Chapter 84: Lord Cedric [2]
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.
A faint pulse of golden-white light shimmered from Alaric’s palm. It spread slowly, not in a burst, but in waves—tender, kind, patient. It slipped across the man’s skin like sunlight melting frost.
Then, it happened.
The collapsed man’s body jerked slightly. His skin flushed. The bones beneath his cheeks filled out. Wrinkles faded. His eyes, once glassy and dim, opened wide with clarity and strength.
He blinked, sat up, and looked at his hands—younger hands, steady and firm. His expression broke open with disbelief. He touched his face. His chest.
"I... I feel..."
But he could say no more.