The infirmary smelled faintly of herbs and boiled water, a mixture that somehow both soothed and warned. The light from the high windows caught motes of dust, making them glitter like tiny stars above the beds.
Zack lay in the center, swaddled loosely in blankets, cheeks pale, yet blinking with that indefatigable curiosity of his. His hands trembled slightly, and his breaths came unevenly, as though some invisible weight pressed against his chest.
Elara sat beside him, hands folded, calm but alert. Lyra paced to and fro, sometimes stopping to listen to conversations not meant for her.
Valen leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the nurse move between the beds.
"She's thorough," Valen muttered, quiet enough that only Elara caught it. "I trust her eyes more than any of ours right now."
The nurse, a slender woman with streaks of grey in her hair, moved with deliberate efficiency. Her fingers probed Zack's pulse, checked his eyes, listened to his chest. Each motion was precise and controlled. She was no beginner.
"Not dead," she said finally, almost cheerfully, though her tone bore the weight of caution. "Not even close. Though," she added, raising a single, careful finger, "if he continues to flare like this without proper treatment, he'll find himself in far worse circumstances than now. A reaction like this is unpredictable, volatile."
Zack gave a weak thumbs-up. "Still… alive. Mostly." His voice sounded faint, but his attempt at humor didn't go unnoticed.
Valen frowned. "Mostly is not enough. We need a solution."
"We do," Elara agreed. Her eyes, usually calm, sharpened. "The antidote is not here. The poison is… precise. Calculated."
Valen's gaze flicked to Zack. "And calculated poisons need calculated cures. That's where we start."
The nurse nodded. "There's a section in the library dedicated to poisons. Historical treatments, antidotes… you'll find leads there."
Zack shivered slightly, a tiny flare running through him, though he did not collapse. A faint shimmer, almost like a heatwave, flickered at the edge of his vision. It was subtle, but enough to make his fingers clench.
Elara noticed first. "There," she whispered. "It's trying to warn you."
Zack's hand twitched involuntarily. Valen reached over and steadied him. "Don't fight it," he said. "Let it guide you."
The nurse scribbled a few notes. "Once you've understood the threat, you must act quickly. The poison is rare, yes, but not perfect. It flares inconsistently. You'll need not just knowledge, but speed and care."
"And we will find it," Valen said firmly. "No hesitation. Nothing else matters until we have the antidote." A quiet refusal to lose any more family burned deep within his sapphire eyes.
"Follow me, I know an expert on poisons." The genius spoke, already walking away from the small infirmary. Valen and Argon quickly followed suit, hopeful of a quick cure.
Soon, they reached a small shack that reeked of decay and death. There were no signs, no hints the shack was anything out of the ordinary, but the Genius strode right in.
Inside lay pots and flasks of a multitude of colours, each letting out different musks, some more subtle than others. A woman's silhouette stirred a cauldron, face masked by a black veil.
"What brings you here?" She spoke, voice oddly smooth, "Greed? Jealousy? Or is it revenge?"
"None of those. I'm looking for a cure, an antidote." Valen was the first to respond.
"Oh? How peculiar. To approach an artist of poison rather than of life." She let out a quiet chuckle, soothing to the ears. "So tell me, what can you give me? Why should I help you?"
Slimy merchants, Argon thought, always looking for a way to profit.
"Coin." He spoke.
"Measuring the victims life in coin? How cruel." The sultry voice continued, only covered by the faint sound of a ladle against the cauldron.
"My word. A favour for a favour." Valen had seen his father haggle with merchants before, and had never seen this tactic fail.
"Oh? That will do. Now tell me, what has afflicted your boy?"
"Poison. Served in a ceramic cup, steaming. Tasted good and left him both cold and weak." The Genius listed all he knew about the poison, squinting his eyes at her.
Your boy.
The Genius' eyes narrowed, just slightly.
She knew.
"Hmm, that sounds like the work of the nightshade herb. Sweet yet deadly for the sane of mind. A scholar's worst nightmare. It doesn't kill, it cripples slowly."
