After ten minutes of silence, Liene stopped healing. The golden threads of her aether had wavered for a while as the creature's body itself resisted the weave.

"I . . . I don't think I can fix this," she admitted in a quieter voice than before. "These cracks are deep aetheric injuries. It's fractured in places I can't mend. It's like she passed through a leyline that was too dense, or maybe she's been hunted by a magus. It'll take at least a week to get her to walk properly with my current capabilities. She'll need a place where the aether is calm and constant, or she'll need a better healer."

[Time Remaining: 1 Bell, 35 Minutes]

Fabrisse knew he should feel bad, and he did feel bad for the creature. However, his second thought was, 'I can't befriend her in two hours then', and it made him feel more ashamed than he cared to admit.

"Is there any healer who you'd trust with healing her?" Fabrisse asked.

Liene drew in a slow breath, her hand resting lightly on her knee. "There is someone," she said. "Mrs. Amrita Rao is the head healer of the Dungeoneering Department. I spent time under her during my internship. She, well, they deal with real injuries there." She glanced at Fabrisse. "They—or her son, if he happens to be around—can take care of her properly. Their hearts are in it. They heal because they care, not because it's a test or a regulation form. If you tell them the truth . . . and that I sent you, they'll help."

The Aetherfawn looked at him now, and for the first time the creature didn't look like it'd bolt away.

"Alright," he murmured. "We'll get her there. Step by step."

Liene gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Thank you. And I'm sorry. I really thought she'd gotten better and that maybe we could just . . . hang out for a bit."

"It's fine." He nodded before walking back the way he'd entered.

It took him longer than expected to find the Dungeoneering Department Recovery Wing.

The Department's inner corridors were a maze even on the best of days, layered with arches, branching staircases, and identical brass plaques that all seemed to say Authorized Personnel Only in slightly different fonts. He'd passed the same stained-glass window of some long-dead Archmagus twice before realizing he was looping.

He could've stopped to ask for directions. There were students and assistants everywhere with robes marked with departmental crests. But the thought of walking up to someone and fumbling through a description like 'I'm looking for the room where they heal dungeon injuries, possibly run by someone named Mrs. Rao, probably has aether leaks and medical smells' made his throat collapse on itself.

So he didn't.

Instead, he studied the floor map plaques mounted at corridor intersections, tracing each etched line with his eyes until the pattern of hallways began to form something coherent in his mind. The Recovery Wing was lower—three levels beneath the main gallery—and accessible only through a side stair that he'd somehow missed twice.

[Time Remaining: 1 Bell, 11 Minutes]

He paused at the door labeled Recovery Room, hesitating. The light leaking from beneath the frame was warm, and the muffled sound of voices suggested someone was inside. Fabrisse exhaled, steadying himself. He wasn't great at introductions. He had to get the words right.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Simple, direct, not too much.

He pushed the door open.

Inside was a young man roughly his age, brown-skinned and broad-shouldered, wearing a healer's coat rolled to the elbows. He was standing behind a desk full of shallow clay bowls, several of which were precariously stacked at the edge. The moment Fabrisse opened the door, one of them slipped.

"Ah, damn it," the man muttered, barely catching it in time. A thin sheen of aether rippled across his hands as he steadied the bowl mid-air before setting it down again.

He turned to Fabrisse. His eyes lit with a flicker of recognition. "Wait. You're the rock boy, aren't you? The one chosen by the Eidralith?"

Fabrisse didn't know how to act for a second. He still hadn't gotten used to actually getting recognized by people. "Uh, yes. That's me."

The man gestured vaguely to the cluttered table. "Well, that's a surprise. You picked a great time to visit, because apparently fate decided you should walk in right now, while I'm losing an argument with earthenware." He gave a sheepish grin and tapped one of the bowls. "Maybe it's a fated sign."

Fate? Brought me here to look at pottery bowls?

"I don't think fate cares about terracotta . . ." Fabrisse admitted.

"Neither am I," the man admitted cheerfully. "But I'll take whatever excuse I can get at this point." He leaned back against the desk and sighed. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about pottery, would you?"

"A bit."

"Good enough." The man scratched the back of his neck. "I bought these from an artifact broker in the outer markets. Old man claimed they're genuine pre-Order pieces. Five hundred years old, fired with pre-synthetic aether glaze. I've spent an unwise amount on them, and now I'm trying to figure out if I've been scammed."

Fabrisse looked at the bowls. They were plain at first glance, but he could see thin veins of grey-blue under the surface. He felt an almost magnetic pull to analyze them, to see if the resonance matched the claim.

[SIDEQUEST RECEIVED: The Earthen Appraiser (1)]

Objective: Successfully appraise whether the terracotta bowl is over five hundred years old.

Reward: +15% Progress for Sedimental Recall (Rank II)

+55 EXP

Of course. A dying creature outside and the Eidralith decides now's the time to teach me pottery history. It seems really keen on pushing me towards mastering these appraisal skills for some reason . . .

But before he could ask, the man shook his head. "Sorry, listen to me rambling. You didn't come here for pottery talk. What can I help you with?"

He shouldn't be distracted. He was here for the Aetherfawn. But the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

"I could tell you," he said before he could stop himself. "About the terracotta, I mean. If you want."

The man's eyes lit up with a spark of delight, the sort Fabrisse usually only saw in people talking about things they loved. "You can? By all means, please. I've been trying to figure it out all morning. I'm Arin Rao, by the way."

"Fabrisse Kestovar."

"Yeah, I remember. The Eidralith's Chosen." Arin said it without mockery, but more like it was a shared joke. "So what do you think? Authentic, or is the old man from the market laughing at me right now?"

Fabrisse picked up one of the bowls. "I'll have to cast a spell on it."

"Knock yourself out," Arin said.

So Fabrisse did.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.