"It's a threat to the tool itself!" Aldric's voice rose with genuine passion. "These artifacts are irreplaceable pieces of our lost history. Every time you use them, you risk damage. Wear. Deterioration. They need to be preserved, protected, studied under controlled conditions—"
"They need to be used," Marron interrupted. "They were made to work, not sit in a vault gathering dust."
"That's not your decision to make."
"It's not yours either."
They stared at each other, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Then, from somewhere in the village behind them, a child's voice called out: "Miss Marron! Miss Marron, come quick!"
It was the girl from yesterday—the one who'd questioned why anyone would eat when not hungry. She was running toward them, her face pale with fear.
"It's my brother," she gasped. "He's sick. Really sick. He won't wake up right."
The tension between Marron and Aldric shattered instantly.
"Where is he?" Marron asked, already moving.