"And you have the antidote?" Argon was quick to question, suspicious of her speed of diagnosis.
"Of course... Not. That is a rare poison, but its antidote is more elusive. A herb named 'Solara's Blessing' is the only cure I know of."
"...Then where is this herb?" Valen's teeth began to clench, annoyed at the woman's cyclical way of speech.
"The Elven Kingdom of Lathindor." She finally stopped stirring, a dark sludge filling the container.
"A holy herb. Said to grow only at the peaks of the tallest giants of Thornveil."
"That's halfway across the continent..." Argon muttered slowly, a place even he hadn't visited in his younger years.
"Indeed. And as payment for this knowledge, bring me a few ingredients. I'm sure you'll cross paths with them eventually." A pale hand, perfect in proportions reached out to a shelf, pulling a book out from a bunker of webs and dust.
"Poison is honest," she said softly. "It never pretends to save you."
"Take this. It's a... Recipe. You need not brew it yourself, just bring me what you can."
"Deal." Valen was quick to accept, knowing he may have just doomed someone to a miserable death.
"Do try not to die before you return," she said softly.
"Ingredients are much harder to gather from corpses that rot."
Outside, the streets of Valthar were bright under Solara's afternoon light. Argon's long frame moved with purpose beside a man whose slight frame and sharp eyes betrayed far more than he revealed. The Genius gestured toward the market.
"You need not linger in the irrelevant," the Genius said, voice smooth and precise. "Focus on gear that offers utility. Comfort is secondary. Protection first. Efficiency is paramount."
Argon snorted, adjusting the spear slung across his back. "Comfort is never secondary for me. Ask anyone who's slept in the snow with a tattered cloak."
The Genius ignored him. "Your definition of comfort is irrelevant. You'll need a shield. A pack that does not hinder. Boots that grip more than they protect."
Argon shook his head with a half-smile. "You're annoyingly… thorough."
"Call it… attention to consequence," the Genius replied evenly, eyes scanning every passerby. "I am not the leader. I merely prevent error. You are free to indulge in sentiment if you so wish."
The market was alive with bustle. Merchants shouted, hawking goods from stalls of leather, metal, and fabric. Shouts, clangs, and smells collided in a chaotic symphony. Argon navigated the aisles with a practiced stride, Genius flitting just behind him like a shadow, occasionally muttering technical notes.
They purchased what they could afford: a leather cuirass lined with steel plates, boots that hugged the ankle without restricting movement, padded gloves, and a small shield — not ornate, but sturdy. Along with a few other trinkets the Genius had demanded they get.
Argon opted for an upgrade to a spear, his trusty hammer was not built for war. He had wanted to find a great hammer, but those were impossible to find anywhere other than the most accomplished blacksmits. It was nothing grand, but enough to give him an edge over bandits or stray beasts.
"All cheap, all functional," the Genius said after inspecting the haul. "Nothing extravagant. Nothing that invites attention. Precision over display."
Argon's grin widened. "Low-level or not, it beats fighting with scraps."
Genius only rolled his eyes. "Scraps can be more… efficient than this, given proper modification. But yes, these will suffice. For now."
By the time they began their return to the group, the sun was dipping low, and shadows had begun to stretch across the streets. Argon hoisted his pack, which creaked under the weight of gear. The Genius carried his own small bag, meticulous and perfectly balanced.
They had only taken a few steps from the market, when the sound hit, a low, guttural shout from an alleyway nearby.
Bandits.
Or worse.
Argon's spear lifted instinctively. "Get ready."
Before anyone could react further, a handful of figures surged from the alley, already swinging.
Argon barely had time to shift his grip before his pack was torn from his shoulder, crashing against the cobblestones. Steel and rope spilled across the ground in a messy scatter.
The Genius's bag followed a heartbeat later, sliding uselessly out of reach.
There was no warning.
Just steel.
Argon exhaled once, steadying his stance, spear lowering into line.
"…Of course," he muttered. "How cliché."
Beside him, the Genius clicked his tongue in quiet irritation.
"Poor timing," he said. "We are… at a disadvantage."
The first blade came anyway.