As I stood near Eiran's bedside, heart pounding with helplessness, the temple's quiet was suddenly pierced by the soft rustle of footsteps. I turned to see a figure cloaked in shadow slip silently into the room. Their presence felt unnatural — a chill crawling down my spine.
The stranger's voice was low and smooth, carrying an unsettling calm. "He fights a darkness within himself far greater than these wounds suggest," they said, eyes glinting like sharpened knives. "I can save him… but all healing demands a price."
I met their gaze, wary but desperate. "What price?"
A faint smile curved their lips, neither cruel nor kind. "A debt to be paid in time. A favor called upon when the balance tips. Your choice: save the man you love… or let him slip away, broken and forgotten."
My breath caught. The weight of the decision pressed down on me, twisting my thoughts with fear and hope. Could I trust this stranger? Or was the cost of salvation something far worse than death itself?
I looked back at Eiran, fragile and fading, and knew my answer before the words formed on my lips.
The figure stepped further into the candlelight, revealing more of his form — and yet somehow, he seemed no clearer. Tall, with skin like smoke and eyes like starless voids, he moved with a grace that was neither human nor elven. His cloak bore faint embroidery that shimmered like ink in water — shifting runes in no tongue I recognized.
"I am merely… a servant of balance," he said, his voice flowing like oil over stone. "Where one force wanes, another may rise. All that lives must pay its tithe to power."
Something about him made the air feel heavier, as if the walls themselves were listening. Even the flame of the nearby lantern dimmed, flickering uneasily. Despite the unease growing in my chest, his gaze was magnetic — too calm, too knowing.
"You don't wear a healer's robes," I said, my hand drifting unconsciously toward the dagger at my side.
His smile never faltered. "I wear what I must to be seen. But I am here for him, not you."
He approached Eiran's broken body with reverence, kneeling beside him. As his hand hovered above Eiran's chest, the tattoos along Eiran's arms pulsed faintly — reacting to the presence of something… wrong. The scent of burnt herbs and old metal filled the air. I stepped forward instinctively, placing myself between them.
"Who are you really?" I demanded.
He tilted his head. "Names are weighty things. But you may call me Vaelith."
Vaelith. The name fell like ash from his lips, sticking in the corners of my mind like soot.
"You're no temple priest," I whispered.
"No," he agreed softly, eyes glinting again. "But I do serve divinity."
He didn't need to say more. I knew enough of stories, of old whispers, to understand this was no servant of the gods we prayed to. He served something far older. Something darker.
Eiran's breathing was shallow — labored — each rise of his chest like a war against death itself. The healers had long since drawn back, their spells and salves unable to mend what had been broken so thoroughly. He looked… hollow. Charred. The burns along his arms had fused with what was left of his tattoos, his skin a mess of molten scars and shattered magic. And all I could do was watch.
"I don't care what you are," I said, voice hoarse. "If you can save him — do it."
Vaelith inclined his head, as though I'd only just now said something interesting. "Very well. A life for a price. As is always the way."
"What price?" I asked, hesitation clawing its way into my throat. "My soul?"
He chuckled — but it was a sound that lacked humor. "Souls are currency. But I'm not here to barter for yours. No, Auralia… I ask only for a mark of favor. A seed. A sign."
He held out his hand — pale, long-fingered, clean. It looked harmless. But I'd seen vipers with softer eyes.
"Shake my hand, and his life will not end tonight."
I looked at Eiran again. My stubborn, secretive, infuriating friend — the one who had stood between me and blades and monsters, the one who had thrown his life into chaos just to keep me safe.
I would not lose him. Not like this.
I took Vaelith's hand.
It was cold. Not the chill of winter, but of something ancient — the memory of cold, the shadow of death. His fingers closed around mine like a lock snapping shut.
The world shifted.
A sharp, searing pain sliced across my chest — a sudden burning like a brand pressed to flesh. I gasped, falling to one knee, my hand slipping from his.
"What—what did you—"
"It is done," he said, his voice now edged with something more. Something vast and inhuman.
And then he was gone.
Not walked away — gone, like breath on glass. The shadows swallowed him, and I was left alone in the candlelit hall.
I stumbled to my feet, reaching beneath my tunic. My fingers found no wound, no blood — but something was there. A raised shape, like a tattoo etched into the skin between my breasts. It pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
I didn't know what he had done to me. But I knew one thing:
Eiran stirred.
He groaned — a sound I'd longed to hear more than anything in this world. His fingers twitched. His chest rose a little easier. And whatever darkness had crept close to him… pulled away.
He was alive.
And I had paid the price.