“You're learning faster than I expected,” Damian said with a smile that held genuine warmth. “Maybe Death and healing aren't as opposite as we thought.”
In the hush of the candlelit clinic, Cael felt something fundamental shift. He was not only Death—not tonight. He was a possibility. He could choose.
It all began, he thought, with curiosity for a healer who carried the world’s pain on his own back—and with the slow, impossible hope that maybe Death could learn to be gentle, too.
“What happens now?” Damian asked softly.
“Now we learn together,” Cael replied, and the words felt like a promise. “You teach me about healing, and I... I will find ways to ease your burdens without compromising your purpose.”
It was the beginning of something unprecedented, something that challenged the very foundations of cosmic order. But as Cael sat in the warm candlelight with his hand on Damian's shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of a mortal heartbeat, he found he didn't care about the implications.
For the first time in his existence, he had found something worth risking everything for.
Chapter 7
What We Do With Silence
Damian
The morning market felt different now, as if someone had amplified every sound and scent until they bordered on overwhelming. The cries of vendors hawking their wares seemed louder, more desperate. The rattle of time-debt coins changing hands had a sharper edge. Even the whispered prayers of those who couldn't afford tomorrow carried with painful clarity on air that felt charged with supernatural attention.
Damian navigated the familiar chaos with practiced ease, his white cane tapping out the rhythm of his passage while his other senses mapped the world around him. But underneath his routine movements, he felt constantly observed. The attention didn't feel malicious, but it was so focused it made his skin prickle with awareness.
“Morning, healer,” Old Henrik called out as Damian approached his stall, recognizing his footsteps from dozens of previous visits. “You look like you slept poorly. Here, take some of this.”
The vendor pressed a bundle of dried moonflower into Damian's hands, the herbs known throughout Veil Row for their calming properties. The bundle felt properly dried, the stems brittle under his fingers, the flowers releasing their characteristic sweet scent when he squeezed gently.
As Damian’s fingers brushed Henrik’s palm, sensation hit him like a lightning strike. He staggered, vision blooming behind his eyes—a dying girl in a cold tomb, desperation thick as blood, the hollow clink of time-coins traded for hope. Henrik’s fear, sharp and metallic, threaded through every image.
Damian gasped, stumbling back from the stall. The world spun; sound became muffled, distant. He clutched the moonflower, trying to anchor himself. He’d always been sensitive, but this was different—raw, invasive, like someone else’s suffering had punched a hole through his chest. The echo of it lingered as he moved away, trembling.
“You all right, boy?” Henrik asked with genuine concern.
“Fine,” Damian managed, though his voice was shaky. “Just tired. Thank you for the moonflower.”
He hurried away from the stall before Henrik could ask more questions, his cane tapping frantically as he sought distance from the overwhelming vision. His mind reeled from the implications of what had just happened. His Paincraft had always been strong, but this was new. Something amplified and guided by an intelligence that understood suffering in ways he never could.
Turning a corner, Damian collided with a body—taller, broader, colder than any he’d met that morning. The impact should have been nothing, a simple jostle in the crowd. But the stranger’s presence jolted him—cold radiating out, not just on his skin but in his bones.
The apology was smooth, too smooth, as if shaped from practiced memory rather than true feeling. Even the man’sbreathing sounded off—too steady, too measured. Air grew sharper, charged with a static that made Damian’s skin prickle. For a heartbeat, he felt an urge to run, but curiosity tangled with his fear, holding him still.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said politely, steadying Damian with hands that felt like winter given form.
The touch jolted Damian—too cold, too familiar, the chill sinking all the way to his bones. For a split second, he almost whispered a name.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” Damian said quickly, pulling away from the contact that burned with cold. “I’m fine.”
The stranger’s smile was audible in his voice, and something in the cadence made Damian’s skin prickle. “You’re the healer from Veil Row. I’ve heard interesting things about your work.”
Damian’s defenses bristled, but beneath that was a flicker of recognition—a presence he’d felt in his darkest dreams.
“Have you?” he managed, wary. “I’m just a street medic. Nothing interesting about that.”
“Of course,” the stranger agreed, the words carrying an undercurrent that sent shivers down Damian’s spine. “Still, be careful, healer. The city is full of dangerous things these days. Things that don’t follow the usual rules.”
The stranger vanished into the crowd, his footsteps oddly silent. The cold he’d left behind lingered, crawling up Damian’s arms. He hugged himself, heart pounding. It shouldn’t be possible, not here, not now—but some part of him already knew who it had been.
