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Mentions: Ezekiel [@helo] [hr]

By the time the soldier disappeared into the corridor leading toward Sick Bay, she was already descending the stairs behind him, footsteps quiet, deliberate. No one noticed her leave the upper deck. No one ever did...until she wanted them to.

The air in Sick Bay was cold, sterile, efficient. She did not enter fully, only lingered at the threshold of a side hallway, mostly obscured behind a half-parted curtain meant for privacy. From here, she could see clearly.

The boy lay on the cot, pale but peaceful in sleep. The damage had been set properly by the medics—splinted, stabilized, and managed with practiced hands. But this was the real work.

The man stood at the child’s side, glove removed, palm resting lightly against the boy’s arm. An amulet pulsed faintly on his wrist. Not just a symbol. A conduit.

The glow that spilled from beneath the cloth over his missing eye shimmered like a wound in reality—quiet and unflinching. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence in quiet prayer. Words in reverence to the Silver Flame, spoken with conviction but not spectacle. A soldier’s prayer, plain and stripped of ornament, yet filled with weight.

She watched intently.

The way his shoulders rose and fell, the stillness of his fingers, the utter concentration carved into every line of his body. This was no charlatan healer, no hedge-priest mimicking power. [i]This was faith[/i], channeled like a scalpel. He believed—and worse, his belief worked.

The boy’s breath steadied. Color returned to his cheeks.

[i]Interesting.[/i]

The Silver Flame. How quaint... and yet, how terribly effective. Even those heretical, zealot cunts could be useful from time to time.

She waited until it was done.

Waited until the boy was tucked in again, the healing complete, and the soldier’s hand had withdrawn. The soft hum of clerics and medics returned to the air like birdsong after thunder.

Only then did she step forward.

No footsteps. No fanfare. One moment the hallway was empty, and the next, she was there—standing near the edge of the curtain, still cloaked in the faint scent of old paper and strange perfume. Her voice came like wind behind his shoulder.

[color=firebrick]“And here they say the age of good men has come and gone...”[/color] she announced, followed by the slightest of pauses before continuing.

[color=firebrick]"Yet you care for the wounded with [i]real[/i] conviction,”[/color] she said softly. [color=firebrick]“And skill. That is… rare.”[/color]

Her tone wasn’t reverent. Just matter-of-fact. Like a scholar noting the properties of a rare mineral.

[color=firebrick]“I watched you. Not just now.”[/color] She stepped into view fully, hands folded at her waist, expression unreadable. Her dark coat clung to her like a second skin, and her eyes—sharp and unsettlingly calm—did not blink as they found his.

[color=firebrick]“You carry yourself like a man with purpose. That, too, is rare.”[/color]

A long pause. She studied him for just a breath longer than was comfortable.

[color=firebrick]“I have a task. A sensitive one. And I find myself in need of someone… like you.”[/color]

She glanced toward the boy, then back at Ezekiel. [color=firebrick]“Someone with a steady hand. And a discerning eye.”[/color]

Her lips curled into the faintest, most elegant approximation of a smile. Not warm. Not unkind. Just... precise.

[color=firebrick]“If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you in private.”[/color]

There was no command in her voice. Just a quiet certainty that this was an invitation one did not ignore.

She waited.

Unhurried. Patient.

As though she already knew the answer.

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