Eamon sat by his father's bedside, the dim light of a single candle casting long shadows across the room. Garret lay motionless, his breathing shallow and labored. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his normally robust complexion was pallid. The wound on his chest, though bandaged, showed signs of infection—angry red edges creeping beyond the cloth.

  Elara gently dabbed a cool cloth over Garret's forehead, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "The fever isn't breaking," she whispered, her voice tight with worry.

  Eamon's heart clenched. "Isn't there anything more we can do?" he asked, desperation seeping into his tone.

  Elara shook her head slowly. "We've tried all the remedies we know. Matron Elspeth has done everything she can. It's as if... something is resisting the healing."

  Guilt gnawed at Eamon's insides. This is my fault. If I hadn't gone to the ruins, if I hadn't stirred up whatever darkness lurked there... He reached out, taking his father's calloused hand into his own. "I'm so sorry, Father," he murmured.

  Garret's eyes fluttered open briefly, clouded with pain. He managed a faint, reassuring squeeze of Eamon's hand. "Not... your fault," he rasped, each word a struggle.

  Eamon swallowed hard, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "Just rest. Save your strength."

  Garret's eyes closed again, his breathing returning to its strained rhythm. Elara placed a gentle hand on Eamon's shoulder. "He's a fighter. He won't give up easily."

  He nodded against her shoulder, the weight of his guilt and helplessness threatening to crush him. Pulling away, he wiped his eyes and stood. "I need some air," he mumbled.

  Elara watched him with concern. "Don't stray too far."

  "I won't."

  Outside, the cool night air did little to soothe Eamon's turmoil. He wandered aimlessly, eventually finding himself near the old oak where he held his magic training sessions. The vast sky above was a tapestry of stars, indifferent to the troubles of those below.

  He sank to the ground, pulling out the red stone from his pocket. Its surface gleamed faintly, reflecting the starlight. There has to be something more I can do.

  Clutching the stone tightly, he closed his eyes and tried to focus. The memory of unlocking the Blood Reservoir ability resurfaced.

  A translucent interface appeared before him once more, the words "Ability Unlocked: Blood Reservoir" glowing softly.

  Blood Reservoir

  By harnessing the essence of life within your blood, you can store excess energy, increasing your stamina and strength. This reservoir allows you to endure longer periods of physical exertion and recover more quickly from fatigue. Caution: Overuse may lead to strain on the body.

  His stomach growled sharply. He sighed. The ability had many uses but it also required substantial nourishment to maintain. If I'm going to help Father, I need to be at my best.

  He made his way back home, quietly slipping into the kitchen. The pantry was modest, but he gathered what he could—a loaf of bread, some dried meat, and a small wheel of cheese. As he ate, he felt the warmth of the food spreading through him, the edge of his fatigue dulling slightly.

  Returning to his room, he sat cross-legged on the floor, focusing once more on the Blood Reservoir. This time, as he activated the ability, he became acutely aware of the energy from the food being drawn into a central point within him. It was an odd sensation—a gentle tugging, as if threads of warmth were weaving themselves into a tight coil in his core.

  He opened his eyes, a faint red aura shimmering around his hands. Flexing his fingers, he felt a surge of vitality course through his veins. "Amazing," he breathed.

  The next morning, Eamon moved through the village with renewed purpose. The sun cast a warm glow over Stonebridge, but the usual tranquility was overshadowed by the villagers' hushed conversations and worried glances.

  As he continued toward the fields, he spotted Maeve approaching. "Eamon! I've been looking for you."

  He slowed his pace to meet her. "Is everything okay?"

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She hesitated, her expression a mix of concern and urgency. "There's unrest in the village. People are growing anxious about the refugees and the shortage of food."

  Eamon sighed. "I feared as much."

  "They're gathering in the square again. Your mother is trying to mediate, but..."

  "Then I should be there."

  Together, they hurried to the square, where a crowd had already formed. Horace stood at the forefront, his voice raised in anger. "We can't keep feeding extra mouths when our own children go hungry!"

  The survivors huddled nearby, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. Elara stood between the two groups, her hands raised in a placating gesture. "Please, we must find compassion in our hearts. Turning them away won't solve our problems."

  Jorik scoffed. "Compassion won't fill our bellies!"

  Eamon stepped forward. "We need to find a solution that doesn't abandon those in need."

  "Easy for you to say," another villager snapped. "Your father lies ill, consuming resources without contributing!"

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

  Eamon bristled, but before he could respond, a calm voice cut through the tension.

  "Perhaps I can offer assistance."

