The days following Clarissa's return blended together in a haze of quiet recovery. Their small tent became a sanctuary of hushed voices and careful movements. Lucius rarely left his mother's side, bringing her water, adjusting her blankets, watching her face for signs of pain. The neighbors helped as they could—a pot of thin broth here, a loaf of bread there—small offerings that kept them from starving.
Clarissa slept most of the time, her body fighting to heal from wounds both seen and unseen. When she was awake, her eyes followed Lucius with a fierce protectiveness, as if afraid he might disappear if she looked away too long.
Marcellus visited every evening after sunset, slipping through the narrow alleys with practiced stealth. He brought herbs for tea and salves for Clarissa's wounds, but his greatest gift was the golden healing light that flowed from his fingertips when no one was watching.
One evening, as Marcellus worked his quiet miracle on a particularly ugly wound across Clarissa's shoulder, Lucius asked the question that had been burning in his mind.
"Why don't people know about what you can do?"
Marcellus's hands paused, the golden light flickering like a candle in the wind. He didn't look up from his work, but his voice was heavy when he answered.
"Because those who should protect such gifts are the ones who fear them most."
Before Lucius could ask what he meant, a commotion outside drew their attention. Marcellus quickly covered Clarissa's shoulder and extinguished his healing light. Lucius peered through a gap in the tent flap.
A man in expensive robes stood in the central clearing, surrounded by curious slum dwellers. His clothes marked him as someone from the inner city—perhaps even the Basilica itself. Beside him, two guards in polished armor surveyed the crowd with cold, calculating eyes.
"We seek only information," the robed man was saying, his voice cultured and smooth. "About the miracle at the well. The woman who was arrested—Clarissa—has been released, as you know. But the Basilica wishes to understand what truly happened that day."
The slum dwellers shifted uncomfortably, exchanging wary glances. No one spoke.
"A generous donation will be made to your community for helpful information," the man continued, gesturing to a small chest one of the guards carried. "The Basilica cares deeply for all citizens of Umbra Lux."
Still, no one stepped forward. The silence stretched until the man's smile tightened around the edges.
"Very well," he said finally. "Should anyone remember something important, the Basilica welcomes your testimony at any time."
As the man and his guards departed, Lucius ducked back inside the tent. Marcellus's face was grim, his hands trembling slightly as he gathered his supplies.
"They're watching," he whispered to Clarissa. "We must be more careful than ever."
Clarissa nodded weakly, her eyes finding Lucius's. "No more miracles," she murmured. "Promise me."
But even as Lucius nodded, the memory of that golden light burned in his mind like a forbidden treasure.
------------------------------
Lessons from Marcellus
Three days later, when Clarissa was strong enough to sit up and move around the tent, Marcellus took Lucius aside. They walked to Marcellus's workshop—a small, cluttered tent where he created his mosaics and pottery from broken things.
"You have questions," Marcellus said, sitting on a low stool and gesturing for Lucius to join him. "I can see them in your eyes."
Lucius nodded, perching on a crate across from the older man. "The light—your healing—why does the Basilica hate it? Isn't healing good?"
Marcellus's weathered hands worked a piece of clay as he spoke, shaping it with practiced ease. "The light isn't mine, Lucius. It flows through me, not from me. It comes from true faith and compassion—a connection to something greater than ourselves."
"Then why—"
"Because," Marcellus continued, "the Basilica teaches that healing comes only through them, through rituals and donations and sacrifice. They say the sicker the person, the greater the payment must be." His voice hardened. "They've built their golden domes on the suffering of others, claiming to be the only bridge between the divine and the desperate."
Lucius frowned, watching Marcellus's hands work the clay. "But what you do... it doesn't cost anything."
"That's exactly the problem." Marcellus looked up, his eyes intense. "True miracles require nothing but faith and compassion. No gold, no sacrifices, no middlemen in fancy robes. And that threatens everything they've built."
He paused, shaping the clay into a small bowl. "Have you ever been inside the Basilica, Lucius?"
The boy shook his head.
