The lane to Ton's Remedy was littered with bits of bark and trampled grass, evidence of the night's panic. The morning sun glittered on dew, but the world felt drained of its warmth. Gilian and Arvan hurried along the familiar path, casting anxious glances behind, while the trembling boy, Harley, pressed close to Gilian's side. Harley's small hand clung tight to the hunter's shirt, the only anchor in a village that now seemed full of strangers and shadows.
When the trio reached the doorway, voices from inside spilled into the street. Some sounded cautious, others weary or just plain afraid. Ton's sign, painted with old, careful letters, hung above. It might have offered comfort once, but today, even the scent of herbs drifting from within could not chase away the memory of the night before.
Inside, the collection of faces startled Gilian and Arvan. Herman stood close to the counter, the sleeves of his tunic still damp from washing—never quite managing to clear away all the blood beneath his nails. Ronova, the night watchman, was perched by the window, eyes flickering to every small motion outside. Ton was at his familiar place, a big frame filling half the space behind his crowded shelves.
But most surprising were the two men talking with Ton and Ronova. One was Rudy, his cheeks still hollowed by fear, his hand shaking as he sipped at water. The other, Roy, looked only a little older than Cren but wore an odd, calm look that set him apart from the others.
Gilian nodded to Herman with a taut smile. "We brought someone," he said, stepping aside so Harley could shuffle behind him.
Harley did not look at anyone directly. His head was down, eyes fixed on Gilian's belt. As the others murmured greetings, Harley's fingers clamped tighter, twisting the cloth until his knuckles paled.
Ronova, always wary, studied the newcomers. As Gilian and Arvan settled Harley onto a stool by the door, Ton moved closer. "A tough night for all of us," he said quietly, voice a little softer than usual. "No need to force words yet." He gave the boy the gentlest nod. "There's fresh mint tea. Take what you need."
Harley didn't reach for the cup, so Roy slid a mug toward him and set it nearby. "It's safe," he said softly. "If you get a scratch, let me see. I helped with the others last night." Harley's head snapped up at the voice. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
"You… you were the one who carried me out?" Harley whispered, his voice barely more than a quaver.
Roy nodded, silent.
Rudy, fighting sleep, tried to smile for Harley, but his lips barely moved. "We all tried to help. Everyone who made it… made it because of someone else. That's the only reason any of us are here."
Ton broke the little circle of silence with his steady presence. "Gilian, Arvan—sit. We'll need all heads thinking clearly." His voice cut through the tension, and with a scrape of chair legs, everyone arranged themselves awkwardly around the battered table.
For the first time, Harley straightened. He was still a child, but now everyone saw lines of worry that made him seem years older.
"Tell us what happened," Ronova prompted, watching every small reaction. "Start with just what you remember."
Gilian gave the boy a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Just tell it like you told us. No need to be afraid, Harley."
So Harley spoke. The words came in small, uneven breaths at first. He talked about hiding in a crawlspace as screams echoed from the village square. He described his uncle suddenly attacking his mother after twitching and convulsing, then the next thing he knows is his sister pulling him to escape from the house, shouting for him to run and not look back. Then the thing that happened when her sister threw him hard before she got attacked and bitten all over the place right after Roy carried him to escape from Arnan.
Herman exchanged a slow glance with Ton and Rudy. "So even after you made it to escape your house with your sister, your uncle already began aggresive?" he pressed softly.
Harley nodded, squeezing his hands until they trembled.
"It's been like that," Gilian agreed, glancing at Arvan. "We saw a lot—beasts, villagers, even adventurers. Grave wounds that should have killed them, but they kept moving. Some got aggressive after… after they convulsed or started shaking."
Ton stroked his beard, frowning. "But not everyone who ran got that way. So what's the real difference?"
Roy finally spoke up, his voice low. "It's the wounds. Or… at least, I think so. When I was treating the ones from Arnan, the ones who'd been scratched, bitten, or lost parts of their hands—they were the ones who changed after. Not right away, but soon as they lost themselves to the pain, or maybe the blood loss. It's almost like… dying from those wounds makes you cross a line."
Rudy shifted in his chair, eyes shadowed by memory. "But throughout the chaos when I tried to escape with Keynes, I certainly saw some of the villagers that were supposed to be dead, live again and become aggressive… or maybe not? …Actually I'm not sure anymore"
Ronova's lips curled in a wry, almost cruel grin. "Maybe it's simple. Once you've been touched by those monsters—bitten, scratched, or even killed by one—you're already halfway to becoming one of their friends." His tone was bitter, and no one wanted to reply.
The silence pressed on the room, broken only by the faint tick-tick of liquid dripping from a pipe in the ceiling. Gilian stared at the rough-sawn tabletop, trying to put words to the thing that gnawed at them: What was missing from Roy's answer? Something more than wounds made these horrors.
Herman ran a tired hand over his face. "We're missing something," he whispered. "The wounds make you change, but is it all of them? Or just… certain ones? Is it about pain? Fear? Or something in how the wound is made?" He looked at Ton, seeking certainty.
Ton could only shake his head. "We need more proof," he said, voice weary but steady. "What did you feel, Harley, when your uncle changed?"
