The emergency council meeting had been called before the boy was even settled on Eldara's healing table. Village Chief Garrett paced the small chamber while the village elders sat in tense silence, their faces reflecting the gravity of what had occurred.
"A century and a half," Elder Miriam said, her voice barely above a whisper. "A century and a half since the founding, and no outsider has ever found us. Not one."
"The river comes from deep in the mountains," added Elder Thomas, stroking his gray beard nervously. "How could anyone survive those rapids long enough to reach our valley? It's impossible."
"And yet here we are," Village Chief Garrett replied grimly, pausing in his pacing to look at each council member in turn. "A slave-marked child, half-dead from injuries that suggest serious conflict upstream. Someone knows enough about our waterways to use them as an escape route."
Captain Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "With respect, sir, the boy was unconscious when we found him. There's no evidence he came here deliberately."
"That almost makes it worse," Elder Miriam snapped. "If he found us by accident, others could too. Our entire way of life depends on secrecy."
The debate continued for another hour, voices rising and falling as fear and pragmatism warred with basic human compassion. In the end, they reached a compromise that satisfied no one but addressed everyone's concerns.
The boy would be healed. But he would also be watched.
Every moment. Every breath. Until they could determine whether he represented salvation or doom for their hidden sanctuary.
Eldara worked with the efficient calm of someone who had been saving lives for more than thirty years. Her herb shop had been converted into a makeshift surgery, with the boy laid out on her largest table while she assessed the damage that had been done to him.
"Mira, hand me the willow bark extract," she commanded, her hands never pausing as she cleaned the diagonal gash across his chest. "This one's deep, but it missed anything vital. He's lucky."
"Lucky?" Mira asked, passing the requested bottle while trying not to look too closely at the worst of the wounds. "Master Eldara, he looks like someone tried to kill him."
"Someone did try to kill him," the herbalist replied matter-of-factly. "Multiple someones, from the look of it. But they failed, and that makes him very lucky indeed."
The healing process was methodical and thorough. Eldara cleaned each wound with practiced precision, applied various poultices and ointments that filled the air with the scent of herbs and magic, and carefully stitched the deeper gashes with thread infused with healing properties.
But even as she worked to save his life, her mind kept returning to the larger question that the boy's presence represented. How had he found them? And what would happen when he woke up?
"Mira, prepare a bed in the back room," she instructed as she finished bandaging the chest wound. "He'll need to stay here while he recovers, and I want him where I can monitor his condition."
The apprentice nodded and hurried to comply, but not before Eldara noticed the worried glance she cast toward the door. Word had already spread through the village about their unexpected visitor, and the tension was palpable.
Guard duty had never felt so important.
Private Marcus Thorne—no relation to the sergeant—settled into the chair beside the boy's bed and tried to project an air of casual alertness. This was his third watch in as many days, and the routine was becoming familiar.
Check the breathing. Note any movement. Watch for signs of awakening. Report anything unusual to Captain Henrik immediately.
The boy looked harmless enough lying there—just a child, really, covered in bandages and barely moving. But Marcus had been briefed on the stakes. This stranger represented the first breach in their security in living memory. If he was a scout, a spy, or somehow connected to hostile forces, he could destroy everything they had built.
"Any change?" asked Sergeant Thorne as he entered for the shift transition.
"Nothing, sir. Breathing's steady, but he hasn't so much as twitched." Marcus stood and stretched, working out the kinks from sitting still for four hours. "Eldara checked on him about an hour ago. Said the healing is progressing normally."
Thorne nodded and took his place in the chair. This was the fourth day since they had found the boy, and the village's anxiety hadn't diminished. If anything, it had grown worse as people had time to consider the implications.
"Captain wants everyone to stay sharp," Thorne said as Marcus prepared to leave. "Council's meeting again tonight to discuss... options."
Marcus didn't ask what those options might be. He had heard the whispers, seen the fearful looks. Not everyone in the village was convinced that healing the boy had been the right choice.
By the sixth day, a routine had been established that provided constant surveillance while maintaining the pretense of medical care. Guards rotated every four hours, with Eldara checking on her patient regularly and Mira helping to change bandages and monitor his vital signs.
Private Jennifer Walsh had the early morning watch, sitting in the pre-dawn darkness and listening to the steady rhythm of the boy's breathing. She found herself oddly invested in his recovery—not because she trusted him, but because his continued unconsciousness was the only thing preventing difficult decisions from being made.
The boy was healing faster than anyone had expected. His color had improved dramatically, and most of the smaller wounds had already closed completely. Even the vicious diagonal scar across his chest was knitting itself back together with remarkable speed.
"Too fast," Eldara had muttered during her last examination. "This level of healing suggests a constitution attribute or something similar. The boy has power."
That revelation had sent fresh waves of concern through the village leadership. A powerless slave child was one thing. An unknown magic user who had breached their security was something else entirely.
Jennifer shifted in her chair and rubbed her tired eyes. Two more hours until Corporal Davies arrived for the next shift. Two more hours of watching someone who might be either victim or threat, depending on what happened when he finally—
The boy's eyes opened.
Jennifer's breath caught in her throat as she found herself staring into awareness that was far more alert than anyone who had been unconscious for six days had any right to possess. The boy didn't thrash or cry out or show any of the confusion typically associated with awakening from severe trauma.
He simply looked at her with the calculating gaze of someone who was immediately and completely aware of where he was and what had happened to him.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the boy's lips curved into what might have been a smile.
"Good morning," he said quietly