The dawn wind rippled over the grasslands like a living spirit. Elaine's shawl fluttered around her as she knelt beside a feverish boy, her hands steady despite the chill. She had walked four leagues since midnight to reach this village, carrying her satchel of tinctures and the faith that wherever suffering bloomed, she could be of use.
The boy's mother, a gaunt woman with eyes like polished stones, clasped Elaine's wrist. "Will he live?"
Elaine touched the boy's cheek—so hot it burned her palm—and closed her eyes. In that quiet darkness, she listened: to the whisper of the wind, to the stirring of life beneath fragile skin.
"Yes," she said softly. "He is strong."
She set about her work, brewing willowbark tea to break the fever, grinding blueleaf petals for the poultice. As dawn spilled gold over the plain, she lifted the boy in her arms and felt his heartbeat falter, then surge anew.
When she had done all she could, she laid him in his mother's embrace. Only then did she allow herself to lean back and draw a weary breath.
"You are not from here," the woman murmured. "What calls you to wander so far?"
Elaine rose and gazed across the rolling fields. The wind caught her hair, casting it like a banner behind her. "When I was a child," she said, voice barely above the breeze, "I fell ill in a place no healer would come. A stranger arrived, as I have. He asked nothing in return. And when he left, I swore I would follow his example."
The woman looked away, blinking rapidly. "May the winds always guide you, lady."
"They already do," Elaine replied.
When she departed, the villagers trailed behind her with quiet gratitude. Beyond the last fencepost, she stopped. For a moment, she stood alone in the vast plain, her shawl snapping in the wind.
She had no family to return to, no homestead to anchor her. But as long as the wind carried her onward, she was never truly lost. Each village, each life touched by her hands, was another thread in the tapestry she wove—a tapestry of grace and hope against the darkness gathering on every horizon.
And though she could not yet know it, her wandering steps were already drawing her inexorably toward Gaia…and the destiny waiting there.
Shall I continue to Chapter 11: Sylvia—Voice of Justice?