Dawn brought with it a flicker of hope for one, and a plate of suspended plans for the other. Either way, it was a dawn of supposedly averted tragedies.
"I've gone through all my books, but still, I can't seem to find anything remotely related to his condition," Gondor confessed, his voice tinged with frustration.
"Keep looking. Please," Lyria pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of desperation.
"I've been doing that since dawn. I fear I cannot tailor a solution if I do not understand the origin of his affliction. What exactly happened to him?" Gondor pressed, his brows knitted in concern.
Lyria hesitated, uncertainty warring within her. Revealing too much could put them both at risk, but Kael's life was slipping through her fingers, and secrets could wait.
"You see… he's an exiled hunter. And I—I'm a rogue hunter."
"Hu... Hu... Hunters, you say?" Gondor stuttered, his eyes narrowing in surprise, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his face.
"Yes," she confirmed, her voice steadier now. "We were in a tavern when a Fallen attacked. It was in the chaos of bringing it down that its ooze splashed onto his side. The wound hasn't healed—or even shown signs of healing—since that moment."
Gondor's entire body tensed as the weight of her words sank in. The term 'Hunter' alone was enough to make him cautious. They were not ordinary humans. Hunters were warriors forged through brutal training, hardened by battle, and more dangerous than the average man. But Lyria's casual revelation that they were ex-hunters gnawed at him.
He was of a different race.
In a world teeming with beasts and monsters, one would think the existence of other races beyond humans would be common knowledge. Yet, history had played a cruel trick. Before the Battle of the End, humans hunted and slaughtered other races to near extinction. Distrust and fear drove many to hide, taking refuge in places humans would never dare venture. Some, like the elves, adapted and survived in secret, weaving magic to blend in among humans.
There were five known races in total: humans, elves, cyclops, draconians, and vharion. Among these, only the elves had mastered the art of concealment. Their long ears could be hidden, their naturally petite statures could be magically enhanced to mimic human appearances. Most elves disguised themselves as mages, their studious nature making it easier to integrate without raising suspicion.
The other races, however, chose isolation. They carved homes in the forgotten corners of the world, in deep forests, treacherous mountains, and ancient ruins. For the third generation born after the war, knowledge of these races had all but vanished, buried under silence and forbidden history. Only the first generation survivors still carried the truth, their tongues sealed by the fear of reigniting old wars.
Gondor studied Lyria and Kael carefully. From their appearance, it was clear they belonged to the third generation—they likely knew nothing of his kind. This eased his mind, but only slightly. The fact that they once bore the title of Hunter made them exceptional. And exceptional humans were dangerous.
"I see…" Gondor finally said, the tension in his shoulders loosening, though his wariness remained.
"That's what happened," Lyria sighed, her gaze heavy with exhaustion and worry. "He's been using some herbs we got from a friend of his a few weeks ago. They worked for a while, but as of last night, they stopped having any effect on the burn."
"I'm guessing… the seizures also began last night?" Gondor asked, rising to his feet.
"Yeah," she nodded, the weight of it all pressing against her chest.
"Interesting," he muttered, pulling an ancient book from a dusty shelf.
Her heart skipped. "Have you found something that might heal him?"
"Not yet," Gondor said, flipping through the fragile pages. "But from what I can tell, the black veins spreading across his body haven't pierced his heart. They run dangerously close but seem to avoid the core. It's almost as if… whatever this is—it doesn't intend to kill him. At least, not yet."
Lyria's breath caught in her throat, her hands clenching tightly as she hung on to every word.
"Under certain circumstances, I would suspect some kind of… mutation. But—" Gondor paused, his eyes narrowing at the details sketched on the page, "—the pulsing wound at the point of contact isn't typical of mutation. It behaves differently. This must be something else. Something… undocumented. Perhaps something no one has ever seen before."
Lyria's world crumbled in slow motion. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent, uninvited, yet impossible to stop.
Gondor glanced up from his book and caught the anguish on her face. He saw it clearly now—the raw affection, the desperate longing not to lose someone she held dear. He pitied her. And more than that, he respected her.
"Though his condition is uncertain," Gondor said softly, "his will to live is formidable. I can see it. As long as he keeps fighting, I promise you—I will take care of him. I will do everything within my power."
Lyria could only nod, her throat too tight to form words. She didn't know what the future would bring, but for now, Gondor's promise was a light in her suffocating darkness.
---
Meanwhile, back in Celestis Rise, Thadeus made himself scarce.
He confined himself to the solitude of his room, locking the world away behind cold stone walls. He promised himself he would remain within the keep. For now, the outside world would have to wait.
Dren, however, could not ignore the lingering questions that gnawed at his mind. What was Thadeus researching about him? Why had he withdrawn so suddenly?
Normally, Thadeus would have reached out by now, would have called him in and unraveled his riddles like he always did. But this time, Dren would have to wait.
And so, while Thadeus surrendered himself to his silent resolve, and Dren battled restless curiosity, Gondor gifted Lyria a fragile reason to hope. A reason to keep fighting. A reason to believe.
For now… that was enough.