A Not-So-Normal Visitor

  Morning crept over Vinsart with the sluggishness typical of days following too much training.

  A thin mist still clung to the rooftops, hanging between the trees like laundry that hadn’t had time to dry.

  The village stirred gently—clinks of pots, rustling baskets, and half-muttered curses against the brisk wind.

  At the southern gate, the two guards weren’t particularly inclined to move. Or talk.

  Wrapped up to the nose in woolen cloaks, they stared out at the horizon more out of duty than alertness.

  Until they saw him.

  A lone figure approached on foot.

  Slow. Unsteady. Draped in a tattered cloak, hood drawn low.

  One guard straightened.

  The other winced.

  — “A beggar?”

  — “Or a pilgrim.”

  — “Or a problem,” the second muttered, hand resting on his watch-staff.

  The stranger didn’t look up.

  He reached the gate, raised a bony hand, and spoke in a hoarse, veiled voice:

  — “I… I’m looking for a healer.”

  A pause. Then, as if apologizing for existing:

  — “There’s a sickness in me I can’t hold back anymore.”

  His breath was shallow, his back hunched. Even his voice clung to each word like a man gripping a branch in a storm.

  The guard sighed.

  — “Healer, huh?” He glanced at his companion, shrugged.

  — “You’ll find Marenna, the village’s caretaker. North side. Just follow the hanging herbs. Can’t miss it.”

  The man nodded slowly and turned.

  He walked noiselessly, as if he had trained not to disturb the ground.

  He made his way down the main street—shoulders slouched, steps dragging.

  Each house seemed to watch him.

  Not magically.

  Just out of habit.

  Here, everyone knew everyone.

  A stranger, especially at this hour, and in that state?

  It was like watching a rock walk.

  An old man sweeping his doorstep froze at the sight of him, then darted inside, slamming the door faster than a shutter in a storm.

  A baker, arms full of warm loaves, frowned, tightened her apron, and shoved the bread behind her counter.

  She whispered to her neighbor:

  — “Another one… This won’t end well. You’ll see.”

  A blacksmith paused mid-swing, hammer raised.

  He stared from afar, a bead of sweat running down his temple.

  — “His veins… like the other one,” he murmured.

  Then he hammered harder.

  Faster.

  Even the neighborhood cats—those whiskered tyrants—followed the man cautiously, one by one, like an improvised feline patrol.

  He said nothing. Looked at no one.

  But his walk betrayed pain.

  And something else: restraint.

  As if he were holding back something heavy, something that longed to spill out.

  He finally stopped in front of Marenna’s home.

  Bundles of herbs danced in the windows.

  The door stood ajar, as always.

  A scent of mint, dry wood, and fresh roots floated in the air—more comforting than any spell.

  He hesitated.

  Then knocked. Three quiet taps.

  The door creaked open.

  Marenna appeared—arms streaked with dried balm, a lock of hair stuck to her temple.

  She wiped her hands on a cloth tied around her waist, calm and focused.

  She looked up at him.

  Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

  — “Looking for a healer?” she asked plainly.

  He nodded.

  — “I… I come from the High Liorne. I have… something in my lungs. Been weeks. Herbs, poultices… nothing holds.”

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  His voice was raw, rasping, each word scraping his throat like sandpaper.

  — “The healers in the villages I passed through… couldn’t help.”

  He lifted his sleeve.

  The skin beneath was gray and paper-thin, laced with bluish veins climbing toward his neck.

  Marenna studied him without a flicker of emotion.

  She stepped aside, left the door open, and gestured curtly.

  — “Come in. Take off your boots if you can. Sit by the table. I’ll get the water.”

  He hesitated.

  But she had already turned her back—

  as if nothing about him was more frightening than a stubborn cough.

  He entered slowly.

  She didn’t close the door.

  She fetched a steaming bowl from a stone dish, then gestured for him to sit.

  — “Take off the cloak. Open your tunic.”

  He obeyed silently.

  His chest was sunken, thin. His breathing wheezed, irregular.

  She approached. First with her fingers—professional, precise.

  She pressed his ribs, touched his diaphragm, listened to his breath.

  Then, without warning, she jabbed his knee with a sharp kick.

  — “Reflex test,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  He nodded, slightly dazed by the local methods.

  Then her hands rose.

  A pale green light began to glow around them.

  The man frowned. The light grew brighter. Then brighter still.

