Evening had draped itself over the village by the time the trio started toward the meeting hall.
Lanterns flickered to life along the battered streets, their glow catching on cracked cobblestones and hastily boarded windows. Somewhere behind them, a child's cry leaked from one of the civilian shelters before being hushed by an unseen parent. The village breathed in shallow, cautious breaths, unsure if the danger had truly passed.
El led the way with her measured stride while Wrighty gawked at every strange building and stranger villager they passed. Curiosity was already pulling at his expression when he opened his mouth toward Luthiel.
Grub cut him off before the first syllable escaped his lips. "I'll explain later. Or better yet, she will."
Wrighty considered that for a moment, shrugged, and let the question dissolve. Pressing for answers had never been his way. Things tended to sort themselves if you gave them enough room.
Grub turned his attention to the doll girl beside him. Her silence carried a texture he had learned to read over the past weeks.
"How is Morrigan?"
Wrighty perked up instantly. "Is that her name? How's that turtle lady doing?"
Something in El's posture tightened by a fraction, though her expression remained perfectly still.
"Stable. The healers have slowed the poison's spread considerably, but purging it entirely remains beyond their current ability." Her hidden gaze drifted toward the cobblestones beneath their feet. "Master is strong. She will hold for now. But 'for now' has limits."
A crease formed between Grub's brows. "That's strange, I assumed the heaters could simply cure it. After all, your healing Anima fixed my broken ribs back when we first met."
Those fractures had been courtesy of the Leviathan, sustained during the fall into Aethrys and the chaos that followed. Luthiel's gentle hands had mended them without complaint or payment, she hadn't even been asked to. It was one of the first kind things anyone had done for him in this world. Even if it was after he was knocked out and thrown in prison.
"Woah, she fixed your ribs?" Wrighty glanced between them with genuine delight. "That's awesome. Glad those are good now, Doc. You probably need them."
El shook her head slowly. "It is not that simple, Scribe."
Her voice settled into the measured cadence she reserved for instruction.
"Healing Anima is an application most people never develop. More accurately, the majority who possess it can only direct it inward, mending their own bodies. Repairing yourself comes naturally because the Anima already recognizes its host." Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they turned onto a wider avenue. "Extending that same repair into another person demands an entirely different caliber of control."
"Beyond that," she continued, "healers almost always carry specializations. Some mend fractured bones exclusively. Others counteract specific ailments or toxins. Their Anima learned one dialect of restoration and speaks nothing else."
Wrighty listened quietly beside them, his default grin softened into attentive stillness.
"A rare handful become generalists. Capable of addressing any wound or sickness. Certain injuries remain harder than others, of course, but nothing sits entirely beyond their reach." Her mitten hands folded behind her back. "Morrigan's mastery placed her among those few. I as me am also one of them."
"We are the only two general healers this village has."
Grub absorbed that in silence. He had watched the glowing palms hovering over soldiers in the medical building and assumed such talent was commonplace. Another assumption quietly dismantled.
Luthiel's volume dropped. The monotone remained, but the words grew heavier.
"Yet all I have done is hold Master back."
Grub's head turned sharply. "What are you talking about?"
"My Master's Maladroit equalizes her down to her opponents. You already understand this, yes?" A flat statement, one that was not an actual question. Grub simply offered a slow nod.
"What you may not realize is what occurs when no opponent exists. The Maladroit does not deactivate. Without an enemy present, she remains equalized to her closest ally instead."
Cold comprehension crawled through Grub's chest. The pieces locked together before she finished the sentence.
"The reason Master's body is currently that of a Dormant, one incapable of purging a poison from a Tempered Tier 2 blade..." El's bangs shifted as her chin lowered. "...is because her Great Sage vessel has been dragged down to match mine. If I were stronger, even Cultivator rank, her body would resist the toxin far more effectively."
The lantern light caught the blue streaks in her hair as they walked. Nothing about her face moved, yet grief radiated off her small frame like heat from a forge.
"My healing is also insufficient to cure it outright. I cannot predict how long recovery will take." Her voice grew quieter still. "The village has Prosaic doctors in adequate numbers, a few healers with irrelevant specializations, and a small handful who focus on poisons specifically. Yet none possess the strength to purge something this potent with any ease."
Grub exhaled through his nose and searched for words that refused to come. Comfort had never lived anywhere in his vocabulary, and a single afternoon of reunion hadn't taught him the knack.
What he found instead was the only currency he knew how to offer.
"It's not your fault. You didn't poison her. Blaming yourself for that is illogical and utterly nonsensical."
"I suppose," came the reply. Flat as always, yet convinced of nothing.
Wrighty had gone quiet through the exchange, his gaze bouncing between the two of them. Then he planted himself into the conversation with all the grace of a boulder rolling downhill.
"I think she wouldn't want you beating yourself up so much."
Both of them looked at him.
"I don't know you guys that well yet. Met this village like a couple of hours ago, honestly." He scratched his cheek with his one hand, then broadened into a warm grin. "But I can tell already. You're amazing people. So quit blaming yourself, Luthiel!"