"I have, once, many years ago. The inner sanctum glitters with gold and precious stones while people starve outside its walls. The high priests wear silks while the sick lie in rags. And for a miracle?" He gave a bitter laugh. "They'll take everything a family has, promising healing in return."
"But your light—"
"Is not mine," Marcellus corrected gently. "I am merely a vessel. The light flows through those who remain true to what faith really means—compassion, humility, love for others above yourself." He set the clay bowl aside and looked directly at Lucius. "The Basilica calls people like me heretics and sorcerers because they cannot control what we represent."
Lucius absorbed this, his young mind wrestling with implications beyond his years. "Is that why they took my mother? Because she protected you?"
Marcellus nodded slowly, regret shadowing his face. "Yes. And I will carry that debt forever." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Lucius, you must understand—the authorities are always watching. What you saw me do must remain our secret. Lives depend on it."
"But if you can heal people—"
"I do, when I can, when it's safe," Marcellus said. "But I must be careful. We all must be. The Basilica has eyes everywhere, especially now."
As if to emphasize his point, they heard voices outside—unfamiliar, authoritative. Marcellus quickly pulled Lucius toward the back of the tent, pressing a finger to his lips.
Through a small gap in the fabric, they watched as two men in simple clothes—too clean and well-fitting for the slums—walked slowly past, asking questions of anyone they encountered. Their manner was casual, but their eyes missed nothing.
"Investigators," Marcellus breathed against Lucius's ear. "Looking for miracles."
When the men had passed, Marcellus returned to his stool, his expression troubled. "The light is a gift, Lucius, but in Umbra Lux, it's also a danger. Remember that."
Lucius nodded, though a part of him wondered what it would feel like—to have such light flow through his own hands, to heal instead of harm, to defy the powerful in the name of compassion.
"Can anyone do it?" he asked suddenly. "The healing?"
Marcellus studied him for a long moment before answering. "Not everyone, no. Only those whose faith is pure, whose hearts are open to being a vessel." His eyes softened. "Why do you ask?"
Lucius shrugged, looking away. "Just wondering."
But the seed of possibility had been planted, taking root in fertile soil.
------------------------------
The Forest Adventure
A week later, when Clarissa was well enough to sit outside and do small bits of mending, Lucius felt the walls of their tiny tent closing in on him. Weeks of worry and care had left him restless, craving open spaces and the simple freedom of childhood.
He found Tullia near the communal well, helping her mother wash clothes. Her face brightened when she saw him, as if she'd been waiting for his return to the world of the living.
"Lucius! You're out!" She abandoned her washing and ran to him, her braids bouncing. "How's your mother?"
"Better," he said, surprised at how good it felt to say the word. "She's sitting up now, even doing a little sewing."
Tullia grinned, relief evident in her eyes. "Good. We've all been praying for your mom." She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "People are saying strange things about what happened."
Lucius tensed. "What kind of things?"
"That your mom did something... special. At the well that day." Tullia's eyes were wide with curiosity. "And that's why they took her."
"They're wrong," Lucius said quickly—too quickly. "She just happened to be there when the girl got better. That's all."
Tullia looked unconvinced but didn't press. Instead, she glanced at her mother, who was deep in conversation with another washerwoman, then back at Lucius with a mischievous smile.
"Want to go to the forest? Just for a while?"
The forest at the edge of the slums was technically forbidden to the children—a boundary they rarely crossed. But today, the thought of green shadows and secret paths called to Lucius like a promise of escape.
"Yes," he said, the decision immediate and freeing. "Now?"
Tullia nodded enthusiastically. "I'll tell my mother I'm helping you gather herbs for your mom. She won't question that."
Minutes later, they were slipping through the narrow gap in the outer fence where a section had rusted away, their hearts pounding with the thrill of small rebellion. The trees welcomed them with dappled sunlight and the sweet scent of wild jasmine.
"Race you to the big rock!" Tullia called, already darting ahead, her bare feet sure on the familiar path.
