Chapter 119

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  Armed with the guild's directions, I stepped out onto the sun-drenched street, the warmth of the morning light doing little to chase away the chill in my bones. My mind looped obsessively on one grim certainty: the queue. I'd be stuck for hours in a stifling line of cripples, beggars, and weary townsfolk, all shuffling and coughing, reeking of unwashed bodies, festering illnesses, and cheap herbal ointments. The air would be thick with dust and desperation, punctuated by the wails of children and the sharp barks of frustration. I'd braced myself for that hell—reduced once more to just another cog in the grinding machinery of city life, my wounds throbbing in rhythm with the crowd's misery.

  But reality defied my expectations.

  Instinctively, I flagged down a couple of hurried passersby, mumbling my query about the nearest healer. They didn't bother with elaborate directions; instead, they nodded silently, a flicker of mild surprise in their eyes, toward the ragged edge of the unpaved road. There, huddled against the weathered stone wall of the old quarter, stood a tiny, almost whimsical cottage with pristinely whitewashed shutters. It looked disarmingly cozy, like the home of an ordinary girl tending geraniums on her windowsill, not a practicing healer brewing potions and mending flesh.

  A subtle unease stirred in my gut, like a whisper of warning. This didn't match the gritty image I'd conjured. I approached and rapped on the crooked but spotless door with a modest iron knocker.

  The door swung open immediately, without a creak or hesitation—and I nearly recoiled, a icy shiver racing down my spine.

  There she stood.

  No, not *her*—that was impossible—but so eerily, heart-wrenchingly similar: the same flawless, doll-like features, the same almond-shaped eyes piercing through me with that cold, all-encompassing scrutiny. Only her hair differed—raven-black and tangled, cascading messily over her shoulders as if torn in a fit of despair or fevered delirium.

  And her attire...

  She wore a scandalously short skirt, paired with sheer dark stockings edged in lace. It seemed like the slightest bend would reveal far more than intended.

  I swallowed hard, yanking my gaze away as heat flooded my face, my heart hammering erratically.

  "Yes?" Her voice was calm, laced with a playful laziness, as if she already delighted in my flustered reaction.

  I cleared my throat, feigning composure. "Uh... I'm looking for a healer." The words came out hoarse, strained. "They said... here."

  She smirked, one corner of her mouth quirking up as she eyed me like a cat toying with a trapped mouse.

  Her gaze lingered, sleepy and disheveled, strands of hair framing her face haphazardly. She looked like an ordinary girl I'd rudely awakened too early.

  But then her eyes sharpened on me.

  Something shifted in her expression.

  "You're... Balthazar?" she whispered, almost reverently.

  I barely managed a nod before the drowsiness vanished from her eyes. Right before me, her appearance transformed: her tangled locks lifted as if combed by invisible fingers, straightening into glossy waves that framed her sculpted features perfectly.

  The languid haze in her gaze dissolved, replaced by a vibrant, keen intensity—far too sharp for a mere healer.

  Before I could utter a word, she stepped forward. I flinched as her hands effortlessly scooped me up like a child. Her face hovered inches from mine, her breath warm against my skin. She inhaled deeply, drawing in my scent.

  "Pureblood," she murmured, as if confirming a hypothesis.

  I froze, bewildered.

  "Pureblood, but..." She narrowed her eyes, peering into me as if through layers of flesh and bone. "The body is weak. Abnormally weak."

  Her words hung in the air like a damning verdict.

  I squirmed, trying to break free, but her grip was unyielding.

  "A paradox," she added, her tone laced with fascination, almost admiration. "You're like a book with its pages jumbled out of order."

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  Her eyes gleamed with an unsettling curiosity, making my skin crawl under her scrutiny.

  She held me a moment longer, then carried me gently—almost tenderly—across the threshold. The door shut behind her of its own accord, as if obeying her silent command.

  Inside, the cottage smelled oddly intoxicating: a blend of dried herbs, sweet perfumes, and a faint metallic tang reminiscent of blood. The room was a study in contradictions—shelves crammed with jars and vials stood alongside ornate mirrors, lacy curtains, and even plush stuffed animals, as if two disparate souls inhabited the space.