The boy hesitated. "He looked like he was in pain. More than just from fighting. Like his whole body was on fire. But his eyes... they stopped seeing me. He screamed but—" His hands fisted. "—it sounded like it came from somewhere else. Like he left, and something took over."
Ronova grunted. "Whatever it is, let's call it what it is—hell's curse or walking corpse or whatever it is. The rest is guessing."
No one disagreed.
***
Far from Ton's Remedy, in the cluttered chaos of Huina's village hall, healing went on. Here, among the rows of straw pallets and fading candlelight, Rutina and Alice moved as quietly as ghosts. The hall was crowded with survivors: grown men whose hands still shook, mothers clutching silent infants, old folks staring with dull eyes at nothing. Groans and exhausted sighs filled the air, mixing with the sharp smell of ointments and sweat.
Rutina sat on a stool beside the broadest pallet. She pressed her hand gently onto a deep cut on a villager's shoulder, eyes closed in concentration. Light shimmered from her palm—a faint green glow that slowly faded as the wound's edges puckered and closed.
With each spell, Rutina's shoulders drooped a little further. Sweat made loose strands of hair cling to her face, but she kept her words steady.
Beside her, Alice put ointment onto a woman's bruised shin. "This will stop it from swelling," she murmured, voice soft but full of hope. She had repeated those words a hundred times that morning. Her hands were as careful as Rutina's, but with every dressing changed, every cloth folded, her movements grew weaker.
At last, as the midday sun slanted through high windows, Rutina led Alice out to a small bench just behind the hall. "Let's rest for a bit," she said, managing a smile for her little sister.
Alice sank beside her, stretching tired limbs and barely touching the meal handed to her by a passing villager. "They all look so scared," she whispered.
Rutina nodded. "They are. But you helped." She set her bread aside, watching as Alice poked at the crust in silence. "You did everything you could."
Alice hesitated, then looked sideways at her sister. "Can you teach me more healing magic? I want to help like you… not just with ointment and bandages. I want to be useful for everyone here—for Huina, for the others, just like you are."
Rutina's face grew gentle, but sorrow shadowed her eyes. "Alice, it takes time. You know that. Even so, you do more with your care than many who can use magic."
"But I want to learn!" Alice bit her lip, fighting tears. "If I could use healing spells, maybe people wouldn't be so scared. Maybe I could help you more. Please, just tell me how you did it."
Rutina looked up, the memory clear in her face. "When I first could use magic… it was when you were sick. Do you remember how you cried all night, burning with fever? I prayed and prayed that you'd be alright. At some point, I heard a voice—like a whisper, telling me what to say. Suddenly, everything felt… clear. It's always strange, that first time. Like someone is guiding your hands, showing you what to do. Even the sages say it feels odd, that sometimes the magic speaks to them without warning."
"Does everyone get that?" Alice asked, eyes bright in the half-light.
"In a way." Rutina's voice was softer than ever. "Everyone has mana, deep inside, but not everyone can make it work the same way. For most, it takes years of trying—sometimes, it never comes. You have to want it, not for yourself, but to save someone or something precious. For me, it was you."
Alice looked away, face shadowed with disappointment. "But I'm already fourteen. I can't feel it at all. Not even a spark."
Rutina put an arm around her gently. "I learned at twelve, but some people wait far longer. Some never manage. Even Herman has mana, but he can barely use it. He learned to fight without spells, but he can do little tricks—make his arrows fly truer with a bit of mana, control them for a moment. He trained to be strong without using magic much because that is all he could do. It's a part of life here. Not fair, but true."
Alice pressed her lips together, refusing to cry. "But if all it takes is wishing, isn't it easy to be granted?"
"Not just wishing," Rutina replied. "Sometimes, the world itself seems to listen. They call it a world whisper—a voice just when you need it most. Even powerful mages say that sometimes, when new magic comes, it's like the world is helping them learn."
They ate together in silence for a time, the air full of hope and frustration. Alice closed her eyes, as if wishing hard enough might finally spark the magic she needed. Rutina watched her, something fierce growing in her heart—a need to protect her sister's hope, whatever may come.
At last, Rutina stood, her energy bolstered by resolve and a quiet pride. "I need to see Cren's wound again," she said, squeezing Alice's hand. "You keep practicing—just focus on the feeling of wanting to help." She touched her sister's hair, brushing it back gently. "Don't give up."
With that, Rutina moved back inside the hall. Alice, left on the bench, gripped her hands together tightly and shut her eyes once more. She would not let the hopelessness win.
Behind her, the hall was quiet, filled only by the soft breathing of sleeping refugees. Rutina, tired but determined, crossed to where Cren lay. Gently, she applied the medicine, whispering soft encouragement as she checked the wound. She glanced back through the door. Outside, Alice sat alone in the sunlight, face lifted in concentration, refusing to let tiredness or disappointment steal her hope.
For a moment, the air seemed to shimmer—the hush of whispers in the world itself. In that quiet, Rutina found her own worries faded. She reached out and gently patted Alice's head before returning to her work, her spirit just a little lighter, hopeful that someday her sister would feel the world's whisper, too.
And so, as the shadows lengthened across Huina and quietly gathered after sorrow, a fragile peace settled over those who had survived—bound by memories, by hope, and by the fragile thread of magic that might, one day, save them all.