Lucius followed, laughing for what felt like the first time in ages. They ran deeper into the forest than usual, pushing past their known boundaries, drunk on freedom and the absence of watchful eyes.
They discovered a small stream they'd never seen before, its clear water bubbling over smooth stones. Tullia collected odd-shaped leaves while Lucius found a stick that looked exactly like a sword. They played imaginary games, fought invisible monsters, and for a few precious hours, they were simply children again—unburdened by the weight of Umbra Lux's realities.
"Look!" Tullia pointed excitedly to a rocky outcrop rising above the trees. "I bet we can see the whole forest from there!"
The rocks formed a natural staircase up the hillside, moss-covered but manageable. Tullia scrambled up first, her nimble fingers finding easy purchase in the crevices. Lucius followed more cautiously, testing each handhold before trusting his weight to it.
"It's amazing!" Tullia called from above. "I can see the city walls and—" Her words cut off in a sudden, terrified yelp.
Lucius looked up just in time to see her foot slip on a patch of wet moss. Her arms flailed wildly, grasping at air as she toppled backward off the narrow ledge. Everything slowed—Tullia's scream, the horrified widening of her eyes, the sickening moment of suspended weightlessness before gravity claimed her.
"TULLIA!" Lucius reached for her, fingers stretching uselessly as she fell past him.
She hit the ground with a thud that seemed to shake the forest, her head striking a jagged rock with a sickening crack. The sound that came from her throat was like nothing Lucius had ever heard—a raw, animal cry of pain that quickly faded to an even more frightening silence.
He scrambled down the rocks, slipping and scraping his hands in his haste. When he reached her, Tullia lay motionless, blood pooling beneath her head, her eyes closed and face deathly pale.
------------------------------
Desperate Moment
"Tullia! Tullia, wake up!" Lucius knelt beside her, his hands hovering uncertainly over her still form. The blood spreading from the back of her head stained the forest floor, turning the fallen leaves a deep crimson.
He touched her shoulder gently, then more urgently when she didn't respond. "Please, Tullia. Please wake up."
They were too far from the slums—at least an hour's walk. Even if he ran for help, Tullia would bleed too much before he could return with adults. The gash on her head looked terrible, deep and ragged where the rock had split her skin.
"Hold on," he said, his voice shaking even though she couldn't hear him. "I'll—I'll go get help."
But as he started to rise, Tullia's eyelids fluttered. A weak moan escaped her lips, and her fingers twitched. She was alive—barely.
"Lucius?" Her voice was barely audible, slurred and confused. "What...happened?"
"Don't move," he urged, relief flooding through him that she could speak at all. "You fell. Hit your head. There's... there's a lot of blood."
Tullia tried to lift her hand to her head, but the movement seemed to cause her pain. Her eyes couldn't focus properly, drifting closed then opening again with visible effort. "Dizzy," she murmured. "Everything's...spinning. And dark."
Panic surged through Lucius. He recognized the signs from when Old Marco had hit his head during the winter—the confusion, the slurred speech, the failing consciousness. Tullia wasn't just hurt; she was slipping away.
"Stay with me," he pleaded, patting her cheek gently. "Talk to me, Tullia. Tell me... tell me about the bird's nest you found yesterday."
She tried to respond, but her words dissolved into unintelligible sounds. Blood continued to seep from the wound, and her breathing grew more shallow. Her skin had turned a sickly grayish-white, and a bluish tinge crept into her lips.
Lucius looked frantically around the forest. They were too far from help. No one would find them in time. Tullia was dying, right here, right now—and it was his fault for agreeing to this adventure.
In desperation, he remembered Marcellus's golden light—the healing that flowed from his hands. Was it possible? Could he...?
"True faith and compassion," Marcellus had said. "Being a vessel for something greater."
Lucius placed his trembling hands on either side of Tullia's head, carefully cradling the wound. He closed his eyes, blocking out the forest, the fear, the impossible odds. Instead, he focused on Tullia—her smile, her laughter, the way she always shared her bread with younger children. He thought of how much she mattered, not just to him but to her mother, to the community.
