Remari's eyelids felt heavy as he struggled to regain consciousness, his mind shrouded in a thick fog of fever and confusion. The world around him seemed to shimmer and warp, as if seen through a veil of magic. A persistent hum filled the air, accompanied by the soft crackle of energy that danced like lightning on the edges of his perception.
In fleeting moments of lucidity, Remari found himself ensconced within the sterile confines of the infirmary, bathed in the soft glow of auric light. The woman in white moved with an otherworldly grace, her hands aglow with the faint shimmer of elemental magic. She spoke words of incantation, weaving spells of healing and restoration as she tended to his fevered body.
Remari's consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tides of the ocean, pulled by the currents of his own inner turmoil. Fragments of memory danced at the edges of his mind, obscured by the swirling mists of delirium. Yet amidst the chaos, one figure remained constant—the woman in white, her aura a beacon of warmth and comfort in the darkness.
Time became a fluid thing, slipping through Remari's fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass. He drifted between moments of wakefulness and dreams, guided by the gentle touch of the healer's magic. Each time he opened his eyes, the infirmary room greeted him with its familiar sights and sounds—a symphony of elemental energies dancing in harmony with the hum of machinery.
As Remari finally awakens, the soft glow of the infirmary room illuminates the sparse surroundings. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the sterile yet somehow comforting atmosphere. With a wince, he attempts to push himself up, only to be greeted by a searing pain shooting up his left arm. Beneath the newly dressed bandages, signs of fractal scarring mar his skin—a painful reminder of the damage inflicted by his own reflected spell.
His cry of pain summons the nurse who had been tending to him. Verala rushes into the room, her braided blonde hair framing her face in a crown of gold. Clad in a loose-fitting white leather tunic and breeches, she exudes an air of competence and compassion. Without missing a beat, she introduces herself and begins to calm Remari while assessing his injuries.
"Easy now, no need to panic," Verala says, her voice soothing yet authoritative. "You've been through quite the ordeal, but you're safe now."
Remari nods, his expression tense with pain as he listens to her explanation. As she tends to his wounds, she recounts the events that led to his discovery in the Argentum Glade—a forest renowned for its silvery trees, thousands of miles from his home. He was found on death's door, his arm so badly damaged that amputation was nearly considered. But it wasn't the cause of his fever—it was a symptom of a deeper ailment, a leak of his auric energy that threatened to drain him of life.
Their conversation continues, punctuated by moments of silence as Remari struggles to process the gravity of his situation. Verala's blunt honesty is a sharp contrast to his reserved nature, yet her words offer a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness of his despair.
"You're lucky to be alive," she says, her tone softened by genuine concern. "But you're not out of the woods yet. We need to get that arm of yours sorted before we can even think about sending you on your way."
With a weary nod, Remari succumbs to the exhaustion that weighs heavy on his limbs. As he drifts back into the realm of sleep, he finds solace in the knowledge that Verala will be there to guide him through the darkness, no matter how long the journey may be.
As Remari's eyes flutter open to the soft morning light filtering through the open windows, he carefully rights himself in his bed, mindful of his injured arm. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the tranquil scene outside—the argentum trees swaying gently in the breeze, their silvered leaves shimmering in the sunlight. Memories of the past week flood his mind, threatening to overwhelm him, but he pushes them aside with practiced ease, bottling up his emotions in a bid to maintain his composure.
Yet even as he tries to steel himself against the tide of uncertainty, the weight of the future bears down upon him. He's in a foreign land, stripped of everything familiar—identification, money, even clothes. Panic threatens to consume him, but before it can take hold, Verala appears in the doorway, her kind smile a balm to his troubled mind.
"Good morning, Remari," she says, her voice warm and reassuring. "Isn't it a gorgeous autumn day?"
Remari manages a weak smile in return, grateful for her presence. "Yes, it is," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper.
Their conversation flows easily as Verala fills him in on the details of his surroundings—the city of Kwoemuh, the opportunities for work provided by the local guild, and the safety afforded by the powerful wards protecting the city from outside threats. But when Remari broaches the subject of Tireshk, Verala's expression darkens, her eyes betraying a hint of sorrow.
"The capital fell over a week ago," she says, her voice heavy with emotion. "The Congregation launched simultaneous attacks on multiple cities, rounding up auric users and imprisoning them in camps. Tireshk was just the beginning."
Remari's heart sinks at the news, his mind reeling with the magnitude of the devastation. Yet amidst the despair, a flicker of hope remains—the knowledge that he is safe for now, sheltered within the protective embrace of Kwoemuh's wards. It wasn't much but having so little already, it would have to be enough.
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