The clerk didn't waste any time.
"Get someone up front, now," he called out, disappearing through the door behind the counter.
The mercenaries standing nearby traded glances before stepping forward. They'd all seen the state of the woman that just walked in with four tied-up prisoners, one missing a hand, and another bleeding mercenary barely hanging on.
They started helping the bandits down from their horses, guiding them carefully and lining them up against the wall to keep an eye on them. The woman who had surrendered earlier went along with it without a fight, keeping her eyes on the floor as the others were sat down next to her.
A few of the mercenaries briefly checked bindings, making sure none of them had the strength left to attempt anything reckless. One of them muttered something under his breath about needing more rope, and another quietly moved to fetch water—not for comfort, but to keep the injured from slipping into shock before a healer arrived.
Then, everyone looked over at Shion.
And they hesitated.
It was a small thing. A split second you could easily ignore if you wanted to pretend you didn't notice. A pause. A look. Someone waiting for anyone else to make the first move.
Shion noticed, of course. Maybe these mercenaries weren't the ones who watched her train every morning, or maybe they just didn't know her well enough. Maybe the respect she'd earned as a silver-rank still wasn't enough to change what they saw when they looked at her.
Whatever the reason, nobody stepped forward.
Eren looked from the mercenaries to Shion, her jaw tightening. She wanted to say something, wanted to demand to know what their problem was, but Shion just walked right past them and sat down against the wall.
"Don't," Shion said quietly.
Eren looked down at her. "Don't what?"
"Make a scene."
That annoyed Eren more than she expected. For the first time, she truly understood something she'd only ever heard about before. The worst part wasn't open hatred; it was how normal everyone acted while they sat on their hands. And realized something about herself, that her brain quickly denied.
She grabbed a chair and dragged it over next to Shion.
"Fine," Eren said. "I'll sit here and make a scene quietly."
Despite how exhausted she felt, Shion let out a tiny breath that sounded almost like a laugh. Almost.
They waited about fifteen minutes for the priest. Fifteen minutes of blood soaking through Shion's clothes, her vision blurring at the edges, and keeping her eyes open taking far more effort than she cared to admit. The pain across her side had settled into something dull and constant, but every movement reminded her it was still there.
The axe-wielder stayed knocked out where they'd left him, bound more tightly than the others and watched more closely as well. The bandits kept quiet, occasionally glancing at the woman who used to be their leader's right hand, but nobody said a word. The atmosphere in the room was no longer tense in the same way it had been during the fight; it was heavier, more uncertain, like everyone was waiting to see what would be decided about them.
Finally, the clerk came back with a priest hurrying along behind him. The old man stepped into the room and stopped to take in the scene. He looked over the wounded, his eyes lingering on the missing hand, the blood, and the exhausted mercenaries, as if mentally sorting urgency without needing to ask a single question.
He figured out his priorities quickly. He walked over to the axe-wielder first, kneeling down next to the unconscious man and bringing his hands together.
A quiet prayer left his lips—words Eren didn't know. A pale white glow appeared around his hands, showing a faint hint of gold as the magic answered. Slowly, the torn flesh started closing up and the bleeding stopped. The process wasn't immediate; it was steady, controlled, like something being carefully rewritten rather than simply repaired.
Eren watched in silence. She'd seen priests wake people up back in Trivale after they got knocked around in training or a fight, but she'd never actually seen a deep wound heal right in front of her. It wasn't instant. The light stayed for several moments, steadily fixing the damage until the priest finally pulled his hands away and exhaled softly through his nose.
Without saying anything, he moved over to Eren. She hesitated for a second before stretching out her bad leg.
The same prayer followed, along with the same white and gold light. The pain faded away, and the wound closed enough that she could move without feeling like her muscle was tearing apart. She flexed her leg once, cautiously, as if expecting it to break again, then slowly relaxed when it held.
The priest stood back up. Then, he looked at Shion.
The room went completely quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet this time. Everyone was waiting to see what he'd do.
The priest didn't move. "I don't know if the gods will answer a prayer for one of your kind," he said.
The clerk's face fell immediately. "She's the one who brought them in," he said, gesturing toward the prisoners. "She finished the job."
Shion looked up at the priest, her face pale from losing so much blood. "If you're not going to heal me," she said, her voice exhausted but steady, "stop wasting time pretending you're thinking about it."
For a second, the priest looked offended. Then, maybe because the clerk was watching, or maybe because he wanted to prove himself right, he finally took a step closer.
"Very well," he said. "If the gods are willing."
He lowered his hands and started praying.
Eren watched for that familiar glow—white with a touch of gold. At least, that's what it looked like to her.
The priest knew better. The moment the magic answered, his eyes widened just a fraction. The color was off. It wasn't different enough for anyone else in the room to notice, but he saw it. There was more gold in the light than there had been before.
For a split second, he almost choked on the words of his prayer. Then he finished it anyway, carefully, as if afraid that stopping mid-way would mean acknowledging something he did not want to name.
By the time he stepped back, his face was a blank mask again. He didn't say a word.
And nobody in that room knew that the person most shaken by what had just happened wasn't the half-orc who had almost been turned away.
It was the priest who had healed her.
And for a moment longer than he was comfortable admitting to himself, he wondered whether what he had just done was an act of faith… or something the gods had simply allowed him to misinterpret.