  All eyes turned to Seraphine, who emerged from the group of survivors. Her raven-black hair framed a face marked by weariness yet illuminated by a determined gaze.

  Jorik eyed her suspiciously. "And what could you possibly offer?"

  She met his gaze steadily. "I am a healer. I can tend to the sick and injured, easing the burden on your resources."

  Whispers spread among the villagers.

  "A healer?"

  "Can she really help?"

  Elara seized the opportunity. "If she can heal our ill, it would alleviate much of our strain."

  Jorik crossed his arms skeptically. "Prove it."

  Seraphine nodded. "Very well. Take me to someone in need."

  Eamon didn't hesitate. "My father. Please, come with me."

  Inside his home, the dim light cast long shadows across the room. Garret's condition had worsened overnight. His breathing was ragged, and his skin had taken on a sickly hue.

  Elspeth sat by his side, her expression grim. She glanced up as they entered. "I've done all I can," she said softly.

  Seraphine approached the bedside, her movements deliberate. "May I?"

  Elspeth hesitated before nodding. "Please."

  Placing her hands gently over Garret's chest, Seraphine closed her eyes and began to hum a low, melodic chant. A soft, golden light emanated from her palms, enveloping Garret in a warm glow.

  Eamon watched intently, his heart pounding. He attempted to sense the mana flow, but to his surprise, he felt nothing. The mana in the surroundings remained stable without any disturbance.

  As the light faded, Garret's breathing steadied. Color returned to his cheeks, and his eyes fluttered open, clearer than before.

  "Eamon?" Garret's voice was weak but steady.

  A surge of relief washed over him. "Father! How do you feel?"

  Garret managed a small smile. "Better. Much better."

  Elara clasped Seraphine's hands, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you. You've given us a miracle."

  Elspeth shook her head in awe. "I've never seen such healing."

  Outside, the murmurs of the villagers grew as word spread of the miraculous recovery.

  Jorik appeared at the doorway, a conflicted expression on his face. "Is it true?"

  Eamon met his gaze. "Yes. Thanks to Seraphine."

  “It’s not all done.” She glanced around, ensuring she had everyone’s attention. “Your father's condition — he was afflicted by more than just physical wounds. There was a dark energy clinging to them.”

  A chill ran down his spine. "Dark energy?"

  She nodded. "It's unlike anything I've encountered. I was able to cleanse it temporarily, but it may return."

  Eamon's mind raced. Could this be connected to the creature we faced? Or perhaps the ruins?

  Seraphine placed a hand on his shoulder. "To fully heal them, I require an herb called Silverleaf. It has potent cleansing properties."

  "Where can we find it?"

  "It grows in the mountains east of here, near my village. But the journey is perilous, especially with the bandits in the area."

  Eamon's resolve hardened. "I'll go."

  "Absolutely not!" Elara rushed over, her voice sharp with fear. "It's too dangerous!"

  "Mother, I have to," Eamon insisted, his gaze locking onto hers. "Father's life depends on it. All of this happened because of me—if I hadn’t gone to those ruins, none of this would have happened. I’m the one who can make it right."

  Elara’s expression softened for a brief moment, but she shook her head furiously. "I won’t let you risk your life. You’re still just a boy. There has to be another way."

  The others echoed their agreement, their faces filled with doubt and apprehension. The room felt heavy with their hesitance, but inside Eamon, the feeling he’d been bottling up since his father’s injury came bursting forth. He wasn’t just acting on impulse or emotion—he knew that if they were short on time, they had to save every minute they could. It’s the most logical choice.

  "Listen to me," Eamon said, his voice rising with urgency. "If we wait, Father and the others might not survive. I can run faster and longer than anyone else here, and with my wind magic, I can cut the journey in half. Every minute matters. It’s not just about wanting to go—it’s the only choice that makes sense. Let me do this."

  Elara’s eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling. "I can’t lose you too," she whispered.

  "You won’t," Eamon promised, his voice softening. "But if I don’t go, we risk losing Father. Please, trust me."

  The room fell into silence, the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Eamon’s heart pounded, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the people he loved, waiting for someone to speak.

  Merrick sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "This is madness... but the boy speaks truth. We need every moment we can get." He turned to Eamon, his face hardening with reluctant acceptance. "Go. May the spirits guide you, lad."

  Seraphine stepped forward, pulling a small parchment from her satchel. "This contains a drawing of the Silverleaf and instructions on how to harvest it. Be careful—it grows in rocky areas, and it's delicate."

  Eamon accepted the parchment with a steady hand. "Thank you."