The walk to the infirmary was brief but informative. I used the time to get a fuller picture from Vance via our mental link.
<So, the western fence is as bad as it looked from a distance?> I asked, my boots crunching on the hard-packed snow.
<Worse,> Vance sent back, his mental tone grim. <It’s not just damaged. It’s structurally unstable in multiple sections. Patches on top of patches. The elder’s militia is demoralized and lacks proper tools.>
<And the princess? How did she handle seeing it?>
<She was quiet. Determined, but... a little overwhelmed. But she understands the scale now.>
I nodded. That was a crucial, if painful, step. Understanding the true depth of a problem was the first part of solving it.
We reached the faded green door of the infirmary. "Let’s enter," I said aloud, then knocked twice and pushed the door open.
The scene inside was much as I’d left it, though slightly less chaotic. Old Man Heron was sitting at a small table, meticulously grinding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle. The rhythmic scraping was the only sound.
"Sorry to intrude."
At the sound of the door and my voice, he frowned and turned, his expression initially one of irritation at the interruption. When his eyes landed on me, his features softened into a faint, grumpy acknowledgment. But then his gaze shifted to Vance.
And he froze.
The pestle stilled in his hand. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. They locked onto Vance with an intensity that was anything but casual.
I saw a rapid, complex cascade of emotions flicker across his face — instant recognition, followed by a flash of doubt, then a surge of something that looked like profound, painful joy, which was immediately crushed by a wave of guilt, self-disgust, and deep, aching regret.
It was all there and gone in a heartbeat, replaced by his usual stoic mask. But I’d already seen everything — all thanks to the [Lantorn’s Glow], which enabled me to detect them more clearly.
’So the old man is connected to Vance. I was right.’ The "Faded Sentinel," the former Royal Guard Captain, clearly knew the mute knight. But the nature of that history was written in regret, it seems.
’But... this is more than just knowing him,’ I thought. ’That was the look of a man seeing a ghost he never thought he’d face again.’
’Hmm... I’m even more curious now...’
"Old man~," I said a bit cheerfully, waving a hand to break the tense silence. "It seems like your gut feeling was right. I really came back."
Heron scoffed, turning back to his mortar and pestle with a dismissive grunt. "It was obvious. So stop acting." He resumed grinding, the sound sharper than before. "But why exactly are you back?"
I offered a placating smile. "I was sent as support from the Keep. Consider me your new apprentice for a while." I brought my hands together in a slight, respectful cup. "I hope I can learn a lot from you."
He shot me a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Hmph. Don’t expect me to coddle you. You make a mistake, you clean it up." His eyes, however, drifted back to Vance, who was standing quietly by the door. "And who’s the quiet one? Your apprentice?"
I laughed inwardly. ’Wouldn’t you like to know, you old relic~’
Aloud, I said, "He’s also from the Keep, but he’s not a healer. He’s here to help with the minor tasks today; fetching water, changing linens, that sort of thing."
Heron gave a slow, deliberate nod, his gaze fixed on Vance. "I see." He put the pestle down with a definitive clack. "Well, boy? What’s your name?"
I answered for him, watching Heron’s face closely. "His name’s Vance. And... unfortunately, he can’t speak."
There it was again. A subtle but violent tremor in the old man’s hands. His eyes widened a fraction, the same storm of guilt and regret flashing in their depths before he forcibly banked it, his jaw tightening. He looked at Vance not with pity, but with a profound, personal sorrow.
"I... see," Heron said, his voice unusually gravelly. He cleared his throat. "A tough lot, then. Alright, you can help. But don’t just—"
"—disturb you, right?" I finished for him, my smile widening.
"Exactly," he grumbled, turning his back on us fully, a clear dismissal. "Get to work. The water buckets are empty, and the floor needs scrubbing. Make yourselves useful."
The air was thick with everything left unsaid. Heron knew Vance. And whatever their history was, it haunted him. This was no longer just about healing the sick; it was about unraveling a mystery that sat at the heart of a Faded Sentinel’s penance.
And strangely, I was looking forward to it. A solvable mystery was a welcome distraction from the weight of world-ending prophecies and royal trials.
And so, for the next hour, we fell into a routine.
I checked on the patients I’d treated yesterday, pleased to find the corruption had not returned. Vance, ever efficient, first helped me out and then switched to fetching water and began meticulously scrubbing the floor in a far corner, giving the old man a wide berth.
Meanwhile, Heron kept working with a quiet, focused intensity, but I noticed his eyes kept drifting toward Vance. It wasn’t obviously a casual observation; it was a study, as if he were searching for something in the young man’s face, his posture, the way he moved.
’...I feel like he might be seeing someone else in Vance.’
If I couldn’t see the man’s emotions, I would have thought he was just a grumpy old man annoyed by the presence of strangers. But the truth was far more compelling. He was seeing a ghost in the young knight silently scrubbing his floor.
"EEEK!"
The fragile quiet was shattered as the infirmary door burst open.
A young woman stood panting on the threshold, her face etched with panic. "Heron! It’s Jax! He’s taken a turn for the worse! The fever’s back, and the shaking... it’s bad!"
Heron was on his feet in an instant, his medical instincts overriding the storm of his personal history. "The fool with the corrupted gash? I told him to stay off that leg!" He snatched a fresh roll of bandages and a jar of pungent salve. "Lumin, with me. You," he barked, pointing a bony finger directly at Vance without even looking at him, "stay here. Make sure no one else dies of stupidity while I’m gone."
He strode out, a force of grim purpose, and I followed. I threw a quick glance back at Vance. He stood by his bucket, watching us go, his expression unreadable but his posture coiled and alert. The old man’s order had been harsh, almost cruel in its dismissal, but it was also an unwitting acknowledgment. He was leaving the infirmary, his life’s penance, in the hands of the ghost from his past.
As we hurried after the frantic woman, Heron muttered under his breath, the words meant for the wind or perhaps for his own tormented conscience.
"...Like father, like son."