Healer—Medic—Cleric
Her face, once warm with color, was pale and drawn. Sweat glistened on her skin, tracing paths down her cheeks and slipping past trembling lips. Her hair—a cascade of russet, gold, and crimson—clung to her neck and shoulders, the tiny leaves woven into her braids shivering with each unsteady breath. Her pointed ears twitched, revealing the strain. Those emerald eyes, once bright and full of life, had dulled to a stormy gray.
But she didn’t stop.
Her body screamed for rest, muscles quivering as she dug deep, clawing for the last traces of mana. The air around her vibrated with the remnants of her power. Golden-green tendrils spiraled from her fingertips, wrapping around the broken form of the Vulpine woman lying before her. Blood soaked the woman’s fur, her breaths mere rattles. Her nine tails—once proud and flowing—lay limp, streaked with dust and crimson.
One final, shuddering breath.
Then, stillness.
“No…” Elara’s voice broke, raw with grief. Her hands shook as she tried to form another sigil, magic flickering weakly before slipping through her fingers. “Not yet… Please…”
“That’s enough.” A voice, soft and ancient, came from behind her.
A gentle hand rested on Elara’s shoulder, grounding her. She turned, eyes wild, and met the gaze of an elder High Elf. The woman’s face was lined with wisdom, her silver-white hair flowing past robes embroidered with the symbols of the Old Grove.
“But—”
“You did all you could, child,” the elder said, her voice soothing.
“It wasn’t enough!” Elara’s words were choked, her throat tight with despair. “If I were stronger… If I hadn’t—”
The elder’s gaze softened, sorrow shadowing her ancient eyes. She took Elara’s trembling hands in her own, her touch warm and steady. “The Great Cycle calls us all home when our time is done. No magic can stop that.”
Elara’s shoulders sagged, the last of her mana fading into the air. Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers curling into fists.
“I promised her…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I promised I’d save her.”
The elder wrapped her arms around Elara, holding her close. “Your promise was made with love. And that love gave her peace. Sometimes, that is the most powerful healing of all.”
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
The echo of her heartbeat filled Elara’s ears, a cruel reminder of her helplessness. Her gaze fell to the Vulpine woman’s still form, her chest unmoving, eyes closed in a peaceful semblance of sleep. Her tails lay motionless, their vibrant colors dulled by death.
Tears blurred Elara’s vision, slipping down her cheeks. Her fingers twitched, yearning to try again, to reach for one more spark of magic. But there was nothing left.
She bowed her head, shoulders shaking as grief crashed over her. The light was gone, and no spell could bring it back.
Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
A sharp hiss sliced through the air, grating and unnatural. Elara’s head snapped up, heart leaping into her throat. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her: Tibbins and Pocket perched atop Gru’s massive shoulders. Odd enough on its own. But the towering constructs marching alongside them? Gleaming giants of metal, moving with clockwork precision?
Her stomach twisted. “By the Great Cycle…” she whispered, voice trembling.
Beside her, the old elven scholar clutched her chest, fingers digging into her robes. Her face drained of color, eyes fixed on the approaching constructs. “It… it can’t be.”
Pocket’s excited voice shattered the tension. “Enoux! Look! It’s them—it’s really them!” His small form trembled atop Gru’s shoulder, eyes sparkling with awe.
Enoux’s lips quivered. “Are… are you certain?” Her voice was fragile, barely more than a whisper.
Pocket’s grin threatened to split his face. “By the Great Gear, it’s them! The Knights of the Round Table!”
Stunned silence rippled through the camp, broken only by the steady, rhythmic thud of metal feet on stone.
Gru’s booming laugh filled the air, rich and deep as thunder. She glanced at the constructs, tusked grin widening. “Alright, boys. This is the safe zone. Have at it.”
The constructs snapped to attention, saluting in eerie unison, then scattered like leaves on the wind.
Elara flinched. “Wait… what just happened?”
Gru planted her hands on her hips, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I’m my caravan’s Quartermaster—and apparently, the only one still kicking.”
Elara’s brows knitted. “I… don’t understand.”
