Chapter 67 - 66
Meanwhile, on Lumberling and Skitz’s end.
The next city loomed on the horizon, another stop in their long and uncertain journey.
The city of Crowsgate crawled with informants. The spires and shingles of its rooftops seemed to bristle with ears. Lumberling and Skitz stood outside a narrow brick tower that passed for a chapel, the gold-and-white sigil of the Church of the Soothing Light hanging like a soft breath above the door.
Inside, it was quiet. Incense clung to the air. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting hues of lavender and gold across the floor.
Healers moved softly between rows of wounded. Murmurs. Prayers. The faint glow of power, soft light, warm and pulsing, flowed from open palms. Wounds closed. Feverish groans calmed into sleep.
Skitz stood a few paces behind, arms crossed beneath his cloak, but even he couldn’t hide the way his eyes lingered on the glowing hands of the priests. His expression, usually sharp and unreadable, softened into something else.
Awe.
And then, the flicker of something rarer.
Worry.
Not at the sight of the wounded, but at the power being wielded so gently, so freely. Power that healed, not harmed. Skitz’s jaw tightened. He’d faced monsters, on the battlefield, but this quiet light, humming with unseen force, made him instinctively reach for the hilt beneath his cloak.
Lumberling beside him watched, entranced. "Is this... magic?"