The scent of embalming fluid, sharp and clean, was a familiar comfort. Yaroslav Kruk, his spectacles perched low on his nose, meticulously closed the incision on the sternum of the man on his slab. Each stitch was precise, a tiny act of creation amidst the finality of decay. He worked in the muted glow of a single oil lamp, its light struggling against the perpetual smog that clung to the windows of 'The Last Welcome'. Outside, Taranov groaned and clanked, a symphony of industry and despair. Inside, only the whisper of linen and the snip of his shears broke the silence. This was his peace. This quiet, unremarkable existence. So different from the last. He still saw it sometimes, in the hollow sockets of a cadaver: the blinding flash tearing through the continent, the screams as the plague consumed everything. He'd been a battlefield surgeon then, but even his craft hadn't been enough to stitch the world back together. In the end, he had watched the last bastion of humanity fall to mineral horrors. Now, he was just Yaroslav, a mortician. A quiet keeper of the dead, and, in secret, a quiet healer of the living too. The Awakened with their gleaming Cores, the ordinary folk with their rusted bones—all found their way to his discreet clinic beneath the mortuary. A neutral ground, for those who couldn't afford the Conclave’s prices, or simply didn't trust its gilded promises. He dabbed the final suture with linen, the faint azure glow of his unique restorative power fading from his fingertips. The cadaver looked... serene. Almost as if it had simply fallen asleep. The thought brought a rare, wry curl to Yaroslav’s lips. Serenity was a luxury few found, living or dead, in Rodinya. Then, the world outside decided his peace had lasted quite long enough. A metallic shriek tore through the night, followed by the sickening crunch of something heavy impacting the side of his building. A cascade of loose stones rattled down the alleyway, punctuated by a guttural, wet thud right outside his front door. He froze, shears still in hand. Not the typical crash of a drunken carriage or a street brawl. This felt… deliberate. Ominous. He placed his tools carefully on a tray, his movements calm despite the knot tightening in his gut. A part of him, the old, battle-hardened surgeon, was already assessing escape routes, potential threats. The other part, the world-weary mortician, just wanted to finish his work and return to his book. He wiped his hands on a fresh towel, then moved towards the sound, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain that separated the embalming room from the reception area. The bell above the front door, usually so grating, had been torn from its hinges, dangling by a single wire. The door itself hung crookedly, splintered at the frame. And sprawled on his threshold, half-in, half-out of the cold night air, was a girl. She was young, probably no older than eighteen, with a wild tangle of dark hair plastered to her forehead by sweat and blood. Her clothes, once fine, were shredded, revealing a latticework of angry, glass-rimmed gashes. The worst was a gaping tear in her side, pulsing with an unnatural, sickly green light. Even from a paces away, Yaroslav could smell the foul ozone of corruption seeping from it. She was barely breathing. And hovering above her, a tiny, agitated blur of emerald feathers, was a mottled familiar. It chirped with frantic urgency, flitting between the girl's face and Yaroslav's, its bright, intelligent eyes wide with desperation. Its feathers were ruffled, its movements jerky. “*Chirp!* Healer! *Chirp!* You must help her! She’s… she’s very much alive still!” The sparrow’s voice, a surprisingly clear, high-pitched squeak, was laced with panic. It was a familiar, a spirit-bound creature, and a powerful one, judging by the shimmer of its aura. And its words, though delivered with comical urgency, resonated with a desperate plea. Yaroslav knelt, his gaze sweeping over the girl. Dark, expressive brows, a stubborn set to her jaw even in unconsciousness. And then, he saw it. The faint, almost invisible sigil on her wrist, partially obscured by grime and blood. The crest of the fallen Volya house, rumored across the northern reaches to have burned to ash. The girl. *Zima Volya*. The catalyst. The one whose reckless vendetta, in his prior lifetime, had opened the final gate for the continent's ruin. His hands, calloused from years of stitching, hesitated. His goal was simple: a quiet life, prevent the apocalypse. Letting her die, here and now, would certainly achieve the second part. No Zima, no revenge, no catastrophic collapse. A cold, clinical calculation. The world would be safe, even if it meant sacrificing this one stubborn, brave, doomed girl. But then he saw the way her chest struggled for air, the faintest tremor of life fighting against the creeping paralysis of the contagion. He saw the tiny familiar practically throwing itself at his spectacles. And the old oath, the one he’d sworn in another life, on another battlefield, resurfaced from the depths of his cynicism. *First, do no harm. Second, save a life if you can.* The calculation dissolved. The mortician gave way to the surgeon. He swiftly shed his blood-stained gloves, his movements now efficient, decisive. “Bring her inside,” he commanded the sparrow, his voice low, gravelly. “Quickly. The corruption is already taking hold.” The bird chirped a grateful, if slightly wobbly, affirmation. It seemed to expand, its emerald aura flaring, and with a surprisingly strong gust of wind, gently nudged Zima’s unconscious form further into the mortuary, past the splintered door. Yaroslav grabbed a clean tarp, spreading it on the floor of the reception area, not wanting to risk moving her to the slab just yet. He needed to stabilize her, and quickly. He knelt beside her, his fingers probing the edges of the laceration. Mineral spurs were spreading outward along her ribs. It pulsed with the same green light, a grotesque mockery of life. He needed to act fast, or she would be gone, swallowed whole by the parasite. “What attacked her?” he asked, his eyes scanning her for other injuries. He found multiple smaller cuts, some deep bruises, but nothing as immediately life-threatening as the tainted rupture. “A… a Groan-bound Awakened,” the bird chirped, landing on Zima’s shoulder. “One of the warlord's brutes. She fought well, but… it wasn't enough.” The little creature's perkiness remained bizarrely intact. Yaroslav set aside questions of politics for now. He peeled back the tattered fabric, exposing translucent tendrils of sharp growth. This was not like stitching ordinary flesh. He placed his hands around the torn skin, palms flat. The familiar hum of his power awoke, a cold, pure light blooming from his fingertips. It wasn't healing in the traditional sense; it was reversing the rupture, dismantling the calcified rot, restoring what had been. His concentration was absolute. He felt the insidious cold of the Blight, the hunger of the crystallized infection trying to burrow deeper. He pushed against it, an invisible, titanic struggle of wills. For endless moments, nothing happened. Then, a low, resonant thrum. The shards along Zima's flank shrank with brittle snaps back toward the seam of flesh. The green luminescence dimmed under the steady blue glare of Yaroslav's hands. A harsh discord vibrated through his wrists, jarring into his collarbone as if taut wire had snapped beneath the floorboards. He ignored the vibration, fixing his attention entirely on the torn muscle. Slowly, painfully, the wound began to close. The torn flesh knitted, the blood flow ceased, the vibrant green replaced by the healthy flush of skin. He kept his palms pressed until only a pale seam remained across her ribs. He pulled his hands away, panting slightly, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. The effort had been immense. Zima Volya gasped. Her eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused for a moment, then sharpened, darting around the dusty reception area. She pushed herself up, wincing, and touched her side where the wound had been. Her fingers met only smooth skin. Confusion warred with a flash of raw, untamed fury in her gaze. [Mending: Major Trauma Reversed. Target's Core Stability: Recovered.] The bird flapped onto her collar, piping cheerfully. “Right, now that introductions are over, you’re helping us hunt down the warlord.”

A Delivery, Overdue