Chapter 10 Nytheris
Zephyrah led the injured party through twisting streets, her pace measured and deliberate. The forest's vaulted arches and leafy canopies slowly gave way to fractured stone and creeping vines.
At the city's edge, the landscape shifted.
Ruined towers and crumbling walls emerged, overgrown yet magnificent. The structures were like ancient elven guardians, draped in moss and shadowed by memories.
Amidst the decay, only one courtyard remained unsoiled.
Within the walls of the healing grove, rows of beds lined the perimeter. Stone shelves overflowed with vials of tinctures and tonics, bundles of herbs, and tightly rolled bandages.
"Lie down here," Zephyrah instructed, her voice urgent yet gentle, gesturing at a bed for Gareth.
Pain etched deep lines across his face, but distrust lingered in his eyes. Only after a long, silent moment did he relent, lowering himself stiffly onto the cold stone.
Around them, wounded soldiers arrived, attended by elven servants whose hands moved with almost otherworldly precision.
One servant offered Gareth a vial of iridescent liquid. He turned away, jaw clenched in stubborn defiance.
"You do not want our help?" Zephyrah asked, voice gentle.
"It is hard to trust someone who so recently tried to kill me," Gareth managed.
Zephyrah dismissed the elf with a wave. "At least let me dress your wounds."
"I can take care of myself," he insisted.
Rowena interjected, "Gareth, be reasonable."
"There's no telling what's in these tinctures. I don't want your help. All I need is rest."
Zephyrah looked at him with concern, examining his angry, swollen leg wound. "It's already infected," she warned, urgency sharpening her words. "If you do nothing, it will get worse—quickly. Please. I swear, no tinctures will touch your injury."
Her tone was gentle, almost pleading, and her sincerity was unmistakable.
"How do you intend to do that?" Gareth asked, doubtful.
A hush swept the courtyard as Zephyrah smiled and raised her hand. Soft, radiant light unfurled from her palm, the air humming with power.
She reached toward Gareth's leg, but he flinched, his face tightening with fear and disbelief. Zephyrah met his gaze, her expression steady and calm, then gently rested her glowing hand on his wound.
Light spilled from her fingers—misty, starlit tendrils wrapping the injury.
Warmth surged through Gareth's leg. His fear disappeared, replaced by awe.
In moments, the angry injury closed, the skin knitting itself together until it was smooth and unmarked.
As the last glimmer of light faded, Zephyrah looked up, taken aback by the astonished expressions on the outsiders' faces.
She raised her brow. "Surely you have healers in Etheria?"
Rowena shook her head, awestruck. "We have physicians, but... nothing like this. How is it possible?"
Zephyrah's gentle smile suddenly shifted to concern, "Your people... cannot channel the Ancient Power?"
The Dissolver and Rowena exchanged glances, remembering the inscription on the plaque where they found the relic.
They shook their heads
Zephyrah reeled back, a sudden look of horror crossing her face. "This can't be—I thought you—"
She cut herself off, glancing at the curious faces around her.
She cleared her throat and continued, never finishing her thought,
"I guess that explains why Etheria fell. How can it be... Osias's own people... forgot?"
Questions burned in Rowena's mind.
What is the Ancient Power?
Can it be restored?
How does the discovery of its existence connect with the relic?
She opened her mouth to speak, but Zephyrah silenced her with a raised hand. It was as if she read her mind.
"Not here," she whispered.
The injured soldiers watched the outsiders with open resentment, jealous of Zephyrah's attention to them.
Recognizing the need to move on, Zephyrah proceeded to heal each of the outsiders in turn.
One by one, she laid her hands upon their wounds, channeling the same luminous energy until every injury was mended and every pain eased.
By the end, Zephyrah's exhaustion was obvious in the way her shoulders sagged, her breath came in shallow gasps, and her hands trembled as the fading light flickered weakly. Sweat glistened at her brow—a visible toll of her waning power.
Afterward, she led them out of the healing grove through the deserted city, explaining as she went,
"His Majesty feels your presence unsettles the forest," she explained. "You are to remain in the city built by our elven kin."
"It looks abandoned," Rowena whispered, awe-struck by the beauty crumbling around them.
"It is," Zephyrah replied, sadness evident in her tone and behind her eyes, "But I think you'll prefer it to anything else my people can offer."
She paused before a vast, imposing structure that stood apart from the others.
Despite being partially enveloped by overgrowth and heavy curtains of ivy, its grandeur was unmistakable:
Graceful balconies wrapped the upper floors.
Ornate stone pillars rose from the earth, carved with ancient motifs.
Gossamer curtains billowed softly in the open windows, revealing glimpses of elegant furniture.
"Inside, you'll find private lodgings and fresh clothing. The bathing pools are located at the rear of the building. I will return soon with food and wine for you. Until then, the King requests that you make yourselves comfortable here."
Zephyrah's voice remained composed, but her eyes darted with an unspoken warning.
There were truths she could not share, at least not yet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gareth could see guards taking position at the entrance to the stone path leading to the building and more patrolling in the forest nearby.
"Does the King really think we believe this ruse?" Gareth spat, "We're not guests. We're prisoners."
Zephyrah inhaled deeply, casting a wary glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was listening.
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
"If you want to survive, you must trust me.
Your arrival could not have come at a worse moment—this city is on edge after a series of attacks, and the question of succession has made the King paranoid and ruthless.
He will not hesitate to make an example of outsiders.
We must wait for the right opportunity."
"The right opportunity? For what?" Rowena asked, confused.
"I'm going to help you escape," Zephyrah said quietly, her words a promise and a risk in equal measure.