The estate was quieter than it had been in months. With Chen's hold collapsing, costly truces had been brokered and the air was filled with the perfumed tension of old enemies forced to share wine at Ethan's father's table.
Yet, as dusk stretched long purple fingers across Starfall's ancient stonework, Ethan's mind drifted far from ostensible peace.
He stood in the study, a room of lacquered bamboo and meticulous calligraphy, waiting as a slow chorus of cicadas rose from the gardens outside.
It was the kind of evening that reminded him of childhood, of watching fireworks beside his mother on festival nights, before he'd understood power or how it must be wielded. That innocence was a faded memory now—burned away, perhaps, by relentless calculation. Yet he could not fully regret what necessity had required.
A subtle shimmer beneath his skin meant the system was sifting intelligence from a dozen separate informant threads.
The lower district's healer—Kaelan, the divine anomaly—was threading patterns on the city's consciousness like silver sewn through coarse cloth. Ethan reviewed the string of observations: miracles rendered for the sick, a mobster's enforcer quietly reformed after an encounter, stories spreading among street urchins and stevedores alike.
He tapped his fan against his palm, considering. The system displayed its familiar cold advice:
High-value target identified.
Recruitment protocol: begin staged encounter.
Optimal approach—Lysander provides visible aid in public, allowing contact under plausible circumstances.
Kaelan: moderate risk, high potential.
The study door slid open and Lysander entered, boots whispering against oiled wood.
He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had survived too many battles, and still saw every moment as a test.
"You have the details?" Ethan asked.
Lysander nodded and placed a rolled parchment on the desk.
"Mira's report. The healer intervened twice more today. The last, a high-profile save—stopped a merchant's son from bleeding out after a robbery.
Crowd witnessed it. His reputation's growing quickly."
"That may become a problem," Ethan replied.
"Attachment breeds exposure—and enemies. We can't wait for Cassius or a sect inspector to act before we do."
Lysander's smile was barely there.
"Shall I make the connection tonight?"
Ethan closed his eyes, running contingencies.
"Yes—but carefully. Stage a minor crisis. Something visible, but not catastrophic. You'll be present as a bystander, with enough identity to draw Kaelan's attention. If he senses anything off, withdraw immediately. No recruitment pitch yet. Just contact and observation."
Lysander offered a soldier's bow. "I'll take Mira as backup—a healer's job sometimes requires a victim, after all."
The lower district bristled with nervous anticipation after sundown: news of Kaelan's deeds and the shifting tides of family politics had pushed the city's underbelly into a state of uneasy hope.
A broad-shouldered beggar with a broken leg sat slumped in an alleyway just beyond the edge of the lantern-lit market square, as planned.
Mira—her features disguised under a layer of artful grime—played the role with eerie conviction. Her leg was twisted at an unnatural angle; the paint and chicken's blood splashed across her shin looked real enough to make seasoned medics blanch.
She whimpered in pain, drawing sympathetic glances from a few passersby, but it wasn't until Kaelan emerged from a side street, his soft glow immediately marking him as the rumored healer, that the tableau shifted.
Kaelan approached without hesitation. "You're hurt badly," he said, voice gentle.
"Let me see."
He knelt beside Mira, checking her pulse and studying her eyes before ever laying hands on the wound.
"How did this happen?"
"Thugs, I think—a fight nearby. I ran, slipped," Mira answered, trying for a quaver that earned her even more onlookers.
"Can you help me?"
Kaelan's palms glowed blue-white. His touch was soft but firm, skimming the flesh just above Mira's wound. Warmth spread, then juniper-scented air, then a series of sharp cracks as bone mended. The effect was instantaneous—pain banished, swelling receding in a visible rush.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Kaelan's reputation was now more than rumor: flesh and bone had healed before their eyes.
At the edge of the square, Lysander watched the crowd's swelling energy with measured detachment.
He entered the light just as the last of the blue glow faded, and the crowd parted for him with instinctive respect.
"You have quite a talent," Lysander said, offering Kaelan a grateful nod.
"Not many in this city can work that kind of miracle."
Kaelan flushed, humility overtaking pride. "I… it's just a gift. I do what I can."
Mira, now standing, tested her leg.
"Thank you, truly." Her gratitude was genuine—disguised agent or not, she could not fake the awe in her voice.
Lysander introduced himself, giving only the vaguest outline of his role—a mid-level guardian from a modest merchant family.
Kaelan's gaze was wary, but not closed. "We could use more like you. Have you considered training with one of the noble houses? The sects would—"
Kaelan shook his head, sudden tension in his jaw. "All I want is to help the people here. Nobility brings trouble I want no part of."
Lysander respected that answer—it was honest, and precisely the hook Ethan had predicted. "Still, you're helping more than you know. City needs a few miracles these days."
As Lysander turned to leave, Mira bowed softly, the crowd already dispersing to spread stories of the night's wonders. For now, the stage was set—the healer had been tested, an overture made.
Back at Starfall, Ethan waited in his candlelit reading room, system data scrolling silently before his mind's eye.
Lysander and Mira appeared at the appointed hour, the latter limping just perceptibly, playing her part to its close.
"Healer is genuine. Fast. Careful, too. Suspects all attention, but doesn't shy from need," Lysander summarized.
Mira grinned. "He even berated me for risking further mobility after healing. He's earnest, but not naive."
Ethan activated the system's analysis: overlays of risk, odds, and soft-tissue suitability—hours of experience condensed into a moment.
"He resists power, but he's not closed. Next, we align our interests. Show him what corruption does up close—let him see why his healing is not enough. Invite him to save more than individuals."
Mira sat, stretching her legs.
"A public crisis? Something that lets the healer see the reach of House Drake's corruption without implicating us?"
Ethan nodded. "A merchant family skims medicine meant for the poor. Let that leak. Make sure Kaelan sees—and intervenes. We'll watch his choices."
Lysander's eyes narrowed in admiration.
"If Cassius notes the anomaly's involvement?"
"We shield him," Ethan said simply.
"If Cassius grows too interested, he'll find trouble best left untouched."
That final promise hung between them—the unspoken truth that, today, Ethan protected the healer not merely for strategic gain, but because power, when yielded wisely, could create more than fear.
Well after midnight, Ethan sat alone in the darkened garden, fingertips tracing psychic lines the system provided—each thread of connection, risk, and potential stretching out from tonight's staged miracle. Lanterns flickered in the wind, their orange glow illuminating not just flowers, but the complex web of relationships that bound the city together.
He closed his eyes, reviewing the night's events through system overlays. All indications agreed:
Kaelan is a beacon. Too bright to ignore, too steady to burn out quickly. His light must be shielded—then harnessed.
Tomorrow would bring another move; the web would grow. And in the silent chamber of his heart, Ethan felt something unfamiliar—a slender thread of hope that perhaps, in saving one more soul from the fires of power, he was not only shaping the world, but redeeming some part of himself as well.