The stone bridge felt like a shifting serpent beneath Crispin's feet. Every step across the granite span was a battle against the invisible tethers of the Shard-Fall's living gravity. He leaned on the Leviathan's Spine; he used the bone-clad spear as a staff to keep his knees from buckling. A terrifying duality raged within his marrow. His core felt like a block of unmelting ice from the Feral's feeding, yet his skin radiated a feverish heat that made the mountain mist hiss against his brow. The twilight sky of the Magnitude Plains blurred.
The weight of the world doubled with every yard he gained. His blood moved through his veins, thick and tainted by the black essence of the Feral. Each breath was a ragged struggle. He felt as though needles filled his lungs. Regulus was a silent, heavy presence on his shoulder. A sharp, vibrating tension had replaced the slime-wyvern's usual warmth.
Vaelen stood at the far end of the bridge. The glowing runes of the city gates framed her silhouette. Her massive lavender owl shifted its weight. Its golden eyes tracked Crispin's erratic progress with predatory curiosity. The distance between them seemed to stretch with every heartbeat. Crispin's vision flickered. His leaden boots caught on a raised paving stone. He pitched forward. The spear clattered against the rock as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. The impact sent a jolt of agony through his wounded shoulder, forcing a strangled gasp from his throat.
Vaelen moved with a fluid speed. She reached him before he could attempt to rise. Her rough hands caught him by the shoulders. She turned him. Her stormy gray eyes narrowed as she examined the twin puncture marks weeping dark, viscous fluid on his neck. The skin around the wound had already turned translucent gray.
"Got ya good, didn't they?" Vaelen said. Her voice was a low rasp that held a surprising lack of mockery. "How many did you take down?"
"Three," Crispin mumbled. His tongue felt thick and unresponsive. "Bodies… inside."
"Let's get you to a priest," Vaelen said. "They are going to need to remove the curse running through your blood stream. I will have the bodies collected. I've already arranged their sale to the local alchemist."
She reached down and hauled him to his feet with the strength of a seasoned handler. Vaelen draped his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her own arm around his waist. She took half his weight as they began the slow trek into the city. Regulus, sensing the vulnerability of his partner, let out a low, defensive hiss. The Coastal Wyvern did not take his usual perch. He ducked into the drake-skin satchel instead. His golden eyes glowed like embers from within the dark leather.
The local ministry was a somber structure of white marble carved into the underside of a massive floating island. Within its arched hallways, the smell of medicine and incense fought for dominance. A tall man in robes of heavy, slate-gray linen blocked their path as they entered the sanctuary. His face was a map of deep-set wrinkles and ecclesiastical sternness. This was the holy ground of the Shard-Fall; it was a place where the gravity of the divine outweighed the darkness of the abyss.
"This is a house of the goddess, Tamer," the priest said. His voice echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings. "We do not welcome the filth of the abyss within these walls."
"The Feral have bitten him, Father Malachi," Vaelen snapped. Her grip on Crispin tightened. "He needs the purging rite before the fever takes his mind."
Father Malachi's gaze drifted to the puncture wounds. He looked back to Vaelen with a sneer of disapproval. "These are ancient beings. You step into a nest of vipers, and only the goddess knows what you awaken. The curse of the Feral is a stain on the soul as much as the flesh. We do not risk the sanctity of our pews for those who play with monsters."
Crispin felt the Heart of Perseus thrum with a sudden, localized heat. It vibrated behind his ribs with a frequency that made his teeth ache. Inside the satchel, Regulus responded to the shift in his partner's energy. A deep, resonant roar erupted from the leather bag. It was a sound so fierce and cavernous that it seemed to come from a creature ten times the slime-wyvern's size. The vibration rattled the loose stones in the ministry's floor.
Father Malachi recoiled. His hand flew to the heavy silver icon at his throat. The parishioners near the pews gasped. Several of them backed toward the shadows of the altar.
"You hear that, priest?" Vaelen challenged. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous, mocking light. "That is his tame, a creature of the Elvish lands. I doubt you want to upset another ancient being by refusing to help its bonded. Heal him, or the Guild will hear why you refused."
Father Malachi looked at the satchel vibrating on the floor with nervous energy. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his pride. He motioned toward a heavy walnut bench near the front pews. Vaelen guided Crispin to the seat. She helped him lower his aching frame onto the wood.