"Please," he whispered, not even sure who he was speaking to. "Please help her. Not for me, but for her."
Nothing happened. No warmth, no light, no miracle. Just the sound of Tullia's increasingly shallow breathing and the distant call of birds, indifferent to human suffering.
Lucius pressed harder, tears falling freely now. "Please," he begged. "I'll do anything. Just don't let her die."
Still nothing. Tullia's breathing had become so faint he could barely detect it.
"I believe," Lucius whispered fiercely, the words torn from some deep, instinctual place within him. "I believe you're there. I believe in the light. Please, flow through me. Help her."
At first, he thought the tingling in his palms was just fear or exhaustion. Then came the warmth, spreading from his chest down his arms to his fingertips. He opened his eyes and gasped.
A faint golden glow—weaker than Marcellus's but unmistakable—emanated from his hands. It trembled and flickered like a newborn flame, uncertain and fragile. But it was there.
------------------------------
The First Miracle
The light pulsed between his fingers, gaining strength with each beat of his heart. It sank into Tullia's wound, wrapping around the damaged skull and torn flesh like liquid sunshine. Lucius watched in awe as the bleeding slowed, then stopped altogether, as the ragged edges of the wound began to draw together.
But something was wrong. Unlike Marcellus's healing, which left no trace, the wound on Tullia's head was closing imperfectly. The skin puckered and twisted, forming an angry red scar in the shape of a starburst. And though the bleeding stopped, Lucius could sense that beneath the surface, things weren't fully healed—the damage to her head had been too severe for his novice abilities.
The light faded, leaving Lucius dizzy and weak, as if he'd run for miles. He slumped back against a tree trunk, suddenly exhausted beyond words. But Tullia's breathing had steadied. Color returned to her cheeks, and her eyelids fluttered open, confusion replacing the deathly stillness in her expression.
"Lucius?" she murmured, pushing herself up on her elbows with effort. "What happened? I feel... strange." She touched the back of her head gingerly, wincing when her fingers found the newly formed scar.
"You fell," Lucius said, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "Hit your head on that rock. You were bleeding badly."
Tullia frowned, clearly struggling to piece together her memories. "There was light," she said hesitantly. "Golden light. I think... I think it came from your hands."
Lucius shook his head quickly. "You lost a lot of blood, Tullia. Your vision was probably playing tricks on you. Look—" he pointed upward through the tree canopy, "—do you see how the sunlight looks strange through the leaves? Almost like stars in the daytime?"
Tullia looked up, then back at Lucius, her gaze skeptical. "That's not what I saw. I was barely conscious, but I remember the light. It felt... warm. And it came from you, Lucius. I know it did."
"You hit your head," Lucius insisted, avoiding her eyes. "Hard enough to cut it open. People see all sorts of things when that happens. Old Marco thought he saw his dead wife after he fell off his roof last winter, remember?"
Tullia touched her scar again, wincing. "If that's true, then how did my wound close? It should still be bleeding."
Lucius scrambled for an explanation. "I... I pressed leaves on it. Special ones, like my mother uses. They help blood clot faster." He gestured vaguely at the forest floor, where various leaves lay scattered. "And I tied my shirt around your head for pressure."
She looked at him doubtfully, clearly not entirely convinced but perhaps too shaken by her near-death experience to argue further. With visible effort, she tried to stand, then gasped and fell back.
"Still dizzy," she muttered. "Everything's spinning."
"Here, lean on me," Lucius offered, moving to help her despite his own weakness. "We need to get back to the slums. Your mother will be worried, and you need rest."
Together, they made their way slowly through the forest, Tullia leaning heavily on Lucius, occasionally stumbling as her balance failed her. The going was difficult, and several times they had to stop while Tullia fought waves of nausea. Whatever healing Lucius had managed, it was incomplete—the head injury still affected her, even if it was no longer immediately life-threatening.
As they neared the slums, Tullia paused, turning to Lucius with solemn eyes. "I know what I saw," she said quietly. "And someday, I hope you'll trust me enough to tell me the truth."
