Chapter 377 - Looking into the dark past! (9)

Hours earlier—

Before the guards’ panic.

Before the empty bed.

Inside the healer’s small wooden house, the air had been thick with heat and urgency.

The old healer stood over the bed, sleeves rolled high, gray hair clinging to her damp temples. A basin of steaming water sat beside her. Bundles of crushed herbs burned slowly in a clay bowl, smoke curling upward like thin prayers.

Her hands glowed steadily now.

Not flickering.

Focused.

Precise.

She pressed one palm over the woman’s abdomen, the other hovering just above, green mana weaving in controlled threads. Her lips moved under her breath—not loud enough to be a chant, not soft enough to be silence.

A prayer.

Not grand.

Not ceremonial.

Just a healer asking for steady hands.

"Stay with me," she muttered firmly. "Don’t you dare slip away now."

The woman screamed again, back arching violently as another contraction tore through her body. Her fingers clawed into the sheets, knuckles white.

"Breathe!" the healer commanded. "Push when I say!"

Sweat rolled down the old woman’s forehead, dripping from her chin as she leaned closer, eyes sharp despite her age.

The room smelled of blood and crushed leaves.

Of life and risk.

Outside of time, standing near the far wall—

The Saintess trembled.

Her hands hovered near her chest.

She couldn’t look away.

That woman—

Her mother.

That body writhing in agony—

Because of her.

Luca stood beside her, silent.

When her fingers began to shake violently, he reached out and took her hands.

She didn’t resist.

She didn’t even seem to notice.

Her eyes were locked on the bed.

The healer’s voice cut sharply through the room.

"Now! Push!"

The woman screamed—

And the sound of something new filled the air.

Not a cry.

Not yet.

The healer leaned forward.

For one long, breathless moment—

Silence.

Then—

She lifted a small, fragile body into the light.

Lavender-silver hair, damp and clinging softly to a tiny head.

The old healer blinked.

"...Oh?"

The child was not crying.

She was not wailing.

Instead—

She was smiling.

A soft, curious smile.

As if the world she had entered amused her.

Her tiny fingers flexed.

A faint sound escaped her—not a sob, but something like a quiet laugh.

The healer’s stern face softened.

"Well now..." she murmured, voice breaking into warmth. "What kind of child greets the world like this?"

She carefully wrapped the baby in clean cloth, her movements gentler than before.

The Saintess’ breath hitched.

Her vision blurred.

"That’s... me..." she whispered.

Not as a Saintess.

Not as a condemned woman.

Just—

A baby.

Born in pain.

Born in secrecy.

Born into shame.

Her knees nearly gave out.

Luca tightened his grip instinctively, steadying her.

She was shaking.

Not from cold.

From the weight of it.

The healer lifted the newborn slightly, studying her face.

Lavender-silver hair.

Bright, aware eyes.

"...May the Goddess bless you, little one," she said softly, touching a wrinkled finger to the baby’s cheek.

The child grasped it immediately.

Strong.

Alive.

The healer chuckled faintly despite the exhaustion lining her face.

"You’ll be trouble, won’t you?"

She bounced the baby gently, and the child made a soft cooing sound, gaze wandering as though trying to memorize the world.

On the bed, the woman stirred.

Her breathing was faint.

Weak.

But present.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Slowly—

She opened her eyes.

Blurry at first.

Then focusing.

She saw the old healer.

And in her arms—

A baby girl.

The woman’s vision cleared slowly.

Her lips trembled as she stared at the bundle in the healer’s arms.

"...Is she...?" her voice was barely air.

The old healer stepped closer to the bed.

"She lives," she said quietly.

For a moment, the woman didn’t react.

Then her hand lifted weakly.

Shaking.

The healer hesitated only a fraction before carefully placing the newborn into her mother’s arms.

The moment the baby touched her—

Something changed.

The woman’s entire body softened.

Her fingers, still trembling from pain, curved around the tiny form with fierce protectiveness. She pulled the child close to her chest as if afraid the world might snatch her away at any second.

Tears spilled down her cheeks instantly.

Not violent.

Not broken.

Just steady.

A silent stream.

"Oh..." she whispered.

Her lips curved upward.

It was the first true smile to touch her face.

And it was radiant.

The baby blinked up at her, eyes wide and curious. Then, as if recognizing something familiar, the child’s small hand reached upward and brushed against her mother’s chin.

The woman let out a soft laugh through tears.

"You’re smiling..." she murmured in disbelief. "Why are you smiling?"

The baby made a faint cooing sound.

Her tiny fingers wrapped clumsily around a strand of her mother’s lavender hair.

The woman closed her eyes for a second, pressing her forehead lightly to the baby’s.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I’m so sorry..."

Tears continued to fall, but the smile never left her lips.

She kissed the baby’s forehead once.

Then again.

As if trying to memorize the warmth.

Outside of time, the Saintess stood frozen.

Her own hand had risen to her mouth.

