Luin ran as fast as his small legs could carry him, the dirt of the slums kicking up beneath his feet. His chest heaved, heart pounding not from exhaustion—but from urgency. From awe. From something he didn't yet understand, but had to chase.
He turned the corner of a crumbling alleyway—and stopped short.
A small crowd had formed at the edge of a clearing, where broken carts and rotting barrels were piled like grave markers. In their midst stood the man—the same robed figure, hood drawn low, face veiled in soft shadow.
Alaric was on one knee, his hand pressed gently against the chest of a man who had collapsed moments before. The man's face was pale, lips grey, breath shallow—likely days from death.
The gathered people watched in still silence, too stunned to speak, too burdened by hope to interrupt.
