The road east did not forgive weakness.
It stretched onward beneath the sun like an open wound, dust rising with every step, heat pressing down until even breath felt heavy. Bereshith walked steadily, Yareach nestled against him, her small fingers clutching his tunic. Lucas followed close, eyes scanning the land—watchful now, alert in ways he had not been before.
That was when he saw her.
A shape in the dust.
At first, Lucas thought it was debris—cloth, perhaps, caught in the wind.
But no! The shape moved.
A girl lay crumpled beside the road, her body twisted unnaturally, one leg bent wrong—terribly wrong. Blood soaked the earth beneath her, dark and drying in the heat. Her breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one weaker than the last.
Even with her little around in his arm, Bereshith ran towards to the cripled girl.
"Wait—!" Lucas called, but the child was already kneeling beside her.
Bereshith's face tightened as he took in the damage. The girl's right leg had been nearly severed, bone exposed, flesh torn beyond anything a bandage should fix. Her skin was pale, lips blue, eyes unfocused.
She was dying.
Lucas approached more slowly.
He had seen this before.
Too many times.
He reached behind him, fingers closing around the handle of the knife he kept tucked at his back. His movements were practiced, efficient—not cruel, but resigned. Mercy, in a world like this, sometimes meant ending pain before it consumed what little dignity remained.
He stepped forward.
However Bereshith stood up suddenly as he notice Lucas intention—placing himself between Lucas and the girl.
"Step away, child," Lucas said, confused but firm.
"No!" Bereshith answered.
The word was sharp. Certain.
Lucas blinked.
"She's dying," Lucas said, voice hardening. "Move."
"She's dying," Bereshith said back, "but she's not dead."
Lucas let out a short, humorless laugh.
"We can't help her," he snapped. "This is reality. What she needs is mercy."
Bereshith's small hands clenched into fists.
"No," he said again. Louder. "She needs help!"
Lucas' restraint broke.
"Kid!" he shouted. "The world doesn't revolve around faith or belief! It revolves around truth—around what is! You can't save everyone!"
Bereshith did not flinch.
He looked up at Lucas—not afraid, not naive.
Certain.
"No," Bereshith said firmly."It doesn't."
Before Lucas could react, Bereshith grabbed his wrist—the one holding the knife. The grip was small… but unyielding. Lucas froze in shock as Bereshith pulled the knife free, then turned and cut away the remaining cloth of his own tunic.
The fabric tore easily.
The Bereshith threw the knife far into the dust—away from them both, Lay his little sister on the ground near to crippled little girl.
Then he turned back to the girl.
He looked around, frantic now, scanning the ground.
"A stick…" he murmured. "I need a stick."
Lucas stood frozen, heart pounding, knife gone, anger draining into something else—something uncomfortable.
Guilt.
Bereshith worked quickly. He wrapped the torn cloth tightly around the girl's leg, his hands steady despite the blood. He wedged sticks along her leg, binding them carefully, as if instinct guided him where knowledge could not.
Lucas stepped back.
Yareach stirred.
He scooped her up without thinking, holding her close, watching from a distance as the child tried to do what grown men feared to attempt.
"I…" Lucas swallowed. His voice came softer now. "I'm sorry."
Bereshith didn't look up.
"Let me carry her," Lucas said quietly.
Bereshith nodded. "Please, Mister. Thank you."
As Lucas stepped closer, the girl convulsed violently.
Blood spilled from her mouth as she cried out in pain.
Bereshith gasped and reached for her shoulder instinctively.
And then—
Light bloomed.
Not blinding.
Not violent.
It flowed from Bereshith's hand like warmth made visible.
Lucas stared.
The air shimmered.
Before his eyes, flesh began to knit. Bone shifted—slowly, painfully, impossibly—drawing back together. Blood ceased to flow. The girl's breathing steadied, her cries fading into silence.
Lucas did not scream.
He did not step back.
He watched.
Without fear.
Because this time—he understood.
The miracle ended as quietly as it began.
Bereshith swayed.
The light faded.
His small body collapsed forward.
Lucas lunged and caught him just in time.
Bereshith was unconscious.
Yareach whimpered softly.
The girl breathed.
Alive.
Lucas fell to his knees, holding the children, tears blurring his vision—not from shock, but from truth finally seen.
Faith did not deny reality.
It restored it.
And Lucas knew—without doubt—that this was only the beginning.