Lucius met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. "I'm just glad you're okay," he said, evading her implied question. "Let's get you home."
By unspoken agreement, they created a story for their return—Tullia had fallen from the rocks, but not as badly as had actually happened. She'd hit her head, and Lucius had helped stop the bleeding with forest herbs. Nothing more.
As they reached the edge of the slums, Tullia squeezed Lucius's hand briefly. "Thank you," she whispered. "Whatever happened out there... thank you for my life."
The weight of those words settled on Lucius's shoulders—a burden and a gift.
------------------------------
Confession to Marcellus
That evening, after seeing Tullia safely home and checking on his mother, Lucius sought out Marcellus. He found the older man alone in his workshop, piecing together a broken vase with careful patience.
"Marcellus," Lucius said from the doorway, his voice barely audible. "I need to tell you something."
Perhaps something in his tone betrayed him, for Marcellus set down his work immediately, giving Lucius his full attention.
"Come in," he said, gesturing to the stool beside him. "What troubles you?"
The words tumbled out in a rush—the forest, Tullia's fall, the terrible head wound, the desperate attempt to save her, the light that came when all seemed lost. As he spoke, Lucius watched Marcellus's face transform from concern to astonishment to something like awe.
When Lucius finished, displaying his still-tingling palms as evidence, Marcellus sat in silence for a long moment.
"Show me the light," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion.
Lucius closed his eyes, trying to recapture the feeling from the forest—the desperate need, the belief, the connection to something greater than himself. At first, nothing happened. Then, faintly, a flicker of gold appeared between his fingers, weak but undeniable.
Marcellus exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath. "I had wondered," he murmured, almost to himself. "I had hoped."
"What does it mean?" Lucius asked, letting the light fade. "Why can I do this?"
"It means you have a gift," Marcellus said, resting a hand on Lucius's shoulder. "A rare and precious gift. One that chooses its vessels carefully." He paused, his expression growing serious. "But it also means you're in danger. More danger than you can possibly understand."
"Because of the Basilica?"
Marcellus nodded grimly. "Yes. The Basilica's power depends on controlling access to the divine. True miracles—miracles that ask for nothing in return—threaten that control."
"But why?" Lucius pressed. "If they serve the same God—"
"Do they?" Marcellus looked at him sharply. "The God I serve asks for compassion, not gold. For love, not blind obedience. For healing, not sacrifice." He sighed, suddenly looking much older. "The Basilica long ago chose power over truth, Lucius. They've built an empire on the belief that they alone can intercede with the divine."
Lucius considered this, turning the golden light on and off between his fingers like a newly discovered toy. "My healing... it left a scar. And Tullia's still dizzy. Your healing doesn't leave marks."
"The gift grows with practice and understanding," Marcellus explained. "My first healings were imperfect too. The light works through us, but our own doubts and fears can cloud it." He looked at Lucius's hands with something like pride. "That you managed to heal a head injury at all on your first attempt is remarkable. Such wounds are among the most difficult to heal completely."
"Will you teach me?" Lucius asked eagerly. "To do it better?"
Marcellus hesitated, conflict evident in his eyes. "Lucius, this isn't a game. The more you use this gift, the more likely the Basilica is to find you. They have ways of detecting true miracles—like hounds scenting prey."
"But if I could help people—"
"You could also be imprisoned. Or worse." Marcellus gripped Lucius's shoulders firmly. "What happened to your mother would seem merciful compared to what they do to miracle workers."
The weight of this sobered Lucius instantly. The memory of his mother's scars, of her haunted eyes when she returned, was still too fresh.
"Then I won't use it," he promised, though the words felt wrong even as he spoke them.
Marcellus studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "No. That's not the answer either." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "The gift was given to you for a reason. To hide it completely would be as wrong as using it recklessly."
He stood, pacing the small workshop, deep in thought. Finally, he turned back to Lucius. "I will teach you—not just how to heal, but when and why. You must learn control, discretion, and above all, wisdom." His voice softened. "But you must promise me something in return."
"Anything," Lucius said immediately.
