The first sunlight of the morning crept into the room, slipping through holes in the threadbare curtains. It brushed against the furniture, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily in the air. On the bed lay a sleeping figure—tall and still fit, though his shoulders, slightly rounded from long hours at the desk, hinted at middle age. His bald head caught the light, but it was his dark green skin that drew the eye, glowing softly in the sun. Thick black eyebrows stretched wild above closed eyes, and a full braided beard fell just below his neck, dark against the vivid color of his face.
The room was clearly a study. Two bookshelves leaned against one wall, sagging slightly under the weight of their leather-bound volumes, and a modest desk sat opposite them, its surface cluttered with a jumble of yellowed parchments, uneven stacks of documents, and a few well-used drawing tools. The air smelled faintly of dust and ink, and the quiet was broken only by dull noises drifting in from outside.
A gentle knock on the door broke the silence of the room.
“Master Khurak, breakfast is ready,” a familiar voice called through the frame.
The orc in the bed stirred and groaned, a soft, good-natured rumble. “Come in, Urz.”
Khurak stretched and swung his legs over the side of the bed, already anticipating the food.
“Good morning, Master,” said Urz, stepping in with a makeshift tray: a glass of milk, three boiled eggs, and two slices of stale-looking bread. The young-looking orc had two tusks that nearly reached their full length, giving his face a hint of immaturity. Still short and thin, he hunched slightly as he carried the tray, glancing nervously at the Master and tugged anxiously at the hem of his sleeve.
“Morning. How are the ritual preparations going?” Khurak asked, eyeing the food.
“The other acolytes are nearly done,” Urz replied. “We’ve finished carrying over the sick, and Drakar even managed to steal the axe.”
“What axe?” Khurak’s eyebrows narrowed in concern.
“Tharok’s axe,” Urz said, guilt flickering across his face.
“The militants will be out for blood for this. There aren’t many of us to begin with—he could have died!”
“I know, Master, but if everything goes well, it won’t matter,” Urz said quietly.
“Urz! We can’t burn bridges that barely exist. All this time we’ve been tolerated, and this may be the last straw,” Khurak added, his tone heavy, as if they had discussed this many times before.
“I will offer my own head if needed, Master. I did this by myself,” Urz said, shoulders tense.
“You will do no such thing, young Urz. They already have their eyes on Drakar from the last… incident.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Are all of us assembled? It would ruin everything if someone got nabbed by the militants’ guards before we even attempt to perform the ritual.”
“Yes, Master. Acolyte Veyra is preparing the sick; acolytes Drakar and Borgath are just finishing the ritual circle.”
“Very well. I will join you immediately once I finish my own preparations. You may join them.”
“Yes, Master,” Urz said, leaving the study,the faint creak of the door echoing in the quiet room.
Khurak stuffed a whole boiled egg into his mouth, his thoughts on the upcoming ritual. The axe had been a reckless choice, powerful enough to aid them, but just as likely to ruin everything. The folly of youth, he mused. Well, it was too late now—he would face the consequences when the time came.
He glanced at the sketch atop the pile of papers on his desk. At its center was the symbol of Krunnverok, the old God, encircled by multiple mana-harnessing rings, all layered atop a broad invocation circle. He traced the lines with his finger, a quiet confidence swelling within him. He had faith, not only in the God, but in the precision of the ritual circle he had crafted. Still, he knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for everything to go according to plan.
He had spent six years researching. A faithful healer, magic was no stranger to him, yet magical theory remained elusive, masters from across the world held so many conflicting opinions that drawing any firm conclusions was nearly impossible for a layman like him.
Khurak washed down the last slice of bread with the milk and reached for his robe. It was an impressive grey garment, woven with golden thread—actual gold, as far as he knew. The robe had been passed down through generations, and though the repairs were skillful, even the finest handiwork could only do so much. The garment bore the marks of its age proudly, a testament to its long history.
Having finished his breakfast, Khurak folded the parchment with the ritual circle and tucked it into his robe. He would need to inspect the acolytes’ work soon. Rising, he stepped out of his study and down the creaking stairs to the main floor.
“Is anyone here?” a voice called.
Khurak quickened his pace toward the entrance. A young villager stood there, cradling his left arm, the limb swaddled in rags.
“Master Khurak! If you’re available, please look at my arm? Urz tended to it yesterday, but I think it’s infected.”
“Come in, come in,” Khurak said, gesturing toward a plain wooden chair. His tone was warm, though his thoughts tugged toward the waiting ritual downstairs. Healing was his duty—but so, too, was what lay ahead.
“Please.” The villager began unwrapping the rags. On his forearm ran a cut nearly five inches long. Most of it had closed, but the center gaped slightly, edges raw and beginning to ooze.
Khurak sighed, massaging his temples with one hand. Another talk with Urz about the importance of properly disinfecting wounds was in order.
