They stayed.

  Toussaint took a room offered without price, a narrow space behind the main structure with a cot, a basin, and a door that didn’t quite close unless you lifted it. Ives took the chair by the window and lit a cigarette the moment the latch clicked.

  “You’re thinking too loudly,” she said.

  Toussaint lay back on the cot, hands folded over his chest, eyes on the ceiling where cracks formed shapes he didn’t try to name. “That obvious?”

  “You only do that when you’re deciding whether to interfere,” she replied.

  He exhaled. “I’m deciding whether interference would make things worse.”

  Outside, the settlement settled. Voices faded into low murmurs. Footsteps passed.

  It sounded… normal.

  That bothered him more than the miracles.

  They watched from a distance as night fell. Lanterns were dimmed. The last of the offerings were carried inside, sorted without ceremony. Toussaint noticed it then, the way the bundles were handled differently.

  Most were set aside.

  A few were placed carefully into a separate case.

  Ives followed his gaze. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

  “Red,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Toussaint replied. “I see it.”

  Wrapped tight. Oilcloth. Careful hands. Not reverent, but deliberate.

  They didn’t speak about it again until later.

  When the healer came to them, it wasn’t announced.

  He knocked once, waited, then opened the door when Toussaint said nothing.

  Up close, the wrongness softened.

  He didn’t look powerful. He didn’t look holy. He looked like a man who’d learned how to keep his posture straight so people didn’t notice when he swayed.

  “You stayed,” the healer said.

  Toussaint sat up. “We were invited.”

  The healer smiled faintly. “Everyone here is.”

  Ives watched from her chair, smoke curling lazily.

  “You wanted to see how it works,” the healer said, looking at Toussaint. Not a question.

  Toussaint met his gaze. “I wanted to see if it works on me.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The healer studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “All right.”

  He knelt in front of Toussaint and placed two fingers lightly against his wrist.

  Nothing happened.

  The healer’s brow furrowed. He adjusted his grip, pressed slightly harder, like someone checking a stubborn pulse.

  Still nothing.

  Toussaint felt the touch. Warm. Human. But there was no pull. No shift. No quiet sense of something leaving him.

  The healer’s expression changed.

  Recognition.

  He withdrew his hand slowly.

  “That’s interesting,” he said.

  Ives leaned forward just enough to show she’d noticed too. “What is?”

  “You don’t… give,” the healer said, eyes still on Toussaint. “There’s nothing to take.”

  Toussaint tilted his head. “Try harder.”

  The healer hesitated, then placed his hand flat against Toussaint’s chest.

  For a fraction of a second, Toussaint felt pressure.

  Resistance.

  The healer recoiled as if he’d touched a hot surface, breath catching. He staggered back a step, hand curling into a fist.

  “No,” he said quietly. “That won’t work.”

  Toussaint studied him. “That’s never happened before?”

  The healer shook his head once. “Everyone has time,” he said. “Some more than others. But everyone has something.”

  “And me?” Toussaint asked.

  The healer’s gaze lifted, steady now. “You don’t spend it, not yet.”

  Silence settled between them.

  Outside, someone laughed. A child ran past the window, feet pounding dirt.

  Ives spoke. “How long have you been here?”

  The healer didn’t look at her. “Long enough.”

  “That’s not an answer,” she said.

  “It’s the only one that doesn’t invite trouble.”

  Toussaint stood. “People bring you… things.”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of them red.”

  The healer’s mouth tightened, just slightly. “They don’t understand what they’re giving.”

  “And you don’t correct them,” Ives said.

  The healer finally looked at her. “Would you?”

  Ives didn’t answer.

  Toussaint did. “If this place gets out,” he said, “it won’t survive belief. It’ll drown in it.”

  The healer nodded. “I know.”

  “And the ones who try to take it there?” Ives asked.

  The healer was quiet for a long moment.

  “Most people come here because they want to live,” he said at last. “Some come because they want power. Some because they want to sell hope.”

  “And those people?” Toussaint asked.

  “They don’t stay,” the healer replied.

  Not threatening or proud. Just factual.

  Later, when the healer had gone and the room felt smaller without him, Toussaint sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees.

  “This place has been here a long time,” he said.

  “Yes,” Ives replied.

  “Too long for one miracle.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her. “If we talk about this—”

  “It becomes a target,” she finished.

  “And if we don’t,” Toussaint said, “it keeps working.”

  Ives crushed out her cigarette slowly. “It keeps feeding on itself.”

  Toussaint nodded.

  Outside, the settlement slept. The line was gone. The offerings were locked away. Somewhere in the hall, the healer lay awake, listening to breaths slow and stop and start again.

  “We can’t burn this down,” Toussaint said.

  “No,” Ives agreed.

  “And we can’t protect it,” he added.

  “No,” she said again.

  Toussaint stood and pulled his jacket on. “Then we do what we’re good at.”

  Ives looked up at him. “Which is?”

  “We watch,” he said. “And we make sure no one louder comes knocking.”

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded once.

  Outside, belief held.

  For now.