"You must promise never to use your gift without my guidance, at least until you've mastered it fully. And you must tell no one else—not even your mother, for now. The knowledge would only put her in more danger."
The thought of keeping such a secret from his mother troubled Lucius, but he understood the reasoning. Slowly, he nodded. "I promise."
Marcellus's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good. We'll begin tomorrow, in secret. Small lessons, nothing that would draw attention." He glanced toward the entrance of his tent, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "For now, go home. Your mother will be worried."
As Lucius rose to leave, Marcellus added softly, "You did a brave thing today, saving your friend. Never forget that the true purpose of this gift is to ease suffering, not to gain power."
The words followed Lucius home like a blessing and a warning.
------------------------------
Shadows Closing In
Three days later, an unusual procession entered the slums. Guards in polished armor led the way, followed by robed acolytes bearing baskets of bread and fruit. At the center walked a tall, austere figure—a high priest from the Basilica, his robe embroidered with gold thread that caught the sunlight as he moved.
Word spread quickly. The slum dwellers gathered, drawn by both curiosity and the promise of food. Children peeked from behind their parents' legs, eyes wide at the spectacle. Lucius stood with his mother, who leaned heavily on a walking stick, still weak from her ordeal.
"Citizens of Umbra Lux," the high priest announced, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "The Basilica extends its blessings and care to all, especially those most in need."
The acolytes began distributing bread and fruit, moving through the crowd with practiced efficiency. As hungry hands reached for the offerings, the high priest continued his speech—words of unity and divine protection, of the Basilica's benevolence and watchful care.
"The divine light shines on all of Umbra Lux," he proclaimed, "but it flows properly through sanctified channels. The Basilica alone holds the sacred knowledge to channel divine grace for healing and blessing."
Lucius shifted uncomfortably, feeling the new awareness of the light within him. Beside him, Clarissa stood rigid, her knuckles white around her walking stick.
"In these troubled times," the priest continued, "we must be vigilant against false miracles and unsanctioned healings. Such perversions of the divine order endanger not just the practitioner but all who witness them."
His gaze swept the crowd, pausing briefly—too briefly to be certain, but long enough to send a chill down Lucius's spine—on the spot where he stood with his mother.
"The Basilica offers generous rewards for information about unsanctioned miracle workers," the priest added. "Not out of malice, but out of concern for the spiritual welfare of all citizens."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The slum dwellers were hungry but not foolish. They recognized the threat beneath the honeyed words.
As the distribution continued, Lucius noticed two acolytes moving purposefully through the crowd, not distributing food but observing, questioning. One approached Tullia and her mother, smiling benignly as he spoke to them. Lucius couldn't hear the exchange, but he saw Tullia stiffen, her hand unconsciously moving to cover the starburst scar on the back of her head.
"Come," Clarissa whispered, tugging at Lucius's sleeve. "We should go home."
But before they could slip away, one of the observing acolytes intercepted them. He was younger than the others, with keen eyes that missed little.
"You are Clarissa, are you not?" he asked, his tone pleasant but his gaze sharp. "The one who was recently released from questioning?"
Clarissa nodded stiffly. "Yes."
"And this is your son?" The acolyte turned his attention to Lucius, studying him with uncomfortable intensity.
"Yes. Lucius."
"A fine name," the acolyte remarked. "After the saint who brought light to darkness." He crouched slightly, bringing himself to Lucius's eye level. "Tell me, young Lucius, have you witnessed anything unusual in the slums lately? Anything... miraculous?"
Lucius's heart hammered against his ribs. He thought of Tullia's head wound, of the golden light between his fingers, of Marcellus's warnings.
"No, sir," he said, forcing himself to meet the acolyte's gaze directly. "Just normal things."
The acolyte's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained. "Are you certain? Even small things could be important. The Basilica rewards those who help maintain divine order."
"He's just a boy," Clarissa interjected, her voice tight with controlled fear. "He knows nothing of such matters."