“Hold still,” he said, lowering his other hand just above the gash. A faint green glow shimmered from his palm, subtle enough to miss unless one was watching closely. The light spread over the wound, seeping into raw flesh. Slowly, the torn skin began to knit together, leaving only a thin, tender line behind.
“You are well enough now,” Khurak said. “It isn’t fully healed, so expect some soreness for a few days.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Thank you, Master Khurak. I’m sorry, but… I can’t afford to pay for the healing.”
“Healing is free for everyone,” Khurak said with a small wave of his hand. “Donations are welcome, but never required. What’s your name?”
“Toman, Master Khurak. I’m a woodcutter. Yesterday a large splinter shot out of a log while I was chopping—that’s how I got the wound.”
“Well, Toman, I apologize, but we are somewhat busy today. If that will be all…”
“Of course. Thank you again, Master Khurak,” Toman said, walking toward the door while continuing to express his gratitude.
With that minor distraction out of the way, Khurak returned to the stairs leading down to the basement, eager to avoid further interruptions.
The basement wasn’t just a single room; it was a short hallway branching into three separate chambers. The doors of two of them stood open, soft candlelight spilling into the otherwise shadowed corridor. He walked into the nearest room.
Inside, four beds lined the room, three of them occupied. The first held a young human man, perhaps twenty years old. His eyes were open, but he showed no sign of awareness. Khurak snapped his fingers near the man’s ear—no reaction. He looked perfectly healthy, yet lay motionless, inert.
The second bed belonged to an older orc, likely a laborer, his muscles defined and forearms marked with old scars. Perhaps a carpenter? Like the human, his eyes were open, but his gaze was empty.
The third bed supported a young human woman, also in her twenties, propped upright against the headboard. Her eyes were vacant, her body still. One of Khurak’s acolytes sat at her side, feeding her carefully by hand.
“Bor, what exactly do we have here?” Khurak asked.
Borgath, one of his four acolytes, was a middling healer. Close to fifty, his face was marked with deep wrinkles, deeper than his age might suggest. One tusk jutted from his lower jaw; the other had been broken in his youth. His short white hair was neatly kept, a stark contrast to his weathered features. Though his magical skill was mediocre at best, he more than made up for it with patience and dedication to any task. Borgath had been the first to join Khurak when the House of Healing was established, a faithful companion and dependable presence in every sense.
“Oh, good morning. I didn’t hear you come in. We got them a few hours ago—Veyra persuaded the healers to hand them over, and Drakar helped carry them here. They even gave us their notes.” Bor reached into his robe and produced a rolled piece of parchment, handing it to Khurak.
Khurak unfurled the parchment and began to read:
Patient in catatonic state following magical artillery spell explosion in their proximity. Physical inspection initially revealed minor wounds, now healed. Magical deep-body examination shows no internal physical injuries. The only notable observation is greatly reduced brain activity. Patient does not respond to external stimuli, including pain. Instinctively swallows food, but not non-food items. Excretory functions occur based on food intake; constant care required.
“The others are the same,” Bor added, noticing Khurak glance up from the healer’s notes.
“They’ve been like this the whole time?” Khurak asked, his brow furrowing as he leaned closer to the parchment, intrigued.
“That’s all we know. And don’t bother with healing spells—they’ve already tried everything: potions, tinctures, ointments, basic healing spells, even one of the higher-ranked militants cast Greater Heal. Nothing worked. That’s probably the only reason they let us take them.”
Khurak’s fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the parchment. Interesting… he thought. If magic can’t restore them, then perhaps the ritual will. But everything has to go perfectly.
“You’ve got that look in your eyes again. You start one of your little projects and leave all other work to us the first time you hear about something new.”
“You are aware of our class,” Khurak replied, mildly annoyed. “You wouldn’t be an acolyte of Krunn if he weren’t on our side. Our God is with us, and this ritual will help them.”
“It’s not Krunn I’m doubting here…” Bor grumbled.
Khurak pulled out his sketch of the ritual circle. “Look, this may be a new method, and while it’s never been attempted before, the circle should behave as we expect.”
“What level are you in your mage class anyway? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four,” Khurak said, his tone firm, “and it’s Sorcerer. But my only contribution is weaving the circles together; everything else comes from old invocation tomes and information from Zarok.”
“Are you sure this isn’t dangerous?”
“It should be safe,” Khurak replied. “I’ll be the only one contributing mana. The purpose of the ritual is to invoke divine energy; the circle is simply here to help draw and focus it.”
He tapped the parchment lightly with his finger, a small, confident smile playing at his lips.
“And what about that axe?” Bor questioned.
“It will contribute with its presence. For the purpose of divine rituals, it’s neutral. It holds great value as a mana battery, but that should be all. And when Zharona comes asking for it, we’ll simply return it and… apologize.”
Khurak spat out the last word, his lips tight with irritation. Bor’s eyes flicked to the floor for a moment, then back to Khurak, betraying a mix of unease and reluctant agreement.