"I need to go see the alchemist," Vaelen whispered. She leaned close to Crispin. "Don't worry; I am sure Regulus will ensure compliance."
Crispin managed a weak nod. Tremors tore through him. The internal ice was spreading toward his fingertips, turning his nails a faint shade of blue. Father Malachi gestured to a Silent Sister. The woman wore a white veil and moved with a ghost-like grace. She disappeared into a side chamber. She returned minutes later with a basin of steaming water, fresh bandages, and a stone jar containing an odd-smelling, translucent ointment. The salve smelled of bitter herbs, crushed mint, and sage.
The priest began the treatment with clinical precision. He used a cloth dipped in hot water to clean the dark crust of blood from Crispin's neck and shoulder. He removed Crispin's black gambeson. His fingers paused as he noted the intricate elvish threading along the seams.
He looked at Crispin's white hair, and the lean elegant frame of his body. "You're a traveler from the Silver Spires, tamer? You're a long way from home."
He sat the tunic aside and examined the full extent of the bite. The skin around the punctures had turned, translucent gray. Thin black veins spider-webbed out toward his collarbone, pulsing with slow, rhythmic decay.
Regulus flowed out of the satchel. He leaped onto the bench beside Crispin. The Coastal Wyvern sat like a gargoyle of midnight-blue glass. His golden eyes remained fixed on Father Malachi's every movement. The priest's hands shook as he opened the jar of ointment.
"Keep that… that thing away from me," Malachi whispered.
He soaked a small patch of linen in the pungent salve. Crispin watched through a haze of fever as the priest pressed the medicated cloth against the bite. The reaction was violent. It did not feel like healing balm, but a branding iron being driven against his soul.
Crispin screamed. Through the hollow ministry, the sound tore from his throat and echoed. The ointment smoked as it touched the Feral's toxin. The gray skin bubbled and turned a raw, angry red. Regulus let out a piercing shriek. He lunged toward the priest. His jaws snapped inches from Malachi's face.
"Regy… no!" Crispin gasped. His good arm shot out to scoop the wyvern against his chest.
He held the struggling creature tight. His fingers buried into the cool, metallic scales as the purging continued. The pain was an all-consuming fire. It seemed to melt the ice within his chest, but it left a trail of white-hot agony in its wake.
"That's it, hold steady," Father Malachi urged. His face was pale with sweat as he applied a second patch. This curse will drive you into becoming a Feral yourself if you don't purge it. Please, just keep that creature away from me!"
Crispin clamped his jaws shut. His teeth ground together with enough force to shatter. He refused to give the priest another scream, yet the agony was too great to contain. Muffled, guttering cries continued to escape from behind his clenched teeth. His own heartbeat was a frantic, syncopated rhythm with the Heart of Perseus.
The darkness in his veins faded. It turned from black to bruised purple before fading into the raw pink of healing flesh. Crispin slumped against the back of the bench. He had spent his strength. The fire in his shoulder remained, but the terrifying cold was gone. Regulus settled against his sternum. The wyvern's soft hum provided the only comfort in the cold marble hall.
Father Malachi stood back, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He looked at Crispin with a mixture of pity and lingering fear. "The goddess has seen fit to let you remain human today, Tamer. Do not test her mercy a second time. The Shard-Fall is a place of balance; those who fall into the abyss climb out whole."
Crispin did not answer. He watched the steam rise from the basin of water, his mind drifting back to the dark cavern. He felt a new sensation behind his ribs. The Heart of Perseus was no longer silent. It pulsed with a steady, rhythmic heat. It felt like a second life circulated through his system. He looked at Regulus. The wyvern's golden eyes held a depth of understanding that went beyond their bond.
The doors of the ministry creaked open. Vaelen stepped back into the sanctuary. She looked at Crispin's bandaged shoulder and then at the pale face of the priest. A small, knowing smile touched her lips.
"Looks like you survived," Vaelen noted. She approached the bench and offered a hand. "The alchemist expressed satisfaction with the specimens. You earned enough to pay for this little display of divine mercy and then some. Let's get you back to the inn."
Crispin took her hand. He pulled himself up. The gravity of the Shard-Fall was still there, but it no longer felt like an enemy.