"Children often see what adults miss," the acolyte countered, still watching Lucius. "Their eyes are unclouded by... preconceptions."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Then, as if making a decision, the acolyte straightened. "The Basilica blesses your family," he said formally. "May divine light guide your path."
He moved on, but Lucius felt the man's attention lingering like an invisible thread, connecting them still.
When the delegation finally departed, laden with information if not evidence, an uneasy quiet settled over the slums. People returned to their tents and shacks, the gifted food clutched in their hands, but the priest's words hung in the air like a poisonous mist.
That evening, as darkness fell, Marcellus arrived at their tent, his expression grave. "They're watching more closely than ever," he murmured, accepting the cup of thin tea Clarissa offered. "The visit today was no act of charity. It was reconnaissance."
Clarissa nodded, her face drawn with worry. "The way they looked at Lucius..." She shuddered. "As if they knew something."
"They suspect, perhaps, but know nothing for certain," Marcellus said, though his tone lacked conviction. "But we cannot take chances." He turned to Lucius, who sat cross-legged on his blanket, listening intently. "Our lessons must be more cautious than I planned. More secret."
"What lessons?" Clarissa asked sharply, looking between them.
Marcellus hesitated, exchanging a glance with Lucius that didn't go unnoticed by Clarissa. "I've offered to teach Lucius more about my craft," he said carefully. "Working with broken things, creating something new."
It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Lucius looked down, uncomfortable with the deception.
Clarissa's eyes narrowed. "There's something you're not telling me." It wasn't a question.
Marcellus sighed, setting down his cup. "Clarissa, there are things that—"
"No," she interrupted, her voice suddenly steel. "No more secrets. Not after what I endured." She pulled back her sleeve, revealing the ugly scars that wound up her arm like angry snakes. "I earned the right to know exactly what dangers threaten my son."
The tent fell silent. Lucius looked between the adults, torn between his promise to Marcellus and his loyalty to his mother. Finally, Marcellus nodded, a gesture of surrender.
"You're right," he admitted. "You deserve the truth." He turned to Lucius. "Tell her."
Lucius swallowed hard, then held out his hands, palms up. Concentrating as Marcellus had taught him, he summoned the golden light—just a flicker at first, then a small, steady glow that illuminated the tent with soft radiance.
Clarissa's sharp intake of breath was the only sound. She stared at her son's hands, at the impossible light dancing between his fingers, and tears filled her eyes.
"When?" she whispered. "How?"
"Three days ago," Lucius answered, letting the light fade. "Tullia was hurt in the forest. Badly hurt. She fell and hit her head on a rock. There was so much blood... I thought she was going to die."
Understanding dawned on Clarissa's face. "The scar on her head. That wasn't from a simple fall, was it?"
Lucius shook his head. "Her skull was cracked. She was bleeding so much, and getting colder by the second. I didn't know what else to do."
"He saved her life," Marcellus said quietly. "His first healing. Imperfect, but miraculous nonetheless."
Clarissa pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "My son," she breathed, pride and terror warring in her voice. "My son has the gift."
"The same gift they imprisoned you for protecting," Marcellus reminded her gently.
The implications settled over the tent like a heavy blanket. Clarissa reached for Lucius, pulling him close to her chest. "We should leave Umbra Lux," she said suddenly. "Tonight. Go far away where the Basilica can't find us."
"And go where?" Marcellus asked. "The Basilica's influence extends beyond the city walls. And winter approaches. We wouldn't survive the journey, especially in your condition."
"Then what?" Clarissa demanded, still holding Lucius tightly. "Wait for them to take him, as they took me? To do to him what they did to me?" Her voice broke on the last words.
Marcellus leaned forward, taking her free hand in his. "No. Never that." He squeezed her fingers gently. "I've made a decision. I will teach Lucius to control his gift—to use it wisely and hide it completely when necessary. But I can't protect him alone, not with the Basilica's eyes everywhere."
"What are you suggesting?" Clarissa asked warily.
"We need help. Trusted help." Marcellus lowered his voice further. "There are others like us in Umbra Lux. Hidden, careful, but there. A small circle who preserve the true meaning of faith and healing."
