Chapter 170: Before the Hunger — The Lord of Mercy (Part II: The Hands That Could Not Rest)
"The greatest burden a healer carries is not the wounds they mend.
It is remembering every wound they could not."Master Healer Elian
Spring arrived in Elyndor.
The kingdom burst into life as emerald fields swayed beneath warm winds.
Apple blossoms drifted through the air like snow, and rivers carried melted mountain water across fertile valleys. Farmers sang while planting new crops, children chased butterflies between orchards, and merchants filled the roads with laughter and conversation.
It was a kingdom that believed life always found a way forward.
And at its heart...
Myra continued to learn.
A Day in the House of Healing
The House of Healing awakened before sunrise.
The smell of crushed herbs filled the halls.
Mortars rhythmically ground medicinal roots into fine powders.Fresh linens hung drying in the morning breeze.
Patients arrived from nearby villages, each carrying a different story.
An elderly shepherd with aching joints.
A young mother suffering from exhaustion after childbirth.
A mason whose hand had been crushed beneath stone.Myra greeted every one of them with the same smile.
She remembered every name.
Every face.Every family.
Master Elian watched from across the room.
"Medicine heals the body," he said to another apprentice.
"But being remembered heals the spirit."
The Boy Who LiedLate that afternoon, a young boy arrived with a deep cut across his shoulder."My brother and I were climbing trees."He explained."I slipped."While cleaning the wound, Myra noticed something strange.
The cut was perfectly straight.
Too straight.Not made by a branch.
She looked into the boy's frightened eyes.
"You don't have to protect whoever did this."
He froze.Tears welled up.
"My father..."He whispered.
"...gets angry."Silence filled the room.
Myra finished treating the wound before quietly finding Elian.
That evening, the village elders visited the family.
No shouting.No punishment.
Just a long conversation.
In Elyndor, healing wounds meant little if the home continued creating them.
It was the first time Myra understood that some injuries could not be stitched closed.
The Festival of Lanterns.A week later, Rivershade celebrated the Festival of Lanterns.
As night fell, families gathered along the riverbanks, each carrying a paper lantern painted with hopes for the coming year.
Some wished for good harvests.
Others wished for healthy children.
Some simply wished for peace.
Myra knelt beside the water, carefully writing her own wish.She hesitated before setting the lantern afloat.
It carried only four words.
"Let everyone come home."
Hundreds of lanterns drifted together, turning the river into a flowing sky of golden stars.
Master Elian read her wish from a distance.
He smiled.Then quietly sighed.
A Soldier Without a Banner
The following morning, an unconscious man was found beside the eastern road.
His armor bore no crest.
His sword had been discarded.
Scars covered his body.
Some were years old.
Others only days.
No one knew which kingdom he belonged to.
Some villagers hesitated.
"What if he's dangerous?"
"What if he's a spy?"
Myra ignored them.
She helped carry him inside.
As she cleaned his wounds, she noticed something unusual.
He wore two different medals around his neck.
One from Elyndor.
One from its greatest rival.
When he finally awoke three days later, he whispered only one sentence.
"I got tired..."
"...of choosing who deserved to live."
Astraeus' Return
As if guided by fate itself, Astraeus passed through Rivershade once more.
He found Myra sitting beneath the willow tree where young Tomas had been buried.
She looked older.
Not in years.
In understanding.
"You've changed."
He said.
"I've realized something."
She answered.
"Healing isn't enough."
He waited.
"If people keep hurting each other..."
"...I'll never catch up."
The Wanderer nodded.
"What will you do?"
She looked toward the distant hills.
"I'll find a way to stop suffering before it begins."
Astraeus remained silent.
He had heard those words before.
From kings.
From scholars.
From heroes.
Each time...
The road ahead had become more dangerous.
Elian's Warning
That evening, Elian spoke privately with Myra.
"Compassion has a hidden edge."
He said.She frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"If you believe every life is equally precious..."
"You'll eventually try to carry every life yourself."She laughed softly.
"Isn't that what healers are supposed to do?"
The old man looked into her eyes.
"No." "They're supposed to remind people that they must carry each other."
The First Battlefield
Several days later, a royal messenger arrived.
War had erupted along Elyndor's northern border.Every healer willing to volunteer was requested immediately.
The House of Healing fell silent.
Many apprentices looked frightened.
Myra stepped forward first.
"I'll go."
Elian wasn't surprised.
He simply nodded.
"Then tomorrow..."
He said quietly.
"You'll discover that battlefields don't test your medical knowledge."
"They test your heart."
Far away...Hidden beneath layers of stone older than kingdoms.The crimson presence stirred once again.
It did not whisper.
Not yet.
Instead, it watched.
The healer.
The scholar.
The blacksmith.
Three souls.
Three virtues.
Three futures slowly bending beneath the weight of impossible ideals.
The darkness was patient.
It knew something they did not.
The strongest people rarely fell because they desired power.
They fell
Because they could no longer bear watching others suffer.
And Myra
Whose greatest wish was for everyone to come home
Was already walking toward a battlefield where she would learn
That some people never do.