Alden slammed the office door open, hoping to find the patriarch. With false confidence, he announced, "Hello, Father."
The chief warden stared, utterly baffled. "My man, I'm twenty-six. Ain't no way I've got a child."
Alden blinked. "So… you're not the patriarch?"
"Look at me," the chief sneered, gesturing to his threadbare uniform. "My 'peak' is this glorified desk job. So, truthfully? Yes. I'm the patriarch."
"Really?"
"Of course not, you idiot."
"Aren't you supposed to fight me to stop me from leaving?" Alden pressed.
"Kid, you just pulverized fifty-six of my men. You think I'm stupid enough to try?"
"I think so."
"Oh, for God's sake—no!"
Alden squinted, still confused. "Then… direct me to the patriarch."
"He's at the Annex. Now scram. And don't forget your sword."
"Oh. Right. Thanks." Alden snatched his blade and left.
The chief warden sighed, tossing documents into a travel sack. Might as well pack. They'll fire me after this debacle. Been too long since I visited the family anyway.
Leonhardt surveyed the growing crowd outside his chambers. So this is why Master refused to come himself. After healing Aldric, word had spread. Swordmasters, refugees, and the sick now formed a snaking line, desperate for his aid.
"Looks like I won't rest today," he muttered, stepping back inside.
First came Ser Jorrick, a once-celebrated duelist now hunched like a crone, his sword arm trembling.
"Swordmaster's rot," Leonhardt declared, eyeing the man's swollen knuckles. "You've been rubbing wintergreen oil on it. A child's remedy."
Ser Jorrick stiffened. "The guild apothecaries said—"
"They were wrong." Leonhardt crushed white willow bark with devil's claw root. "This poultice will burn. You'll scream. But in three weeks, you'll hold a blade again."
The knight's agonized roar echoed through the hall—but Leonhardt was already beckoning the next patient.
The crowd grew uneasy. If a seasoned warrior couldn't endure the pain, what hope did they have?
A parade of misery followed:
A plowman with hands locked into claws → St. John's Wort oil massaged into knotted sinews.
A milkmaid coughing blood → Elecampane root smoked over coals, her lungs clearing with each ragged breath.
A child with a parasite-swollen belly → Wormwood steeped in honeyed milk, tiny worms writhing out before hitting the chamber pot.
Lord Lionfelt's steward tallied the count, quill scratching parchment. "Twenty-nine treated before the first bell."
Refugees from the southern wars came next—limping, fevered, half-mad:
A woman with a festering arrow wound → Honey and garlic packed deep, her scream silenced by poppy-laced wine.
A starved man trembling with wasting sickness → Mugwort tea and walnuts, punctuated by Leonhardt's growled "Eat or die."
A girl rotting with plague → Oak gall paste smeared thick, the stench of death retreating like a tide.
"Forty-four," the steward announced, mopping his brow.
Patient fifty-six was a royal archer on a stretcher, a crossbow bolt still buried in his gut. The hall held its breath.
Leonhardt didn't hesitate:
Drank his signature tincture (pupils swallowing the light, hands steady as stone).Widened the wound with a scalpel, fingers probing for the bolthead.Packed the cavity with blue mold scraped from aged cheese—a secret the guilds would kill to possess.
"You'll live," he said as the archer gasped awake. "But tell your king: next time, dodge."
The steward rose as the noon bell tolled, slow applause echoing. "Fifty-six. A new record." He extended a sealed scroll stamped with the Lionfelt crest—the guild charter.