Lucius looked up in surprise. "Others? With the light?"
Marcellus nodded. "Few, and scattered. We rarely gather, for safety's sake. But together, we might protect you both better than I could alone."
"You never mentioned others before," Clarissa said, suspicion edging her voice.
"For their protection as much as mine," Marcellus replied. "We survive by remaining separate, unknown to each other except through trusted intermediaries." He paused, then added with a slight smile, "Though sometimes, we just happen to find each other. There's something about people who carry the light—certain habits, a way of looking at the world. We recognize our own kind, even without seeing the gift itself. Birds of a feather, as they say."
"How so?" Lucius asked, fascinated.
"The way someone treats the broken things in life, whether objects or people. A particular gentleness. A willingness to help without expectation of reward." Marcellus's eyes softened. "I first suspected your potential when I saw how you helped Old Marco after his fall last winter. Most children your age would have run away from the blood, but you stayed, holding his hand until help came."
Lucius hadn't thought of that incident in months, but now he remembered the strange warmth he'd felt that day—a precursor, perhaps, to the light that had finally manifested with Tullia.
"Can these others be trusted?" Clarissa pressed, bringing them back to the immediate concern.
"I don't know all of them personally," Marcellus admitted. "But I know one—a woman named Livia. She was my teacher, many years ago. If anyone can help us navigate this danger, it's her."
Lucius absorbed this new information, both excited and frightened by the revelation that there were others like him—like Marcellus. A community, hidden within Umbra Lux, preserving the true gift of healing.
"When can we meet her?" he asked eagerly.
"It's not that simple," Marcellus cautioned. "Livia lives deep in the inner city, disguised as a servant in a noble house. Reaching her requires care and planning." He turned back to Clarissa. "But first, I need your blessing. This decision affects Lucius's life—his future. It must be yours to make."
Clarissa was silent for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing the scars on her arm. Finally, she looked up, her eyes clear and determined.
"Teach him," she said. "Teach him everything—how to use the gift and how to hide it. And yes, seek help from your Livia." Her voice hardened. "But understand this, Marcellus: if I sense for one moment that Lucius is in danger, we will flee, winter or no winter. I will not lose my son to the Basilica's cruelty."
Marcellus nodded solemnly. "I understand. And I give you my word—I will protect him with my life if necessary."
The three sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their pact settling around them. Then Lucius spoke, his young voice steady despite the fear that fluttered in his chest.
"When do we begin?"
"We already have," Marcellus replied. "Your healing of Tullia was the first step. Now we must build on that foundation—carefully, secretly." He glanced toward the tent flap, as if checking for shadows. "Tomorrow, come to my workshop at dawn. We'll start with the simplest lessons while the slums are still quiet."
As Marcellus rose to leave, Clarissa caught his arm. "Thank you," she said softly. "For everything."
He covered her hand with his, a gesture both tender and respectful. "We're in this together now. All of us."
After he had gone, Lucius and Clarissa prepared for sleep, spreading their thin blankets side by side. As Lucius settled beside his mother, she brushed the hair from his forehead, studying his face as if memorizing it.
"Are you afraid?" she asked quietly.
Lucius considered the question honestly. "Yes," he admitted. "But also... not afraid. It feels right, somehow. The light, I mean. Like it was always there, just waiting."
Clarissa smiled, though her eyes remained sad. "You have your father's heart," she whispered. "He would be so proud of you."
"Would he?" Lucius had few memories of his father—just impressions of strong hands and a deep laugh.
"More than you can imagine," Clarissa assured him. "He believed in helping others, no matter the cost." She pulled the blanket up around them both. "Rest now. Tomorrow will come soon enough."
As Lucius drifted toward sleep, he felt the light inside him, warm and steady—a golden ember waiting to be fanned into flame. Outside, the night guards patrolled the streets of Umbra Lux, their torches casting long shadows against the city walls. And somewhere in the inner city, the Basilica Aeterna stood silent and watchful, its golden dome gleaming in the moonlight, its secrets held close.