"Master Leonhardt, I can't thank you enough for allowing a poor soul like me to guide you to your quarters," the guard said, his eyes gleaming with greed.
"I'd like to return quickly, so please take me to my patient," Leonhardt replied.
"The head of the household ordered us to bring you to the head annex at the edge of the inner city," the guard stammered nervously.
"So be it. Lead the way."
They strode through the bustling streets, whispers swirling around them. People cast fearful glances, wondering who these cloaked figures were. How could a human be so towering? And why did they radiate such an intimidating aura?
They walked in silence until they reached the annex. Inside, thirteen Holy Knights stood in formation, with the patriarch at the center. Their gazes bore into Leonhardt, the pressure in the room thick enough to crush an ordinary man—but Leonhardt was far from ordinary.
He dropped to one knee, fist pressed to his chest. "May the roar of the lion breathe out its pride."
The patriarch's voice thundered like a beast's growl. "The lion appreciates your pride. Aldric, step forward."
Sir Aldric of Blackthorn, the aging warrior, limped toward Leonhardt. His movements, once fluid, were now stiff and labored. His gauntleted hand trembled as he unbuckled his sword belt—the weapon he had wielded for three decades in service to the crown.
Leonhardt studied him with sharp eyes. He had seen this before—the ruin of a swordsman's body.
"Can you heal him?" the patriarch demanded.
"I won't know without further examination."
One of the Holy Knights snapped, "When the patriarch asks a yes-or-no question, you answer accordingly!"
"Now answer—can you heal him?"
"As I've stated, with my honor as a healer, I cannot offer false hope. I will only know after a full examination."
The patriarch's gaze darkened. "Are you disrespecting me?"
"Patriarch, this has nothing to do with respect. I am here to treat my patient, and I will provide a full analysis only after an examination."
"Hahahaha!" The patriarch's laughter boomed. "I like your guts, kid. You may leave—and do your best to heal him."
Leonhardt gestured for Aldric to sit. "Show me."
Aldric grimaced as he extended his right arm. His knuckles were swollen, the joints gnarled like old oak. His left shoulder twitched—a remnant of an old wound that never fully healed.
"Arthritis," Leonhardt murmured, pressing his fingers along Aldric's wrist. "And tendon strain—years of overuse. The steel has worn you down like a whetstone."
Aldric scoffed. "I've endured worse."
"Yet now you can barely grip your sword at dawn," Leonhardt countered. "The cold seizes you. The pain lingers like a vengeful spirit."
A muscle in Aldric's jaw twitched. He was right.
Leonhardt turned to his shelves, retrieving dried herbs and a mortar.
"Willow bark," he said, crushing it into powder. "For the fire in your joints."
"Boswellia resin," he added, grinding it with honey. "To mend what's frayed."
Finally, he steeped comfrey root in warm oil. "This will loosen what's locked and soothe what's torn."
He mixed them into a thick poultice, its scent sharp and earthy.
"Bare your arms."
Aldric obeyed, revealing old scars and angry red welts where muscle met bone. Leonhardt spread the salve over his wrists, elbows, and shoulders, his touch firm.
At first, it burned. Then—slowly—the heat faded into a dull, comforting warmth.
"It won't make you young again," Leonhardt said. "But it will let you fight another winter."
Aldric flexed his fingers. The stiffness had eased—just enough.