Oath of the King-Chapter 37: The Healing Road

"Today is finally the day," Leonhardt laughed, the sound ragged but filled with relief. "The day we leave this place."

Foll𝑜w current novels on fɾēewebnσveℓ.com.

Exhaustion was carved deep into his features — heavy bags under his eyes, shoulders slumped from endless days of healing. Hundreds had passed through his hands, and though his magic remained strong, his spirit frayed at the edges.

"Master," the orc beside him rumbled, adjusting the reins of their carriage, "I thought you enjoyed healing people?"

Leonhardt sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

"I do," he muttered. "But not when I have to heal nearly a hundred people a day. There's a limit, even for me."

With a weary smile, he stepped forward toward the grand annex. Waiting there was the Patriarch of the Lionfelt household — a proud, imposing figure — who handed Leonhardt his final stamp, a symbol of release. Freedom.

The moment Leonhardt stepped outside the estate gates, he couldn't hold it in. He threw his arms wide to the sky and screamed, loud and unburdened, startling birds from nearby trees.

It felt good.

Back in his quarters, Leonhardt found Althea — sharp-eyed and unamused as ever — going through travel supplies.

"Anything happen while I was busy playing battlefield medic?" Leonhardt asked, tossing his cloak onto the bed.

Althea scoffed.

"Tsk. You missed a lot," she said, before recounting the chaos — the knight trainee beaten half to death, the rumors swirling about Alden and Sylvie, the whispers of blood spilled in the shadows.

Leonhardt listened carefully, his grin growing wider with each word.

"Interesting," he mused, pulling a slim parchment ticket from his satchel. He flicked it toward Althea with a flourish.

"The Patriarch gave me this — entry to the upcoming Phoenix Tournament," he said, pride glinting in his tired eyes. "Our way into the thick of it all."

Althea raised an eyebrow.The orc just chuckled.

Without wasting time, they packed — essentials first, weapons second — and soon the carriage rumbled out of the Tungsten Gate, the exit reserved only for VIPs and those under the Patriarch's direct blessing.

The road unwound before them like a promise.

They talked as they traveled — trading jokes, lightening the heavy silence that had clung to them for weeks.

Until the carriage jerked to a sudden halt.

Leonhardt leaned out of the window, frowning. "What's going on?"

The orc driver scratched his head awkwardly. "Someone collapsed in the road, Master."

Leonhardt cursed under his breath and hopped down from the carriage.

There, sprawled across the dirt and stone, was a figure he recognized immediately — battered, bruised, and unconscious.

Alden.

His training wounds had festered untreated, and now his body had given out entirely.

Leonhardt knelt quickly, placing two fingers on Alden's throat to find a weak but steady pulse. His brow furrowed at the sight — bruises deep and angry, skin hot with fever.

Leonhardt stood and barked over his shoulder, "Get me clean water and a salve kit — now!"

The Healing Road wasn't over yet.

Not for him.

And not for Alden, who still had wars left to fight.