Elias remained perfectly still, a shadow within the shadows of the alcove. He controlled his breathing, slowing it to a near-silent rhythm. The sound had been too precise for any shambling beast. It was the sound of a hunter. Or something being hunted. In the Verse, the distinction was often temporary.
He peered out from the edge of the fungal curtain. For a moment, there was nothing but the alien landscape of soft light and deep gloom. Then, a flicker of movement. A figure detached itself from the base of a colossal mushroom stalk, moving with a fluid economy that spoke of long, hard-won experience. It was smaller than him, wrapped in dark, patched leathers that blended seamlessly with the environment.
A crossbow, compact and deadly, was held in a ready position. The figure's head, covered by a deep hood, swept from side to side, scanning the area. Elias knew he was outmatched. He had no weapon, and his hiding place was a temporary convenience at best. Fleeing would be a death sentence. His only viable option was to not be perceived as a threat.
Slowly, deliberately, he pushed aside the drooping fungal cap and stepped out into the open, his hands held up, palms forward, in a universal gesture of peace.
The figure reacted instantly. The crossbow snapped up, the sharp thwick of its string being drawn echoing in the quiet. The weapon was aimed squarely at his chest, its iron bolt gleaming in the dim light.
"Don't move," a voice commanded. It was a woman's voice, low and raspy, devoid of any inflection.
Elias froze, his gaze locked on the hooded figure. "I mean you no harm."
The woman took a few steps closer, her movements silent and predatory. "Things that say that in the Verse are usually the first to try and kill you." She tilted her head, her face still lost in the shadow of her hood. "You're a Drifter. I can smell the surface dust on you. How long have you been down here?"
"Not long," Elias answered honestly. "I don't intend to stay."
A short, humourless laugh escaped her lips. "No one ever does. The Verse doesn't care about your intentions." She circled him slowly, her crossbow never wavering. "No weapon. No armour. Satchel looks full, though. What's a soft target like you doing in the Gloomwood?"
"My arrival was not by choice."
"It never is." She stopped her circle, positioning herself between him and any potential escape route. "The only question that matters now is, are you worth more to me alive or dead?"
It was a cold, pragmatic assessment, and Elias respected its honesty. He had lived by a similar, if gentler, triage for years. He met her unseen gaze without fear, letting a moment of silence stretch. It was during that silence he noticed it: a slight tremor in the hand supporting the crossbow's stock, and the dark, wet stain on her leather sleeve, just above the wrist. The way she held the arm was stiff, unnatural.
"That wound on your arm," Elias said, his voice dropping back to the calm, analytical tone of a healer. "It's festering, isn't it? The venom from a Thorn-Backed Skitter, I'd guess. Causes paralysis first, then necrosis. You have a day, maybe two, before you lose the use of that hand entirely."
The crossbow wavered for a fraction of a second. It was an almost imperceptible dip, but to Elias, it was as telling as a scream.
"What do you know about it?" the woman snarled, a defensive edge sharpening her voice.
"I know that the poultice you've used is inadequate. It slows the poison, but doesn't neutralize it. You need to draw it out." He took a calculated risk. "I can help you."
Another cold laugh. "A Drifter offering gifts. I was right. You are going to try and kill me."
"It's not a gift. It's a trade," Elias countered smoothly. "My skill for your knowledge. Heal your arm, and in return, you guide me to the nearest safe settlement, or at least tell me how to survive until sunrise. If such a thing exists here."
The woman was silent for a long time, weighing the variables. The logic was undeniable. A festering wound was a death sentence in the Verse. A strange, unarmed Drifter was a risk, but a manageable one.
"Show me," she said finally, lowering the crossbow but not relaxing her stance. "And if I feel anything other than healing, that bolt goes through your eye."
She grudgingly held out her arm, pulling back the stiff leather sleeve. The wound was ugly, two small punctures surrounded by a swollen, purplish-black infection that tracked up her veins. It smelled foul.
Elias knelt, setting his satchel down and retrieving a fresh cloth and a small clay pot of grey, odourless salve. "This will feel cold," he warned.
He gently cleaned the wound, his touch professional and impersonal. The woman flinched but didn't pull away. Once the area was clean, he placed his hand over the injury. He didn't hover his palm theatrically or mutter incantations. He simply let his fingers rest on her skin, closed his eyes, and focused.
He reached for his Resonance. He thought of the arm not as it was—poisoned, infected, dying—but as it should be. He envisioned the pure, strong architecture of bone, the clean weave of muscle, the healthy tissue, the blood flowing freely and cleanly. He held that perfect image in his mind, his conviction absolute. He was not commanding the flesh to change; he was reminding it of its own integrity.
A soft, golden light, warmer and purer than the glow of the surrounding fungi, bloomed from under his palm.
The woman gasped.
She had seen "healers" before, scavengers who used raw, chaotic energy to crudely cauterize wounds, leaving behind ugly scars and lingering pain. This was nothing like that. There was no pain. There was only a profound, penetrating warmth that seemed to seep into her very bones. She could feel the poison receding, the inflammation soothing, the torn tissues knitting themselves back together with an impossible speed. The light wasn't just healing her arm; it felt like it was cleansing her soul.
When Elias lifted his hand a minute later, the skin was whole. The swelling and discoloration were gone. All that remained was a faint, pinkish tinge to mark where the wound had been.
The woman stared at her arm, flexing her fingers in disbelief. The stiffness was gone. The throbbing ache had vanished. She looked up at Elias, her face finally visible as she unconsciously pushed back her hood. She was younger than her voice suggested, with sharp, intelligent features, wary eyes the colour of slate, and a smattering of old scars that told their own stories.
"What... what was that?" she breathed, her voice stripped of its earlier hostility.
"Resonance," Elias said simply, packing away his supplies. "Now, about our trade."
The woman took a deep breath, holstering her crossbow on her back in a clear sign of trust. It was a bigger concession than any words. "My name is Anya. They call me Sparrow."
She met his gaze, her own filled with a new, complex mixture of awe, suspicion, and undeniable respect.
"Alright, Healer," she said, her voice regaining some of its pragmatic edge. "Your first lesson, free of charge. In the Verse, power like that doesn't make you safe. It makes you a target." She jerked her head towards the darkness. "Now, let's move before your light show brings the whole damn Gloomwood down on us."