The first to stir after Eliakim was Caleb.His cough rattled the hut's quiet, followed by the creak of makeshift bedding as he tried to sit up — only to wince and collapse back down, clutching at his ribs.
"You're alive," Eliakim murmured without turning his head.
"Feels like a miracle," Caleb muttered. "Or a curse. Not sure which."
Gideon's awakening was louder — a sharp intake of breath, the rustle of bandages over muscle, and then the thump of his palm against the wall as if to test his own strength.It wasn't much.
Ezra was last.Her face was turned toward the dim light filtering in through the warped slats of the hut, both eyes wrapped in neat, clean layers of linen. Her breathing was steady, her lips dry. She reached a hand up, fingertips grazing the bandages.
"Don't," Malachi's voice cut across the room from the shadows, low and commanding. He was grinding dried leaves in a wooden bowl, not looking up."They're still healing."
Ezra's hand froze mid-air. "…Healing from what?"
No one answered.Eliakim caught Gideon's glance — a quick, silent warning — and forced himself to speak before she could press further. "You'll be fine," he said, with a steadiness he didn't feel. "Just… keep them covered for now."
Ezra let her hand fall, lying back down without more words.
It was in the stillness that the group began to notice the strangeness.
Malachi moved with precision, brewing herbal mixes, checking dressings, changing bandages. But when Gideon asked where he'd learned such technique, the boy said, "Here and there," and nothing more.
When Caleb asked if there were other villages nearby, Malachi's eyes flickered to the door, then back to his work. "Not ones you can walk to."
And when Eliakim — testing again — asked if Malachi could wield his mace, the boy's lips tightened. "I don't fight," he said flatly. "Not anymore."
It was hard to believe.There was no hesitation in his movements, no trace of the uncertainty most healers wore when faced with soldiers' wounds. And yet… no stories, no boasts, no sense of a home or kin.
A boy who seemed older than his years, yet too young to be wandering alone.A healer who bore burn scars on his own palms.A rescuer who treated them without choosing a side.
Outside, the storm had passed, leaving a heavy, wet silence in its wake.Inside, the air was just as thick — not with damp, but with the questions none of them yet dared to voice.
Because if Malachi Vesper was their savior…It was still unclear what price would follow.