Her shoulders shook silently.

Luca stood beside her, jaw tight, eyes darker than before.

He did not speak.

He simply let her witness it.

On the bed, the woman slowly looked up at the old healer.

There was fear in her eyes now.

Urgency.

"Please," she said suddenly, voice trembling.

The healer stilled.

"You have to take her."

The old woman frowned. "What?"

"You have to let her go," the mother insisted weakly, clutching the baby tighter. "Don’t let her stay here."

Her breathing grew uneven again—not from labor now, but desperation.

"If Bishop Truce finds out she’s born—if he sees her—" her voice cracked violently. "You don’t know what he will do."

The healer’s expression hardened.

"He wants the child," she said carefully. "If she disappears, he will tear this district apart."

The woman shook her head.

"Then let him," she whispered fiercely. "But don’t let her fall into his hands."

Her fingers tightened protectively around the baby.

"Please," she begged. "You saw what they did to me. Do you think he wants her for anything pure?"

The healer’s jaw tightened.

Silence filled the small room.

The baby gurgled softly, oblivious to the fear surrounding her.

The mother’s tears fell onto the child’s blanket.

"I have nothing left," she whispered. "Not my name. Not my body. Not my future."

She swallowed hard.

"But she still has one."

Her voice trembled.

"Let her live somewhere far away. Somewhere no one knows her. Let her grow without this stain."

The healer looked away.

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"I’m old," she muttered. "I can’t run from the Bishop."

The woman shifted painfully, forcing herself slightly upright.

"Then leave," she said desperately. "Take her and leave this place."

Her tears fell faster now.

"I beg you."

The healer’s eyes moved slowly to the baby again.

The child was still smiling.

Still reaching toward the light filtering through the small window.

Innocent.

Unaware.

The old woman exhaled shakily.

"...Fine."

The word came rough.

"Fine."

She looked at the mother directly.

"Leave right away," she said. "I will be leaving this place as well."

Her voice lowered.

"If you get caught..."

The implication hung heavy.

The mother nodded immediately.

"I-I won’t say a word," she promised, clutching the baby once more before gently pressing her lips to the child’s forehead.

Her tears did not stop.

But neither did her smile.

The healer moved fast.

Far faster than her age suggested.

She wrapped the newborn securely in thicker cloth, binding the fabric carefully around the small body so no skin was exposed to the evening chill. Then she crossed the room in swift, efficient strides, snatching a leather satchel from a hook on the wall.

Her hands moved with precision.

Dried herbs. A small vial of healing tonic. Bandages. A wrapped knife. A thin pouch of coins hidden beneath a loose floorboard.

She shoved them inside without hesitation.

Behind her, the mother tried to sit up fully, her body trembling violently from blood loss and exhaustion.

"Don’t move too quickly," the healer warned, stepping to her side and supporting her shoulders.

But the woman shook her head.

"I can," she whispered, though her voice wavered. "I have to."

The baby stirred softly in her arms.

That was enough.

Whatever weakness had threatened to drag her back down—

Motherhood burned through it.

The healer wrapped one arm around her waist, helping her stand. The woman swayed for a moment, nearly collapsing, but she tightened her hold on the child and steadied herself.

They moved.

Not through the front door.

Through the back.

The healer pushed aside a narrow wooden panel, revealing a smaller exit that led into a shadowed alley.

Cool evening air rushed against them.

The sun had already dipped below the rooftops. The sky was deepening into violet and gold.

"We have to move fast," the healer muttered, scanning both ends of the alley before stepping out. "The guards will catch up with us soon."

The woman nodded weakly.

Her steps were uneven, but she didn’t stop.

Didn’t complain.

Her arms never loosened around the baby.

Every breath she took seemed painful—but she kept moving.

Luca and the Saintess followed silently.

The Saintess’ face had gone pale.

Her gaze never left the woman.

The alley opened into a narrow street.

And there—

Boards of Divine Guards patrolled.

Their golden armor reflected the dying light of the evening sun. Spears rested against their shoulders as they walked in steady formation, boots striking the stone in unison.

The healer froze.

The woman stiffened beside her.

One of the guards turned his head.

His gaze swept lazily across the street—

Then paused.

He took a step toward their direction.

The healer grabbed the woman’s arm.

"This way."

They slipped behind a protruding stone wall at the corner of a building, pressing themselves into the shadow. The healer held her breath. The woman leaned back against the cold stone, clutching the baby tightly against her chest.

The guard’s boots approached.

Closer.

Closer.

The Saintess stood inches away, unable to intervene, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

The baby made a faint, almost curious sound.

The mother quickly pressed her lips against the child’s forehead, whispering a soft shushing breath.

The guard stopped just beyond the corner.

Silence.

Then—

He turned away.

His boots receded.

The patrol moved on.

The healer slowly exhaled.

But they couldn’t stay there long.

The woman turned to her, fear rising in her eyes.

"W-what should we do now?" she whispered.