The undead fiend's clawed hand hovered, cold air radiating from its dead grasp. Pellam shrieked, a high-pitched, childish sound that grated against the echoing stone. The Miasma, a churning tide of grey, already brushed Jorvel’s boots, making him gasp, his body convulsing in a desperate effort to clear his lungs. Korvan’s mind raced. To preserve his cover meant letting Pellam die, a minor loss, but the fog would inevitably reach Jorvel. To save Jorvel, he had to act. The phantom pain from the Loom for his earlier mercy still throbbed, an icy ache beneath his ribs. [Sacrifice: A fragment of hoarded Shadow-Aether. Miracle: A whispered command to the stone.] The whisper was almost drowned by the grey vapor's hiss. Korvan didn’t hesitate. He thrust his hand forward, a swift, almost imperceptible motion. No spell-chant, no visible glow, just a subtle ripple of shade, imperceptible to any ordinary Hunter. He didn’t target the stalker directly. Instead, he reached for the ancient archway above, a crumbling relic of long-dead masons. The Dirge-Weaver’s Loom hummed, a cold satisfaction blossoming in his chest. Above the creature, a hairline fissure snaked across the keystone. The structure groaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the floor. Dust rained down, then small chips of stone, then a fist-sized chunk that struck the horror's skull with a dull *thump*. The creature paused, its empty sockets tilting upward in confusion. Pellam, still huddled on the floor, whimpered louder. The fog licked at Jorvel’s face, painting his skin with an ashen hue. Korvan pushed another thread of power into the command, not a surge, just enough to guide the fracture. The fissure widened with a sharp *crack*. A section of the archway, heavy with grime and weakened by years of foul rot, tore free. It was a calculated rupture, not random decay. A slab of carved masonry, thick as a man’s torso, plummeted directly onto the creature. The impact was sickening, a wet, pulverizing *smash* that echoed through the hall. The skeletal form pulverized instantly into foul-smelling powder and splinters, swiftly drowned beneath the rolling murk. Pellam screamed again, this time in shock, scrambling back from the dust cloud, his face smeared with grime and tears. He pointed a trembling finger at the rubble, stare fixed in stunned relief. “It… it just fell! The archway cracked!” Nestra Korvath, a few paces away, her rapier still drawn, lowered her weapon slowly. Her icy gaze was not fixed on Pellam or the crushed abomination. It lingered on Korvan, then on the lingering wisps of shadow where his hand had been. Her head tilted, a barely perceptible motion. He met her stare, feigning wide-eyed bewilderment. She held his gaze, her suspicion sharp and unyielding across the chaotic hall. [Boon: Your chosen target, Pellam Ystmar, is now indebted. Phantom Pain: Mercy was shown to the target's life. Minor.] A sharp, icy prickle flared in Korvan’s palm, a needle of pain that threatened to bloom into something worse. He clenched his fist, burying it deep in his pocket, fighting the urge to flinch. The Loom always extracted its pound of flesh. He had saved Pellam, indirectly, and was punished for it. The cost of a miracle. “Jorvel!” Korvan dragged his friend clear of the creeping vapor. Deprived of prey, the haze receded slightly, swirling back toward the fractured training hall. Jorvel was still doubled over, gasping, but the worst of the coughing fit seemed to have passed. His face was clammy, his eyes watering. “Korvan… the fog…” Jorvel choked out, leaning heavily on him. He felt like a dead weight. Other Hunters recovered, shouting for instructors. Pellam climbed unsteadily to his feet, glancing between the rubble and the retreating fog. He puffed out his chest, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity. “I… I held it off! Until the very end! My brave defense… it weakened the structure!” His voice cracked, but he forged ahead, clutching his shattered saber hilt like a trophy. “This hall… it barely contained my power!” Nestra scoffed, a soft, almost inaudible sound. She gave Pellam a look of withering contempt before turning to Korvan, her eyes narrowing. “You were close, Scavenger. Did you see what truly happened?” Korvan just shook his head, feigning a tremor. “It was too fast,” Korvan stammered. “The fog… I thought we were dead.” He clutched Jorvel tighter, conveying a convincing image of fear. Nestra held his gaze for another moment, then sighed, turning away with a frustrated flick of her wrist. She didn’t believe him, not entirely, but she had no proof. That was enough for now. Back in the cramped safety of their dorm room, the adrenaline finally crashed. Jorvel slumped heavily onto his cot, breathing shallow and ragged. His tunic, already frayed from weeks in the catacombs, tore at the shoulder from the sudden impact. Beneath the fabric, black veins like rootlets branched down Jorvel’s arm in an unmistakable pattern of rot. Charnel-rot. A knot hardened in Korvan’s stomach, wholly apart from the Loom's chill. This was it. The infection had consumed Jorvel in the previous timeline, leaving him an ash-crazed husk. The initial stages, easily mistaken for common sickness. He had been so blind, so trusting, then. “Jorvel? What is this?” Korvan asked, his voice carefully neutral, masking the surge of his paranoia. Every potential ally was a future traitor. Every weakness, a vulnerability to be exploited. But Jorvel… Jorvel was the only exception, the only one he *had* to save. Jorvel pulled his shirt closed, his eyes wide with fear and shame. “It’s… nothing. Just a bruise from training.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and turned his face away. Korvan knew better. That was no bruise. It was the mark of death. The Morven Lodge hoarded a closely guarded antitoxin, a rare draught capable of stalling the early rot. It was kept under lock and key, reserved only for the ‘Golden Generation’ – the very targets Korvan intended to dismantle. He would steal it. “Rest,” Korvan said, his voice softer than he intended. He watched Jorvel fall into a fitful sleep, then rose. The Lodge’s vaults were legendary, brimming with deadly wards and traps designed to deter even Master-ranked Hunters. But Korvan was no mere Hunter. He was a Grave-Walker, and he had seen these vaults dismantled in a dozen timelines. The shadows took him as he moved through the moonlit corridors, noiseless as falling ash. The vault, hidden deep beneath the Lodge’s library, was a labyrinth of arcane safeguards. He bypassed the shimmering Dirge-wards by tapping the Loom's dark resonance, tracing the runes until they unravelled. Tripwires woven from enchanted spider silk dissolved into dust at his touch. Pressure plates rigged to bring down tons of ceiling remained inert under his tread. A gargoyle construct frozen in the alcove yielded as he murmured an archaic bypass phrase, its vigilance silenced by his Dirge-infused will. He reached the innermost chamber, a circular vault lined with dusty grimoires and relic stands. In the center, a reinforced cabinet, clearly designated for medicinal supplies, stood ajar. A single beam of moonlight cut through a high window, illuminating the interior. It was empty. The glass door hung shattered on its hinges, splinters scattered across the stone floor. The shelves within were bare. Someone had already been here. Pinned to the wall, right where the cabinet had been, was a note. It was a crude piece of parchment, affixed with a rusty dagger, its tip still weeping dark, viscous fluid. The paper was stained crimson. Korvan pulled the dagger free, his fingers brushing against the still-wet blood. He held it up to the pale moonlight. The sprawling, jagged script seemed to jump out at him. ‘The Golden Generation must be purged. You’re next, Grave-Walker.’

A Costly Miracle