Gru smirked, wagging a thick finger. “Quartermaster’s authority. Reinforcements, allies—doesn’t matter. They follow the rules of the camp’s Quartermaster. No camp, no rules. So, I made one.” She jerked her thumb toward the constructs now moving with purpose. “Problem solved.”
Elara’s mouth opened, then closed. “You… just… made a camp?”
Pocket and Tibbins burst out laughing. They spoke in perfect unison, “Best not argue with her.”
Pocket winked. “Ogres, you get it.”
Elara sighed, shoulders sinking. “I… guess.”
Gru cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, “Oi! Don’t just stand there gawking! Move it!”
The constructs sprang to life. Two began gathering rubble, piling stones into a rough circle. Others lifted broken archway pieces, fitting them together with mechanical precision. Their movements were too fluid, too synchronized—eerily flawless.
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Gru marched forward, hefting massive stone slabs like they were sacks of grain. Tibbins darted around, sharp eyes analyzing each piece before slotting it into place. Pocket cackled as he tinkered with gears, fingers moving with blinding speed.
Elara’s nose wrinkled at the sharp scent of metal and dust. She watched as one construct approached Pocket, its voice a melodic hum of clicks and chimes.
Pocket froze. His shoulders trembled. His wide eyes shimmered.
Elara’s pulse quickened. “What’s wrong?”
Pocket spun, voice cracking with excitement. “Tibbins! Gru! We need a station. Now!”
No hesitation. Gru grabbed stone slabs, muscles rippling beneath her thick skin. Tibbins barked orders, his voice sharp and efficient. The constructs moved in perfect harmony, setting the foundation within minutes.
Pocket whirled, eyes locking on Enoux. “I need your help. We’ve got to carve sigils along the base.”
Enoux hesitated, confusion creasing her brow. “Sigils? What are you—”
“No time!” Pocket’s voice was desperate, urgent. “This is… bigger than you realize. Just trust me.”
Enoux’s hands shook, but she nodded. “Right… yes. Of course.” She pulled out her chisel, joining Pocket at the base of the archway. Together, they etched intricate runes into the stone, each line precise, each curve purposeful.
The air hummed with energy, prickling Elara’s skin. She tasted metal on her tongue, a sharp tang that made her teeth ache. Magic sparked at her fingertips, unbidden.
High above, Tibbins and Gru attached a gleaming device to the arch’s peak. Copper wires snaked down its surface, connecting interlocking plates of celestial alloy. Each movement was coordinated, purposeful. Not a motion wasted.
The final piece clicked into place. A sharp, satisfying sound that echoed through the ruins.
Pocket and Enoux clasped hands, voices rising in unison. Their words were fluid, melodic, spoken in a language Elara had never heard. It was old—older than the Deepwoods, older than the stones beneath her feet.
The sigils glowed, faint at first, then blinding. Golden light pulsed through the carvings, flowing up the archway like liquid fire. The mechanism hummed, a low, resonant vibration building to a piercing crescendo.
Elara’s heart raced. “Wait—”
The portal erupted.
Light poured forth, swirling in an endless dance of color. The air vibrated, magic crackling, raw and potent. It felt alive. Wild.
Figures emerged, stepping through the shimmering gateway. Humanoid automatons, their faces flawless porcelain, eyes empty yet unnervingly aware. They moved in perfect synchronization, limbs flowing with a grace too perfect, too unnatural. Their uniforms—pristine maid and butler attire—didn’t so much as flutter.
Each carried stacked crates, balanced with impossible precision. The air around them pulsed, saturated with magic. Elara’s skin prickled. Her mouth went dry.
“What… what did you do?” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible.
Pocket stared at the figures, eyes wide, mouth agape. “We… we brought them back.”
Elara’s heart thundered. “Brought who back?”
Pocket’s lips curled into a shaky grin. “The Clockwork Servants. The ones who served the Knights of the Round Table.” His voice wavered. “They’ve been waiting… all this time… waiting for the call.”
Elara’s blood ran cold. She stared at the elegant automatons, at their flawless porcelain faces, their perfect, mechanical movements.
Waiting? For what?
