The Forsaken Hero

The following morning, I opened my eyes to find the dusty rafters of the church. Rolling out of bed, gently so as not to disturb my shoulder, I threw a dress on and made my way to the infirmary, practically shaking in anticipation. Many of the injured patients held only minor wounds or illnesses, whatever was left after Rodrick’s Restoration healed them. It was still early in the morning, yet many were awake and blinked at me curiously.

I nodded politely to the priestess, Anna, who stood from the bedside of a child, wringing a wet rag into a nearby bucket. The kid’s face was dark red, and he rolled over, groaning. With the approaching winter, illness was becoming more common, filling nearly half the beds in the infirmary. Eyes focused on me like moths to a flame, gathering on my slave crest and demonic features. I took a deep breath and calmed my twitching tail before crossing the threshold. I waited for someone to protest, but the only hostile looks were from children, who were taught from a young age to fear demons.

"Good morning! Have you come to help out again?" Anna asked. Her cheerful voice didn’t match her body, which had begun wilting with age.

I dipped my head, searching the room until my gaze rested on an elderly soldier. His bloodstained uniform lay in tatters, but none of his injuries remained, likely healed by Rodrick. Every wound, except his arm, which ended in a bandaged stump just above his elbow.

Sidestepping beds, I crossed the room until I reached his bed. He looked up at me for a moment before turning away and burying his head in his pillow. His dull, gray eyes bore a hopelessness I found all too familiar.

He grunted, his body trembling slightly as my fingers closed around his injured arm. A long sequence of runes had been tattooed on his bicep, ending abruptly at the stump. As I twisted his arm, hoping for a better look, his face turned white and he released a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth. "Come to mock an old man?" he grumbled. "There’s nothing a girl like you can do. Not even the priest can bring an arm back.

"How did this happen?" I asked softly.

He scowled, glaring at the wall. "Bandits. How else? The Lord won’t do anything about it, even when they come up to the walls."

Expecting his answer, I let his arm rest and murmured, "Then you’ve been avenged."