  A pulse appeared in her palms—like a heartbeat made of leaves.

  He began to sweat.

  — “Wait… are you really…?”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Was she healing him? Or… something else?

  Marenna placed her hands firmly on either side of his ribcage.

  Her eyes lit up—an even brighter green than her hands.

  A gentle warmth spread through his body.

  And suddenly… the pain vanished.

  Something shifted inside his throat.

  His lungs vibrated. No more pain.

  Just vertigo.

  A suspended moment.

  He met her gaze.

  And in it, he saw something he hadn’t seen in a long, long time:

  Light.

  A black mist—thick, vaporous—escaped from his mouth, his nose, his pores.

  It rose slowly, then dissipated like a nightmare at dawn.

  Marenna staggered.

  Her hands dropped.

  She swayed—

  — “W-what…?”

  And collapsed.

  Garlan, passing nearby, felt a sudden pulse in the air.

  He looked up—just in time to see Marenna fall.

  He didn’t think. His body moved before his mind.

  A surge of magic burst from him, wild and instinctive.

  The air twisted—

  and in a blink, he was gone.

  And reappeared inside, just in time to catch her in his arms.

  He blinked.

  He was in the house.

  No running. No movement.

  And yet… here he was.

  — “How did I do that…?”

  She lay limp against him—unconscious, but alive.

  The man sat frozen, mouth open, eyes wide.

  — “Am I dreaming?” he whispered.

  And he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

  Garlan cradled her, kneeling on the wooden floor.

  She was breathing—softly.

  But her eyelids fluttered, cheeks pale.

  He laid her down on a bed of dried moss—delicate, like cracked crystal.

  — “Marenna…?”

  No response.

  He touched her forehead.

  Sweat. Exhaustion.

  No wounds.

  The man, still seated, was trembling.

  He looked at Garlan with wide eyes, voice barely a whisper:

  — “…You appeared.”

  — “What?”

  — “Right there. In a flash. Just… appeared.”

  Garlan blinked.

  He looked at the still-open door.

  — “I was outside. I saw her fall.”

  He frowned, staring at his hands.

  — “And then… I don’t know. It just happened. Like… I was called.”

  Marenna stirred, groaned.

  — “Not so loud… my head’s buzzing.”

  Garlan smiled, despite everything.

  — “Want me to make you some tea?”

  She cracked one eye open.

  — “I just want… five minutes without someone fainting around me.”

  She sat up slowly, leaning on an elbow—flustered, cheeks flushed.

  In her mind, one thought kept looping: Oh no oh no oh no… I was in his arms.

  The man watched them—silent, almost worried.

  — “You summoned light,” he said. “Healing light.”

  He turned to Marenna.

  — “And… without a word. Not one.”

  She looked at him, mildly surprised.

  — “I don’t need to say anything. I just do it.”

  He turned to Garlan.

  — “And you?”

  — “Same,” the boy shrugged.

  — “I think about what I want, channel it… and it happens. No need to recite an old poem.”

  The man rested his hands on his knees.

  — “But… that’s impossible. Everywhere else—even the weakest spells require incantations.”

  He pronounced it slowly, as if trying to convince himself:

  — “Even a lantern flame… needs a phrase.”

  Marenna and Garlan exchanged a look.

  She whispered:

  — “Do you think we’re…?”

  Garlan sighed.

  — “Weird? Unique? Mistakes?” He raised an eyebrow.

  — “Let’s ask Tharion.”

  He helped Marenna sit up against the wall.

  She took his hand, squeezed it briefly, without a word.

  — “So everywhere else, magic needs words?” Garlan asked, intrigued.

  The man nodded.

  — “As far as I know… yes. I think you two are the only ones I’ve ever seen… do this.”

  Marenna and Garlan looked at each other.

  And then, without a cue—

  they burst out laughing.

  The kind of laughter only teenagers can afford after a scare.

  — “Awesome,” Garlan gasped between hiccups.

  — “Maybe we’re mistakes…” Marenna grinned,

  — “…but we’re stylish mistakes.”

  Meanwhile, elsewhere in the village, a second stranger was watching.

  Hidden in the shadows of an abandoned attic—he’d seen everything.

  And he wasn’t smiling.

  He took one step back, vanishing from the window frame.

  He murmured something—

  a word none of the three would have understood.

  A gust swept through the room—

  silent. Invisible.

  And he was gone.