Ryl’oth's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Ryl'oth needed better supplies than the market stalls offered. The lower districts held secrets—hidden shops where healers traded remedies and knowledge. Their tendrils brushed against brick walls as they walked deeper into narrow streets. Purple eyes spotted a door marked with a painted leaf. Inside, shelves climbed to the ceiling, packed with jars and bundles. An old woman nodded at them without flinching. Ryl'oth's chest warmed. Here, strange didn't matter. They bought salve ingredients and proper bandages with their coins. The woman added extra dried moss without charging. "Healers help each other," she said. Ryl'oth left with full hands and something new—proof that others believed in their work. The walk back took them through the town square. A cracked stone statue stood near the center, its weathered surface marked by time. Deep lines cut across the carved face. The inscription called it a legendary healer who treated everyone without judgment. Fresh flowers lay at its base. Ryl'oth's tendrils reached out to trace the cracks in the stone hands that held a medicine bowl. Centuries had passed, but people still remembered. They still honored what this healer proved. Purple eyes studied the worn features. The nameless city held space for healers who looked different, who worked with strange hands, who chose compassion over appearance. Ryl'oth clutched their supplies tighter and turned toward their shop. The statue stood as proof that kindness could outlast stone itself.