One automaton’s head snapped toward her, empty eyes locking onto hers. A smile spread across its flawless face, precise, calculated. Too perfect.
Elara’s breath caught.
For whom?
The portal shimmers, its light flickering as it begins to collapse. But before it seals shut, five figures emerge.
They move with mechanical precision, each step a seamless blend of clockwork efficiency and careful grace. Automatons—crafted from metal and magic—yet impossibly elegant.
Three are female. Two wear polished brass uniforms, each adorned with a vibrant green cross—healers. Their delicate manipulators move with uncanny dexterity as they glide toward the wounded, hands aglow with restorative energy. Arcane salves coat their fingertips, sealing wounds with a precision no mortal could match. Their soft, melodic hums merge with the quiet crackle of magic, a rhythm of life woven into the battlefield’s aftermath.
The third is different. Cloaked in midnight-blue robes, silver constellations embroidered along the hem, she moves with quiet authority. Her body, a masterpiece of pearlescent metal, gleams under the portal’s dying glow. Unlike the others, she bears no cross. Instead, an open hand radiating golden light marks her chest—the sigil of a divine cleric.
Elara stiffens, heart hammering as the cleric approaches. Her steps make no sound.
Then—contact. A cool, metallic hand rests on Elara’s shoulder. A surge of warmth floods her veins.
Mana surges back into her, raw and overwhelming. The exhaustion she hadn’t even registered vanishes in an instant.
Elara’s breath catches. Impossible.
The cleric tilts her head, eyes unreadable. Then, she turns, hands lifting toward a fallen Vulpine nearby.
A golden radiance unfurls from her fingertips, soft as candlelight, warm as morning sun. It washes over the injured beast-kin, sinking into flesh and bone.
A sharp inhale. The Vulpine gasps back to life.
Elara jolts.
"This... this shouldn’t be possible," she whispers, voice unsteady.
Before the shock settles, movement at the battlefield’s edge draws her gaze.
Two more automatons emerge—towering figures of blackened steel, powered by the steady hiss of contained steam.
They are giants, each standing well over six feet tall, moving with a brutal functionality softened only by their seamless coordination. Dark, reinforced plating forms their exoskeleton, emblazoned with bold red crosses—the mark of battlefield medics.
Their faces—if they can be called that—are blank masks of polished metal. Twin crimson lenses glow, sweeping across the battlefield in calculated arcs, scanning for signs of life.
One carries collapsible stretchers strapped to his back, crafted from an alloy so light it barely bends under its weight. The other is laden with alchemical tools and bandages, compartments built seamlessly into his frame.
They move with precision, hands capable of crushing stone, yet handling the wounded as if they were made of glass.
One scans the field. The other readies a stretcher. Together, they lift a fallen warrior, securing him with practiced ease.
Then—Elara sees it.
The stretchers hover.
A faint glow surrounds them, a barrier of magic pulsing at the edges. Protective. Stabilizing.
Her breath catches.
The automatons move, steam venting from hidden chambers as they carry their burdens toward the camp. They do not hesitate. They do not waver. They are not warriors. They are saviors.
And they are too perfect.
Elara swallows hard, unease curling in her gut.
The cleric’s voice cuts through the haze. “Name?”
Elara blinks. “What?”
“What is your name?”
“Elara…” The answer slips out before she can think.
The cleric’s golden eyes soften. “A lovely name.” A gloved hand presses lightly to her chest. “I am Eileen. High Cleric of the Lady.”
Elara frowns. “The Lady…?”
“Yes.” There’s something distant in Eileen’s voice. A reverence. A certainty. “The Lady of the castle.”
Elara hesitates. A chill prickles along her skin. The Lady.
But before she can press for answers, Eileen is already moving, her robes trailing like whispers of shadow.
Elara watches, frozen, as the cleric touches another wounded soldier. Light spills from her fingertips, impossibly warm, impossibly pure. Flesh knits. Breath returns.
And with every life restored, Elara’s unease deepens.
This magic—this power—it should not exist.
Yet it does.
Heart pounding, she forces herself to follow.
One question echoes in her mind.
Who… or what… is the Lady?