“Very well. Finish what you’re doing and be ready to bring them to the ritual room. Once I’ve inspected the circle one last time, we’ll begin.”
“I hope this works,” Bor muttered, “if only to drag you out of your study. You are aware Urz is your student, not your butler, right?”
Khurak allowed himself a faint smile as he moved toward the hallway. “Urz is no butler, Bor. He’s learning—and I trust him to speak if ever he feels otherwise.”
As Khurak approached the ritual room, voices drifted through the half-open door.
“We’re finally doing this—fiiinally. Master’s been locked away in that cupboard he calls a study.”
“You really should mind your manners. With any other master, that remark would be offensive on at least two different levels. Especially coming from you, your sole contribution so far has been hauling the sick from one place to another.”
“Give me a break. I don’t have a mage class; it’s hard enough being a healer without magic. I can’t cast a thing. The only magic I’ve got is a solid kick where it hurts.”
Khurak stepped inside, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, I see nothing has changed. The two of you bickering as usual.” His eyes swept the room with mild amusement. “That won’t be necessary today. If we succeed, there will be no need for fists. Only patience and precision.”
“Patience and precision,” Veyra repeated, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“Patience and precision,” Drakar echoed with a sigh, rolling his eyes.
The chamber was just large enough to hold the circle, with only a narrow margin for the participants at the edges. At its heart stood an altar, a sturdy-looking axe resting upon it. A large letter ‘K’, carved from wood and set within a circle, hung on the far wall—a modest symbol of devotion.
A quiet energy settled over the room as Khurak moved toward the ritual circle. The acolytes exchanged glances, anticipation and nerves subtly woven into their expressions.
As they carried in the tables and patients, Khurak remained at the altar, pacing briefly before taking his position. The herbal chalk held firm, the sigils unbroken—exactly as he had drawn them. Around the edges of the circle, the apprentices spread out at the points of the diagram: Urz anxious, Veyra composed with quiet confidence, Drakar restless for action, and Bor steady and watchful, ready to assist wherever needed.
“Let us begin,” Khurak intoned, lifting the axe in one hand, its head angled toward the ground, while his other hand stretched to the center of the circle, palm open in offering.
He closed his eyes for but a moment, gathering his concentration. Then, as he opened them, he began to chant:
Krath… Thok… Azg’!
Brak… Khor… Drog’!
Krunnverok… Thar’guk… Grak’ul…
Urk… Zul… Vruk’az…
As Khurak finished, the acolytes began repeating the chant in unison.A slow, guttural rhythm, half-whispered.
After the second repetition, a soft, light-green glow began to shimmer from the center and along the lines of the circle, casting a gentle contrast against the warm yellow candlelight. Khurak closed his eyes, focusing on the emerging divine energy, willing it to coalesce and flow outward, weaving its blessing through all those present. After the third repetition, the shimmer strengthened into a steady glow, filling the room with a quiet warmth. By the next, the light pulsed softly, like a living heartbeat, enveloping every corner in a serene, restorative embrace.
The sick are not responding. Now then, it’s time to amplify it.
Khurak raised his hands higher, channeling the divine energy. He began weaving his own mana into the flow, feeling it mingle with the light of the circle. To his surprise, his hand clenched around the axe; it felt as though it had become a part of him, impossible to release even if he had wished to. He closed his eyes once more, sinking fully into concentration, letting the energy pulse through him and out into the room.
Veyra’s gaze swept the circle, following the gentle shimmer of light along the lines as it intensified. They had all been trained, practiced in how the ritual should flow, yet she noticed she had already stopped chanting without even being aware of it. Something felt… wrong. As the ritual grew in intensity, the uneasy sensation tightened in her chest. She looked toward Master Khurak for reassurance, but his eyes remained closed. I need to stay focused, she reminded herself. As she tried to adjust her position, she found she was unable to move. Mild panic began to set in.
“Master Khurak?” Veyra said quietly. “Master Khurak!” she repeated, louder this time. There was no reaction—he hadn’t heard her, and the others didn’t seem to have noticed either.
Krath… Thok… Azg’!
Brak… Khor… Drog’!
Krunnverok… Thar’guk… Grak’ul…
Urk… Zul… Vruk’az…
The green glow had grown blinding, completely drowning out the candlelight and it seemed to be only increasing. Everyone was locked in place, feeding it; Veyra was certain the others couldn’t move either. A moment later, the light became painful. Another moment, and it… burned.
Pain—searing pain. Veyra felt as if she were being devoured by flames, yet when she looked down, her body appeared perfectly normal. The ritual had been going on for minutes, but it felt like hours—or even days. She yelled as hard as she could, but it was as if the green glow was swallowing her voice. She tried to resist, tried to move, the pain escalating from terrible to downright torturous.
A second later, the pain stopped. She saw Bor crumple to the ground, followed by Urz, and then her own vision blurred…