Darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, yet punctuated by fragmented visions sharp as obsidian shards. Henry found himself standing on desolate, corpse-strewn ground that felt chillingly familiar. Before him, Captain Jacobs, face contorted in a mask of unfamiliar fury, swung his greatsword not against undead horrors, but against… Daniel. The quiet mage fell, headless, Jacobs's roar echoing like a beast's bellow. Then, Jacobs turned, his eyes burning with an unholy, shadowed light, wading through heaps of soldiers clad in the familiar uniforms of Aerion, cutting down spectral monsters only he seemed to perceive, until finally, he faced Henry and Sophia, mouthing words of dreadful farewell as darkness consumed him…
"AAAAAAAAAAAA!" Henry bolted upright in the narrow bed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, the phantom images clinging, visceral and terrifying. Cold sweat slicked his skin. He gasped for air, eyes darting wildly around, trying to reconcile the nightmare's horror with the bewildering reality now filtering through his senses.
Not the stench of death and decay, but the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic. Not the chilling silence of the grave, but a low murmur of distant voices, the clatter of metal instruments, the soft shuffle of footsteps on a polished floor. He lay not on cold earth, but between clean, slightly stiff linens. White walls enclosed the space, rows of identical beds occupied by still forms. A hospital ward.
Alive? The thought was a fragile spark in the oppressive darkness of the nightmare's lingering dread. Am I truly… alive?
His abrupt movement drew the attention of a nearby orderly clad in simple grey, who approached his bedside, followed swiftly by a priest in pristine white robes, his expression kind but etched with deep weariness. The priest placed a cool, gentle hand on Henry's forehead, murmuring a soft invocation. A wave of soothing warmth flowed from the touch, easing the frantic pounding of his heart, quieting the phantom aches left by the dream, though the deep, bone-weary soreness of his physical body remained.
"Peace, soldier," the priest said, his voice calm, carrying the gentle authority of faith. "You are safe now. You are within the Central Garrison Hospital in Aerion."
"Aerion?" Henry repeated, the name a lifeline. He struggled to push himself up, driven by an urgent need. "My squad… Sophia… Captain Jacobs… Did they…?" The question lodged in his throat, choked by the fear of the answer.
The priest gently restrained him. "Rest easy, son. Your body endured a terrible ordeal. That unholy mist…" His face clouded with sorrow. "It inflicted grievous internal trauma upon all caught within its radius. Many brave soldiers… did not survive. We lost Captain Nathan of the Shield Guard, and the valiant Priest Bern who came to your aid…" He sighed heavily. "Among others. The casualty reports are… extensive."
Henry felt a cold fist clench around his heart at the confirmation of Nathan's and Bern's deaths, a stark reminder of the Primal Undead's horrifying lethality.
"However," the priest continued, offering a small, sad smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "by some grace of the Angels, your immediate unit, the core of Unit 18, was found together, deeply unconscious but… alive. Your Captain, your fellow soldiers, Miss Sophia… they were all brought here. It is truly a miracle any of you survived exposure to such a debilitating miasma for so long before the rescue teams, alerted by Captain Jacobs' final signal flare, could reach you and administer stabilizing aid."
Relief warred with grief. Nathan, Bern… gone. But Jacobs, Daniel, Lumos, Melly, Torsan… the newcomers… and Sophia. Alive. The knowledge was a double-edged sword, gratitude for his companions' survival mingling with the bitter taste of loss. The exhaustion, held at bay by adrenaline and fear, surged back tenfold.
"Sophia…" he whispered again, the name a prayer. "Is she…?" He tried once more to rise, needing to see her, to confirm her safety with his own eyes.
"She is stable, Henry," the priest reassured him, gently pressing him back against the pillows. "In the adjacent women's ward. Like you, she remains unconscious, her body focused on healing the internal damage. The healers are optimistic, but she requires rest. As do you. Allow yourself this time. Heal. Grieve. Perhaps by the morrow, you will have strength enough to visit."
Recognizing the futility of arguing, the wisdom in the priest's counsel, Henry finally relented, sinking back into the thin mattress. The priest offered a final blessing, then departed with the orderly, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts, the weight of survival heavy upon him. Sleep, deep and profound, claimed him swiftly.
He surfaced again much later. Evening light slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the ward. His body felt less ravaged, the deep ache replaced by a more manageable stiffness. He pushed himself up, slowly this time, looking around. Jacobs lay in the bed nearest the door, his breathing deep, his powerful form strangely still. Lumos, Daniel, Larm occupied nearby beds, all similarly lost to healing slumber. Their survival was indeed a miracle, but the cost had been undeniably steep.
Driven by that same undeniable need, Henry carefully, quietly, swung his legs out of bed. Ignoring the protests of mending muscles, he used the bedframes for support, shuffling slowly across the cool floor, out of the men's ward, towards the women's section.
He found her easily. Sophia lay in a bed near a window, bathed in the soft silver of the rising moon. Her usual vibrant energy was quiescent, her face pale and serene in sleep. Yet, even so still, so vulnerable, the sight of her filled him with an aching tenderness. He stood in the doorway for long moments, a silent sentinel, simply watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, reassuring himself of the simple, profound fact of her continued existence. The guilt lingered - he should have protected her better - hardening his resolve regarding their separate paths ahead. It was necessary.
