The clearing was unnaturally silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears like a thick cloth. Seven corpses lay arranged with grim precision in seven circles carved into the soil, their chests marked with symbols cut into their skin. The seven hearts instead had been placed in smaller rings around the ritual’s centre, connected by blood-filled lines to the core of the ritual.

  Alya and the two other wounded lay unconscious at the centre, positioned where the ritual was meant to transfer enough life to save them.

  Rhea knelt at the edge of the formation, palms pressed flat against the earth, eyes closed. Her breathing slowed and steadied, and when she exhaled again, the air around her shimmered faintly.

  Then she spoke.

  Not in any language I knew.

  The words slithered and rolled in ways that sounded wrong to the ear—soft in some places, sharp enough to sting in others. A rhythmic chant, ancient and deliberate, rose from her throat. The bundles of herbs placed near each heart began to smoulder, thin trails of smoke rising, swirling unnaturally as if listening to her voice.

  The smoke darkened, turning acrid. It stung my eyes and coated the back of my throat with bitterness.

  Rhea rose to her feet, still chanting, and began to move around the outer circle. Her gestures were fluid and precise—fingers flicking, wrists tracing invisible sigils. When she reached the first salt line, she touched it lightly.

  It caught fire.

  A white flame shot along the groove, racing around the circle, tracing the entire formation in a heartbeat. The chalk sigils lit up next, glowing bright red, pulsing like a heartbeat. The ground vibrated beneath my boots.

  Then the gorg screamed.

  Seven voices merging into a hideous, guttural roar. Their bodies arched against the ropes, muscles bulging, veins glowing a faint orange under their skin, as their life force was pulled from them.

  The three wounded in the centre stirred—twitched—and then gasped as light seeped into them. Alya’s breath hitched. A thin, trembling moan escaped her.

  Good. It was working.

  Rhea’s chant grew louder and more frantic, her pace quickening as she circled them again. Sparks leapt from her fingertips as she ignited the next set of lines, each gesture feeding the hungry blaze of the ritual.

  For the first minute, it seemed controlled.

  The gorg writhed and roared.

  The wounded glowed faintly, their skin knitting, colour returning.

  Even the air shimmered with the scent of heated herbs and raw life.

  Then things changed.

  Alya’s back arched violently, her mouth opening in a scream. A crimson glow flooded her skin—too bright, too hot. The man next to her began convulsing, limbs jerking out of rhythm as his eyes rolled back.

  “Rhea,” Tom said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know!” she snapped, voice cracking but still chanting. “I know, damn it—this isn’t—this isn’t right! They’re getting too much—they’re getting way too much!”

  The gorg’s screams hadn’t stopped. But what worried me was that they looked… fine. That shouldn’t happen. Their bodies should wither, their muscles shrink, or at least that’s what Rhea said was going to happen. But they were still unnervingly healthy.

  Rhea choked on her own breath. “I didn’t know—didn’t realise their vitality was this high! It’s feeding the array faster than the wounds can consume it! I—I can’t stop it!”

  The man in the centre jerked violently, froth bubbling at his lips.

  That was when my curse surged.

  A lurch in my chest.

  A nauseating pull in my gut.

  I had to go; I needed to save them. This damnable curse won’t let me have a day in peace. I took a step forward; I needed to be quick.

  “No!” Rhea grabbed my sleeve. “Elias, you go in there now and it will tear you apart!”

  “They die if we don’t go,” I said. “I’m going in.”

  Before she could argue, Quinn threw a rope towards the centre. It burst into flame before reaching the halfway point, burning into drifting black ash.

  Nothing could cross the boundary.

  My curse twisted harder, stabbing behind my eyes. The pain was so sharp my vision went white for a moment.

  I couldn’t stay out.

  So I pulled free from Rhea’s grip and sprinted into the circle.

  My Arcane Barrier shattered the moment it touched the ritual, but I forced myself forward. Heat roared over my skin. My nerves felt on fire. The red glow around the wounded made my teeth ache.

