The Rite at the Poisoned Font

White-barked trees crowd the slope above a dim spring, their pale trunks lit by a sickly green glow. The old Seraphic font lies cracked in stone, its water blackened at the edges, its holy song reduced to a shiver in the roots.

Lyra steps into the ring of roots with staff in hand and satchel at their hip. Around the font stand three veiled figures, their robes stitched with ash-gray thread, their sleeves marked with sealing runes.

One Wound-Saint kneels at the font, fingertips pressed to the stone as if listening for a pulse beneath the poison. Another lifts a silver bowl filled with clear herbs and moonwater, ready to pour.

The third Wound-Saint turns at Lyra’s approach. Beneath the veil, their posture tightens, wary but not wholly hostile, as if weighing whether aid is a blessing or a threat.

Lyra sinks to one knee beside the cracked basin, staff laid across their palm. They open the satchel, and the herbs breathe sharp green into the poisoned air.

Their hands move with practiced care, crushing leaves, tracing clean circles through moonwater, then drawing the mixture over the blackened stone seams.

The font answers with a faint silver tremor. Dark residue loosens from the water in threads, then unspools away into the roots below.

The sickly green glow softens. Clear water wells up through the cracks, and the old holy song steadies into a low, living hum.

The Third Wound-Saint lowers their tense shoulders a fraction, but keeps one hand lifted toward the spring, still watching Lyra for the final sign.