The road to Greymill stretched quietly beneath the morning sun.
Dust clung to the edges of the worn path, disturbed only by the steady steps of a lone traveler moving toward the distant village. Fields of tall grass swayed gently in the wind on both sides of the road, whispering softly against each other.
Victor Edwardson walked at an unhurried pace.
His robes were white, trimmed with delicate gold thread that glimmered faintly whenever the sunlight caught it. Though they had clearly been made with great care, they were no longer the pristine garments of a noble court. The hems showed the dust of travel, and the sleeves bore the faint creases of long journeys.
A leather satchel rested against his side.
Inside it were bandages, herbs, vials of medicine, and several small tools meant for a healer’s work.
Victor adjusted the thin glasses resting on his nose as the wind brushed through his brown hair.
Traveling like this suited him.
Quiet roads.
Small villages.
People who needed help.
No crowds. No banners. No cheering.
Just healing.
He preferred it that way.
The wooden gate of Greymill slowly came into view as he crested the hill ahead. It was a modest place—little more than a farming settlement surrounded by a simple wooden palisade. Smoke drifted lazily from several chimneys, and a few farmers worked the fields nearby.
Two men stood near the open gate holding spears.
Guards in the loosest sense of the word.
Victor slowed as he approached.
The first guard looked him up and down.
“Well now,” the man said. “Don’t see robes like that every day.”
The second guard leaned slightly forward, squinting.
“That some kind of priest outfit?”
Victor gave a small polite smile.
“Something like that.”
He stopped a few paces away.
“My name is Victor Edwardson. I’m a traveling healer.”
The guards exchanged a quick glance.
“A healer, huh?”
Victor nodded.
“I heard someone here might be ill.”
Stolen story; please report.
The bearded guard scratched the side of his face.
“Well… yeah actually.”
“Old Marla’s boy caught a nasty fever last night.”
Victor nodded once.
“Then I’d like to take a look.”
The second guard was still staring at his robes.
“…Say,” the man said slowly, “those look kinda like the robes that hero party wore a few years back.”
Victor felt a familiar tension settle quietly in his chest.
He adjusted his glasses again.
“Coincidence,” he said calmly.
The guard shrugged.
“Guess so.”
The two stepped aside, allowing him through the gate.
Victor inclined his head politely and entered the village.
Greymill was small.
A few dozen homes scattered along dirt paths, a grain mill near the river, a blacksmith’s shop that clanged rhythmically in the distance. Chickens wandered lazily between buildings while a dog barked somewhere out of sight.
A few villagers paused to stare at him.
Victor ignored it.
He had learned long ago that people always stared at robes like his.
Some saw a priest.
Others saw a noble.
A few thought of something else entirely.
He preferred when they were wrong.
A woman stood waiting outside a small cottage near the edge of the village. Her worried expression brightened the moment she noticed him.
“Are you the healer?” she asked quickly.
“I am.”
“Oh thank the gods.”
She ushered him inside immediately.
The cottage smelled strongly of boiled herbs.
A young boy lay on a bed near the far wall, his face flushed red with fever. Damp cloths had been placed on his forehead, though they had long since warmed.
Victor set his satchel down beside the bed.
“How long has he been sick?” he asked gently.
“Since yesterday afternoon.”
Victor nodded.
He placed his hand lightly against the boy’s forehead.
Too hot.
He closed his eyes.
Golden light slowly gathered around his hand.
It was not a violent magic like the kind used in battle. Healing magic rarely was. It flowed quietly, like warm sunlight spreading through the body.
Victor whispered a short incantation under his breath.
The boy’s breathing steadied.
The fever began to fade.
Within moments, the child stirred weakly.
“…Mom?” he mumbled.
The woman gasped and rushed forward.
“Oh thank the gods—”
Victor stepped back to give them space.
Moments like this were the reason he traveled.
Not glory.
Not destiny.
Just this.
When the woman turned back to him, tears filled her eyes.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
Victor picked up his satchel.
“No payment is necessary.”
“But—”
“Take care of your son,” Victor said gently.
He stepped outside again into the sunlight.
The wind carried the distant smell of fresh grain and river water.
Victor began walking back toward the road.
Helping one person never felt like enough.
There were always more people in need somewhere.
As he neared the gate, raised voices caught his attention.
“…told you this village wouldn’t buy her.”
Victor slowed.
The voices came from the side of the road near a wagon.
Two rough-looking men stood beside it, arguing.
Something moved inside the wagon behind them.
Victor stepped a little closer.
His eyes immediately found the cage.
Inside sat a beastfolk girl.
Rabbit ears drooped over tangled blonde hair, and soft white fur covered her arms. Dirt smudged her face, and iron cuffs bound her wrists.
She looked exhausted.
And frightened.
One of the men slapped the side of the cage.
“Worthless rabbit,” he muttered.
Victor felt something cold settle quietly in his chest.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Both men turned toward him.
“What do you want?” one asked.
Victor looked at the cage.
Then at the girl.
Then back at them.
“That beastfolk looks injured,” he said calmly.
The larger man laughed.
“Not our problem.”
Victor’s expression remained neutral.
He had heard that answer many times before.
The second man squinted at his robes.
“…Hold on,” he muttered.
He stepped closer.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
Victor’s stomach tightened slightly.
He adjusted his glasses again.
“I’m just a healer.”
The man studied him for a moment.
Then shrugged.
“Well unless you’re buying the rabbit, healer, you can move along.”
Victor looked back at the girl.
She was watching him carefully.
Not hopeful.
Just… waiting.
The way someone waited when they had learned the world rarely helped people like them.
Victor sighed quietly.
He stepped closer to the wagon.
“…How much?” he asked.
Both men blinked.
Then slowly grinned.