  The wounded man closest to me was twitching uncontrollably, so I grabbed him by the jacket he wore, hauling him up, ignoring the burning feeling I was getting from him. When I tossed him out, Quinn dived to catch him.

  Then I went for Alya.

  Her body felt hot—too hot—as though she was made of molten metal. I felt my strength wane; I was starting to feel strange, so I hooked my arms under her shoulders and dragged her towards the edge with everything I had. It felt like she weighed a tonne.

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  I managed to pull her clear of the circle.

  I fell on the ground, coughing weakly.

  One more.

  The youngest of the three lay limp now, eyes fluttering. I turned to get him.

  But an old man rushed past me.

  “I’ve got him!” he shouted, voice hoarse.

  The man was the crafter who volunteered yesterday; a hardy guy, he was trembling violently under the ritual’s pressure, but he reached the last fighter still inside, lifted him with a grunt, and dragged him along. Rhea and another rushed in the moment the body left the boundary, pulling him to safety.

  The old man stumbled after them. He sat on the ground after taking three more steps, out of breath and clearly on the verge of exhaustion from being inside the circle for thirty seconds. That ritual was no joke.

  At least somebody had the presence of mind to take the three unconscious people and bring them to the side, where the healers had prepared a little area dedicated to the wounded.

  Sara, my neighbour, stared at the old man. “Marcus… you… you look—”

  “Younger,” another woman said with incredulity. “Much younger.”

  Marcus blinked, confused. Now that I looked closer, his wrinkles had softened considerably. He looked more like fifty now, instead of sixty-five.

  “What in God’s name…” he whispered after taking a look at his hands. No more spots, fewer wrinkles, and overall you could see him just looking healthier.

  I didn’t feel changed, but something tingled under my skin, warm and unfamiliar.

  The ground shook.

  We all turned.

  The seven gorgs had stopped screaming.

  Their bodies started shrivelling rapidly, collapsing inward little by little. Flesh sank. Bones cracked. Skin blackened and flaked away.

  Then the hearts—still arranged around the circle—burst into threads of golden-red light. They spiralled upward, weaving around each other like ribbons of light.

  The air vibrated with a strange hum. A shape began to form in the middle of the ritual.

  Little at first.

  A crystal.

  Golden, glowing, pulsing with the stolen life essence. It floated high above the centre of the circle, humming with power.

  No one spoke.

  No one dared breathe. We could only watch.

  Finally—when the last gorg collapsed into dust, the ritual lines burned out, and the smoke cleared—the crystal absorbed the last threads of light and fell.

  It landed softly on the ground.

  Thump.

  Rhea whispered, voice trembling with awe and fear:

  “…What the hell is that?”

  For a long moment, no one moved. The crystal lay in the dirt like a fallen star, humming faintly.

  Tom exhaled first. “So… do you think it’s safe?”

  Rhea rubbed her temples. “Safe? I don’t— I don’t know. The ritual never said something like this would happen. I modify it extensively to make it work, but… that shouldn’t even be possible.”

  Quinn crouched besides it, squinting. “Looks expensive.”

  “Quinn,” Tom snapped.

  “What? I’m not touching it.”

  Marcus stared at the crystal with a furrowed brow. “If that came from the gorg, then… what do we do with it? Use it? Sell it?”

  “I don’t know!” Rhea nearly shouted. Her hands shook as she lowered them. “This ritual—this result—none of this was supposed to happen. The only reason it didn’t kill someone is because you two went in there like madmen.” She pointed at Elias and Marcus.

  Marcus snorted softly. “Mad, maybe. But I’m still alive.”

  He hesitated, then touched his own cheek, feeling the smoothness of his skin again. “And I feel better than ever.”

  “Makes sense,” Sara said. “You look like you lost a decade.”

  “Even more,” Tom corrected.

  “I didn’t do that,” Rhea muttered. “It must’ve been the proximity to the… essence being ripped apart.” She gestured vaguely at the ritual circle. “Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”

  Before Elias could respond, Mary came closer, wiping sweat from her face.

