By midmorning, a queue snaked through the ward: footsoldiers, fishwives, even a wide-eyed squire clutching a stiff neck. Each hoped the "Outland bonesetter" would banish their pain. Lucian worked methodically—palpate, adjust, press, crack. Each success brought another whisper of wonder…and another pulse of green script.
Essence ticked upward: 290… 296… 299.
One final patient—a cobbler with numb fingers—staggered away weeping gratitude. Essence +3.
The invisible counter blinked 302.
A hush fell over Lucian's senses. He felt—not saw—a key turn in some hidden lock. New text unfurled before him:
❰Blessing of Chaos – Tier 2 Unsealed❱
Skill gained: Revelator's Touch
— Briefly glimpse a person's past injuries and latent maladies by touch.
His skin prickled with raw power. A second gift—from the same inscrutable Chaos that had shattered his chains. He exhaled, dizzy with possibility.
When the ward finally quieted, Finley returned from the apothecary with a tray of tinctures and a face aglow.
"Lucian, they're calling you Miracle-Hands in the refectory," she said, eyes dancing. "I—I have a mad request."
"Name it."
She fumbled inside her robe and produced a heavy leather pouch. Coins jingled. "Thirty silvers," she blurted. "Everything I've saved. Teach me your craft."
Lucian stared. Thirty—the sum Elfriede had stolen, nestled now in Finley's trembling hands. His freedom, offered anew.
He should take it, pocket the pouch, disappear before Elfriede returned.
Yet Finley's earnest gaze held no whip, no cruelty—only fierce resolve to heal.
He closed her fingers around the pouch. "Keep it."
"What?"
"I'll teach you anyway. Some knowledge shouldn't carry a price."
Finley's eyes shimmered. "At least let me gift you something." She drew a small silver key from her pocket. "Spare bunk in the novices' loft. Two weeks paid in advance. Safe sleep, warm meals."
Lucian accepted the key. Warmth bloomed in his chest—gratitude, and a startling affection.
"Very well," he said softly. "Lesson one starts now. Lie prone."
Her bravado cracked; colour flooded her cheeks. "L-lie down? Here?"
"To feel the technique, you must experience it."
She gulped, but removed her sandals and settled on the treatment cot. The Sisters' handbook declared that baring a woman's feet to a man—save husbands or healers—was improper. Finley's rigid posture said she remembered.
"Just a healer," Lucian murmured, taking her right foot. "Breathe."
He traced the arch lightly until his Blessing flared, revealing a crimson point the size of a seed in her sole. Insomnia, the script whispered.
With gentle but firm pressure, he pressed the point and rotated.
Finley squeaked, hiding her face in her elbow. Her entire body shuddered once—then melted as tension bled away.
When Lucian released her, she lay boneless, lashes fluttering. A final message shimmered:
Healed: Finley's Insomnia — Essence +10
She struggled upright, dazed. "I… I haven't felt this rested in years."
"Lesson one," Lucian said, wiping his thumb on a cloth, "is knowing where to press."
Finley stared at him as though he had parted the heavens. Then—swiftly, impulsively—she leaned forward and hugged him.
"Thank you, Lucian Rook."
The embrace lasted a heartbeat, no more, but it left him reeling. Not from desire—though she smelled of lavender—but from the simple, staggering fact that someone was grateful rather than domineering.
He cleared his throat. "Plenty more to learn before the Sisters' bell," he said, attempting nonchalance.
"Yes, Teacher." Finley's grin was brighter than sunrise.