As if sensing his presence, her eyelids fluttered. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Her amber eyes opened, hazy at first, then focusing, widening as they found him standing there. A cascade of emotions flickered across her face - confusion, disbelief, fear fading into overwhelming, luminous relief.
He moved to her bedside then, sinking onto the stool placed there, taking her hand gently as the duty nurse approached, performed a quick check, offered Sophia a sip of water, and then discreetly withdrew. Her fingers, though cool, curled around his with surprising strength.
"Henry…" Her voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible. "You're… here?"
"I'm here, Sophia," he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "We're here. We made it."
Tears welled, spilling silently onto the pillow. "Nathan… Father Bern…" she whispered, the names choked with sorrow.
"I know," he said softly, sharing her grief. "The price was… high. But Jacobs, Daniel, Lumos, Melly, Torsan… the others from the unit… they endure. We endure."
She squeezed his hand, a silent acknowledgment of shared loss and shared survival. "Thank the Angels," she whispered again, the simple prayer imbued with profound meaning. Exhaustion quickly claimed her again, her eyes drifting closed, but her hand remained firmly clasped in his. He stayed with her until her breathing evened out into deep sleep, before returning to his own ward, the weight in his heart slightly lessened by the shared moment.
The following days were a blur of slow recovery. One by one, the members of Unit 18 surfaced from the debilitating effects of the grey mist, Jacobs leading the way, his Rank 4 constitution proving resilient. Each awakening was met with quiet relief, overshadowed by the grim knowledge of those who hadn't returned. They learned the mist hadn't been inherently poisonous in the conventional sense, but acted as a potent draining agent, inducing rapid systemic failure by weakening internal organs. Only the swift action of the rescue teams and the intensive care provided at Aerion had prevented a total wipeout.
As physical strength returned, they faced the inevitable debriefings. Stern-faced officers from Military Intelligence, somber representatives from the Church, visited each survivor individually, painstakingly compiling accounts of the disastrous mission. They spoke of the Undead Host, the shock of the Necromancer's demise by his own creation, the terrifying emergence and speed of the Primal Undead, the brutal, instantaneous deaths of Nathan and Bern, the inexplicable mist, the creature's sudden flight. Henry carefully recounted his version, sticking to verifiable facts, omitting his Mystic Sense readings of the red core, the final rider's words - details too strange, too dangerous to reveal.
After the debriefings came the purification rites. Priests performed cleansing blessings, purging any lingering taint, while healers continued restorative treatments. Slowly, vitality returned. Three days after the last member regained full consciousness, the surviving core of Unit 18 was formally discharged, granted a week's mandatory leave to fully recuperate.
Jacobs reported directly to Central Command, delivering the grim mission report, accepting responsibility for the failure and the heavy losses. His guilt was palpable, Henry knew, yet tempered by the fierce relief that the soldiers entrusted to his 'elder brother' care had, against all odds, largely survived the encounter.
Henry, meanwhile, accompanied Sophia to the Estath Cathedral. They returned the borrowed holy artifacts to a grateful, though sorrowful, Archbishop Ralph. Afterwards, Sophia requested a private confession. Henry waited in the familiar nave, understanding her need. He watched her disappear into the Archbishop's study, knowing she carried the heavy burden of believing her analysis, her advice, had contributed to the tragedy. He saw her emerge much later, supported by Ralph, her eyes shadowed but her spirit seemingly unburdened, comforted by the old prelate's wisdom and absolution.
They walked together afterwards, along the quiet riverbank path, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. The silence between them was heavy, freighted with shared trauma.
"We did all we could," Henry said finally, breaking the stillness, repeating the words that were as much for himself as for her. "What emerged… it was beyond us."
She leaned against him, her voice small. "I feel so weak, Henry. My knowledge… it led them to hold position… if we had just fled after the Host fell…"
"Then the Primal Undead might have caught us in the open," he countered gently. "Or perhaps it wouldn't have mattered. Sophia, you are anything but weak. Remember the traffickers? Remember Loknezt Lake, clawing through rock with bleeding hands? Remember facing down Ghouls and cultists? Your strength isn't just in magic or knowledge; it's here." He tapped his chest lightly, then hers. "In your spirit. Your resilience. Your loyalty. Don't let this tragedy make you doubt that."
She looked up at him, searching his face, then slowly nodded, a fragile smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Henry."
"Good," he said, relief flooding him. "Because self-recrimination dulls the palate, and after hospital food, we deserve something truly exceptional." He steered her towards the elegant restaurant he had chosen.
Inside, surrounded by soft light, gentle music, and the aroma of expertly prepared food, they consciously sought refuge, a temporary truce with the harshness of their world. They savored the rich soup, the delicate fish, the decadent dessert, the fine wine. They spoke softly of the future - Henry's transfer to the Bureau, Sophia's return to the Cathedral's embrace. The paths diverged, yet their hands remained clasped across the table. Scars remained, visible and invisible, but beneath them, life, and love, persisted. The quiet work of healing had begun.