  “They’re waking up,” Mary said breathlessly. “All three of them. Not just alive—healthy. Their vitals are strong, and their wounds are… completely gone.”

  “That shouldn’t be possible,” she added, though she sounded more awed than incredulous. “One of them had punctured lungs. Another had a crushed spine. There isn’t even scar tissue.”

  Rhea blinked rapidly. “Okay. Okay. Maybe today isn’t a total disaster.”

  “Actually the ritual was a total success, Rhea. Congratulations. You saved the lives of three people and created… that thing.” I said to her with an encouraging smile.

  She was extremely capable in her field, and while it was something niche and hardly direct in combat, if before I thought it was interesting and particular, now I was seeing the great potential that having a ritualist with us could bring. If she manages this outcome, even if unexpected while so low in level and working with little to nothing, the next time we find a safe zone, she could stock up on ingredients and create much better rituals, especially with some more experience.

  “Elias is right,” added Tom. “Despite the scare, we got three fighters back hale and healthy and a magic stone. And now we learned a fountain of youth kind of ritual; I think some of these people would like a ride from the look they are giving you.”

  Actually he was right; many were getting closer, asking questions about Marcus and the people around. It was only a matter of time before they would start bothering Rhea too, I was sure.

  “I’m going to check on the wounded.” I said to them, I wanted to know if they gained something from this whole ordeal.

  I went closer to the wounded; already some people were around them, but they moved when they saw me approach.

  Alya was stirring on the bedroll, eyes fluttering open. Confusion flickered in her expression before her gaze settled on me.

  I knelt besides her.

  “Elias…?” Her voice cracked, soft and disbelieving. Her eyes brimmed with tears in a heartbeat. “You… you saved me.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but she threw her arms around me, clinging with a desperation that squeezed the breath from my lungs. Her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

  “I thought—I thought I was going to die,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I felt everything fading. I thought… I’d never wake up again.”

  It wasn’t the first time that somebody behaved like this with me. While I never saved a life before, I helped so many people in my life that I was used to the gratitude, but this time felt different; with her it feels different somehow. So I wrapped an arm around her, steady and solid. I knew what to say.

  “I’m glad I made it in time,” I reply quietly. “How do you feel?”

  Alya pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I feel… incredible. No pain. None. I haven’t felt this good in—ever, honestly.”

  Mary knelt besides them, fingers already glowing faintly as she placed a hand on Alya’s forehead.

  “She’s perfect,” Mary breathed. “Vibrant, stable, everything’s repaired. Elias, she’s healthier than she was before the fight.”

  Alya turned and wrapped Mary in a fierce hug too. “Thank you. For everything. All of your care, all of your time. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

  Mary flushed a bit. “I—I mean, I just did my job—”

  “No,” Alya insisted softly. “You kept me alive long enough for this.”

  Around the clearing, people finally let themselves breathe—trading tired smiles, shaky laughs, and soft sighs of relief. After so much loss yesterday, saving three people today felt like a miracle.

  A good moment.

  A precious one.

  It lasted a couple of minutes.

  “ENEMIES!” someone screamed from the treeline.

  Elias shot to his feet, mace in hand, before his brain caught up.

  From the shadows of the forest, shapes emerged—broad, hulking, dragging the heavy stink of blood and rot with them.

  More gorgs.

  A whole party of them, pushing between the trees with snarling purpose.

  “Shit,” Quinn whispered. “They must’ve tracked the ones we dragged here.”

  Panic rippled through the survivors. People stumbled back, voices rising in fear.

  Tom shoved past them with a bellow. “FORMATION! Shields front! Spears ready! MOVE!”

  At his voice the group snapped into motion. Fear shifted into discipline.

  Elias tightened his grip on his mace. No time to grab his shield. No time to think. No time for anything except stepping forward.

  Alya reached out weakly. “Elias—”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to reassure her.

  He stepped ahead of the others, boots crunching against the burnt earth, the glow of the dying ritual still faint behind him.

  He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the gorg charged.

  Never a moment of peace here.