  She laid me on a wide couch against the wall, its fabric soft and velvety, far too luxurious for a humble dwelling by the gates.

  I tried to sit up, but she pressed a hand to my chest—warm, firm, brooking no argument. Resistance felt futile.

  "Don't move," she said softly. "I need to examine you more closely."

  Her eyes shone not with concern, but with a greedy, predatory interest. She leaned in, her hair brushing my face like silk threads, her breath grazing my skin.

  "Pureblood... yet broken," she muttered. "Your vessels, your energy... they're knotted like tangled threads. How do you even survive in a body like this?"

  Her palms glided slowly over my shoulders, down my sides, lingering where the pain flared hottest. But I sensed it clearly: she wasn't just seeking wounds. She was probing *me*, delving into my essence.

  I swallowed again, fighting to stay calm.

  Then she smiled—for the first time. It was subtle, but it sent a chill racing down my spine.

  She raised a hand, and slender threads of green light flickered between her fingers. Magic flowed like a gentle spring stream, soft and fluid.

  "Relax," she murmured.

  Her palm touched my shoulder, and the light seeped into my skin. Where fire had burned and aches had gnawed, a cool breeze seemed to sweep through my veins. I hissed in surprise, but she pinned me down more firmly.

  "Shh," she whispered. "I won't hurt you... unless I want to."

  I averted my eyes, but she leaned closer still. Her face was mere inches away, dark hair tickling my cheeks, her scent enveloping me—a heady mix of herbs, feminine allure, and something cloyingly sweet—that sapped my will to resist.

  Her fingers traced my chest, ribs, side—each touch leaving a cool, soothing trail of magic. The light drew inward, cleansing the damage like a purifying tide.

  Yet this felt nothing like standard healing.

  She lingered longer than necessary, bent closer than required. Her breath warmed my skin, and my heart betrayed me, racing wildly.

  "There..." she said, satisfaction purring in her voice. "You're warming up already."

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to distract myself, but it only heightened the sensations: her touch, her warmth, the power coursing through me like an intimate invasion.

  In that moment, I realized: she was savoring this. Not merely mending, but exploring me like a rare artifact she claimed, if only temporarily.

  She withdrew her hand, the light fading gradually. Breathing came easier, my body infused with renewed vigor, though a dull ache lingered deep within.

  "That's it," she said, smoothing her hair. "I've just reconfigured your system. Nothing more."

  I frowned. "Reconfigured?"

  "Yes." Her voice turned silky, almost feline. "Your own energies will now flow to the damaged areas. It'll take time, but recovery will accelerate. I didn't expend my own power, so this treatment is free."

  She licked her lips slowly, savoring the words, her mouth glistening. Her gaze turned languid, hungry.

  "But..." She leaned in, hot breath brushing my cheek. "I need something from you. Just a little."

  I went rigid.

  "Just two small sips... of your blood."

  Her voice trembled with excitement. She pressed closer, eyes gleaming like a predator poised to strike, fangs bared in anticipation.

  My heart thundered, words failing me.

  In that instant, the door exploded inward with a deafening crash, wood slamming against the wall and sending dust cascading from the ceiling.

  I jolted, whipping my head around.

  There she stood—my companion. All this time, she'd waited outside like a shadow, invisible until now. And I'd... forgotten her entirely, lost in this bizarre game with the healer.

  Beneath her doll-like silence simmered a tension that could shatter the air.

  She crossed the threshold deliberately. The door gaped open behind her, a draft stirring the curtains and dimming the lamp's flame.

  Her steps were slow, but each one rang with unyielding resolve.

  No words, no sound—just that gaze.

  Cold, piercing, like a blade scraping across skin.

  The healer remained perilously close to me, her lips curving into a lazy smile, as if the intrusion only fueled her amusement.

  "Ah, here's your..." She drawled, stretching the words teasingly. "Slave."

  My companion offered no reply. She simply positioned herself opposite, tilting her head slightly, locking eyes with the healer.

  And that stare was enough.

  The room grew stifling, magic humming in the air as if the walls strained against it. Two opposing forces clashed without a single motion.

  The healer licked her lips again, as if readying a challenge. But my companion raised a hand slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of her dress—and that subtle gesture tautened the space between them like a drawn bowstring.