Wind rustled through the damaged street. El regarded the one-armed boy through her bangs for a long, unreadable stretch of time and offered no response. Instead, her body pivoted toward the tall building looming ahead, its windows aglow with gathered lantern light and the murmur of numerous voices bleeding through its thick walls.
"We are here." One mitten hand pushed the heavy door inward. "There is a lot to discuss."
The meeting hall opened before them.
Whatever warmth the conversation outside had carried evaporated the moment Grub stepped through the doorway. The room smelled of iron, medicinal herbs, and exhaustion. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation with chairs lining the outer curve. Lanterns hung from the ceiling beams at uneven intervals, casting pools of amber that left the corners in shadow.
The Guardians filled those chairs, and the sight of them told the story of the battle.
Bandages wrapped around arms, torsos, and skulls. Splints held cracked limbs in temporary alignment. One Guardian in the far corner sat with the sleeve of his vestments pinned against his shoulder where an arm used to be. Another had her leg elevated on a stool, the limb swollen to twice its natural size beneath thick wrappings. Fresh blood spotted several of the white vestments despite the medical attention they had already received.
Grub's gaze swept the room and immediately noticed the absence.
Pazuzu was not here.
The horned Guardian's chair sat empty between Orgack and another senior member. Grub hadn't seen him at the medical building either, though he assumed the Daemon had been placed in a separate treatment room given the severity of his burns. Half his body had been charred by Saander's fire corridor. The sustained use of his flickering Forte during the wall defense would have drained whatever reserves his injured body still held.
Orgack, on the other hand, occupied his usual oversized section of the seating arrangement. The enormous green Guardian had not participated in the frontline combat but had been instrumental in constructing and reinforcing the defensive walls during the preparation days. His contribution was structural rather than martial, and his uninjured state reflected that. Thick arms folded across a barrel chest as he watched the room with patient, tired eyes.
Several chairs throughout the horseshoe were conspicuously vacant. Grub counted the gaps and matched them against the faces he recognized from previous meetings. Whether those absences meant death or incapacitation, he couldn't determine from seating alone, but their numbers were certainly reduced from what they had been a week ago.
They gave their lives defending this place, Grub thought, studying the empty seats. At least, that was his conclusion. Whether it was noble or wasteful depended on perspective, and Grub's perspective had been shifting uncomfortably over the past several weeks.
Luthiel sat down at the far end of the table arrangement. Grub took the seat beside her, his enchanted notebook already emerging from his coat pocket. Wrighty dropped into the chair on Grub's other side, his weighted staff leaning against the table's edge.
The Guardians' reactions to the trio were predictable in their inconsistency. Several pairs of eyes landed on Luthiel with the familiar discomfort that followed her everywhere. Others fixed on Grub with expressions ranging from grudging tolerance to lingering suspicion.
Wrighty, however, received smiles.
Every Guardian who had witnessed the Anomaly fight regarded the one-armed boy with open warmth. A few nodded at him with respect. One veteran near Orgack actually raised a bandaged hand in greeting. Saving the chief's life in front of the entire village continued to buy Wrighty favor.
Standing at the center of the horseshoe was a Guardian Grub recognized from the arena during his trial match. The same individual who had announced his victory against Morrigan, visibly uncomfortable with the result. Up close, Grub could study the Guardian's features properly for the first time.
Gills lined the sides of his neck, three thin slits on each side that flexed subtly with every breath. His skin was slick and pale with an almost translucent quality that made the veins beneath faintly visible in the lantern light. Running along the crown of his skull from forehead to the nape of his neck, a long dorsal fin stood upright, its membrane a vivid green that contrasted sharply with his otherwise colorless complexion.
The fish-like Guardian cleared his throat. The murmuring in the hall died to silence.
"This meeting is to discuss today's battle and our victory." His voice was smooth and precise, each word enunciated with the careful authority of someone accustomed to formal proceedings. He began pacing slowly within the horseshoe, his hands clasped behind his back.
"There is a great deal to go over, as most of you probably expected. The engagement was relatively brief. The Chief handled the brunt of the combat herself."
His pacing faltered for half a step. "Before she..." A cough covered whatever word was supposed to follow. "We are fortunate to have the Chief, aren't we?"
Solemn nods circled the room. Every Guardian dipped their head in agreement, some murmuring quiet affirmations. The weight of Morrigan's absence pressed down on the hall, filling the space where her crude jokes and casual profanity would normally occupy.
The trio did not nod.
Not out of disrespect, however. El sat without moving or displaying any indication of emotion, her bangs hanging still and her hands folded on the table. Grub had been too preoccupied with his notebook, his charcoal already scratching across a fresh page as he documented the species and physical features of each Guardian present, updating profiles and filling gaps in his records. Wrighty simply sat with a pleasant expression and absolutely zero comprehension of what was being said around him, having no idea everyone else had been acknowledging something.
The fish Guardian's slick, pale features tightened as his gaze landed on the three of them. His pacing stopped. His hands unclasped.
"Ah, yes." He turned to face them fully, his green dorsal fin catching the lantern light. "Let us begin by discussing these three."
The room's attention shifted toward Grub, Wrighty, and Luthiel all at once.