the feebleminded—why?”

Cleric Ilea answered, “We… we do not fully understand why, Grand Elder. We only know that they need protection. The Cheeriest Order was founded by the most faithful, but most of us are just common folk. No divine blessings. No great strength. Just faith. We believe those who care for the mindless will be blessed with a better future, here and afterlife.”

Raimund studied them with a thoughtful frown. Then he asked another question, one that seemed to weigh heavily on him.

“What do you know of a ‘Rank S, Soulless’?”

The clerics exchanged uneasy glances before one answered, “It is merely a classification, Grand Elder. A measure of difficulty. Rank S means the person is… exceptionally difficult to care for.”

Raimund narrowed his eyes. “Then why was Kimberly not placed in your shelter, if she was marked as Rank S?”

“She remained with her parents,” another cleric explained softly. “They were willing to care for her. We had no reason to intervene. And to be honest, caring for a child special like her… it is a daunting task. But those who choose to give everything for the feebleminded are blessed. That is the promise of divine will.”

Raimund leaned forward slightly. “Which god does the Cheeriest Order serve?”

“Ah…” Cleric Ilea smiled, almost sheepishly. “All of them, really. Though most of us choose one or two. It depends on the heart.”

Raimund gave a rare, dry chuckle. “So you pray to all of them. Intriguing.”

He leaned back in thought. Whether these clerics were telling the truth or cleverly spinning it, it did not matter much to him. What mattered was the girl. Kimberly Mae Gustmill. She might be a gods chosen—but which god had chosen her?

He turned back to the clerics. “I believe she may be a gods chosen.”

The room grew still. The Cheeriest clerics expressions changed at once—casual warmth replaced by solemn tension.

One of them dared to speak, “Is that true…?”

Before Raimund could answer, a gentle tug at his robe drew his attention.

He turned and saw a young girl with chestnut hair and bright green eyes looking up at him. Behind her stood two adult male patients. The girl gently ushered them back toward the infirmary. They bowed respectfully to her before departing.

Raimund squinted. ‘A nobles daughter, perhaps? Roaming the halls unsupervised?’ he thought.

“Mister Grandpa,” the girl asked sweetly, “when will my mother come to pick me up?”

Raimund hesitated. He did not know the answer.

Cleric Ilea eyes welled with tears as she looked upon the girl.

“Little Kimmi… Is it truly you? Healthy and whole… Oh, thank the gods!”

Raimund eyes widened. “You know this girl?”

Cleric Ilea laughed. “Oh, Grand Elder, don’t jest! We’re grateful beyond words to see little Kimberly walking again and healthy. Under your care, no less…”

“Kimberly… Mae… Gustmill?” Raimund repeated slowly, stunned. The girl before him bore no scars. No burns. No signs of trauma. She looked as though she had never been wounded at all.

Kimmi tilted her head in confusion. “Mister Grandpa? Who are they?” she asked, pointing to the clerics.

Even the Cheeriest Order seemed thrown off by her question, whispering among themselves.

“They are friends,” Raimund replied calmly. “They’re from the Cheeriest Order.”

“I see…” Kimmi glanced at the clerics only briefly before her gaze drifted elsewhere. “But… where’s my mother?”

Raimund paused, the question lingering in the air like a sore in his throat. For a moment, he said nothing—then lowered himself to her height, gently offering his hand.

“She’s… not far,” he said carefully, his voice softer than before. “Come with me, child.”

Without hesitation, Kimmi placed her small hand in his.

The Cheeriest clerics followed at a distance, their once-bright expressions now veiled with quiet solemnity.

As they neared the entrance to the lobby, a stir of voices and footsteps echoed ahead.

Raimund narrowed his eyes and motioned to his clerics. “Open the doors.”

With a push, the grand lobby doors creaked open.

Inside, Healer Vyset stood bowing deeply, voice trembling with apologies to Catherine and the Frasier family.

Then—

“Mom!”

Kimmi voice rang out, clear and piercing, echoing through the high-ceilinged chamber.

Heads turned.

Kimmi darted forward in a blur, her small frame moving fast across the polished floor.

Catherine stood frozen, her breath caught—until her eyes registered the sight. Her legs buckled beneath her as she dropped to her knees, arms opening wide, heart racing in disbelief.

Kimmi dove into her, not with sobs or words, but with instinct—curling into her mother’s lap like a small cat seeking warmth. She nestled her face into the crook of Catherine neck, wrapping her arms loosely around her waist.

No tears, no dramatic outburst. Just quiet, wordless contentment.

As if this—being close again—was all that mattered.

Catherine wrapped her arms around Kimmi tightly, holding her with trembling hands, eyes overflowing with tears. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “My Kimmi… oh, my sweet girl…”

Kimmi did not speak. She simply pressed her cheek closer, snuggling deeper, her expression calm—almost emotionless. But in that quiet stillness was something unmistakable, peace.

She was home.

And Catherine, heart overflowing, rocked her gently as if to never let go again.

Off to the side, Emeline—who had stood quiet through the commotion—stared at the scene with her lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

Lawrence, standing beside her, glanced at her quickly. When he saw her trembling hand go to her face, he hesitated only a second before reaching into his pocket.

“Here,” he whispered, gently offering her his handkerchief.

Emeline blinked, surprised, then gave a shaky smile. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said softly.

She took the neatly folded cloth—embroidered with his initials—and dabbed at her tears with it, careful and graceful, like a woman trying to hold together dignity amid overwhelming emotion.

Then, just as Catherine arms tried to hold her daughter tighter, Kimmi suddenly began to twist and turn, rolling her body playfully like an otter spinning round and round. She wriggled and twirled, her limbs until Catherine arms, unable to keep up, loosened their grip.

“Kimmi—stop that—?” Catherine let out a breathless laugh.

Catherine reached into her satchel and pulled out a small wooden sculpture. It was a lifelike carving—smooth around the edges and clearly shaped like a child. Familiar in posture, in hair, in that tiny grin etched into its face. She gently placed it in Kimmi hands.

Kimmi eyes lit up the moment she saw it. Her fingers curled around the figurine like it was treasure from another world. She looked up with a bright, beaming smile.

“Is this for me?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

Catherine gave a soft nod, her own eyes still glistening with tears.

“It’s yours,” she whispered.

Kimmi smile grew even wider—stretching across her whole face. Then, with no hesitation at all, she opened her mouth and chomped the wooden figure in one joyful bite.

“Mmm!” she hummed, as if testing whether it was made of candy.

Catherine gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, but before she could say a word, Kimmi grabbed her hand and tugged it with urgent excitement.

“Let’s go home!” she said, pulling her mother toward the infirmary doors with the boundless energy of someone who had waited far too long to return.

The question hung in the air, soft but piercing. Hopeful. Innocent.

And it made every heart in the room ache and smile all at once.

Except, Raimund and Cleric Ilea.

She sank into a waiting heart, and let the healing slowly start.