Vulkan stood beneath the slowly clearing sky, watching warriors who had been on the brink of death rise again, watching their wounds heal, their breathing steady, and their eyes regain their focus.
He remained silent for a long time, complex emotions churning in his lava-like eyes—gratitude, relief, and a trace of deep bewilderment he could not name.
He turned to the old man beside him, who was packing away his bottles and jars as though ready to set off at any moment, and spoke in a low, solemn voice:
"Where do you intend to go next, elder?"
Vulkan paused, seemingly weighing his words, but ultimately chose the most direct approach. "If you are willing, I would like you to stay with us. The Salamanders Legion needs your wisdom and your medical skills. I can provide everything you need. You can continue your research, continue..."
"Ha ha ha ha," Festus laughed, his voice dry and hoarse, like dead leaves rustling in an autumn wind, yet without malice.
He raised his withered hand and waved it repeatedly, cutting Vulkan off. "No need, no need."
He tucked the last medicine bottle into some bottomless fold of his moth-eaten robe, then dusted his hands as though brushing away dirt that was not there.
"I must hurry to another place, to continue... spreading hope." As he spoke, his clouded eyes looked into the distance, his gaze seeming to pierce Hope Star's atmosphere and the veil of the warp, coming to rest on some distant, precise set of coordinates.
Vulkan fell silent for a moment before finally asking, "Elder, forgive the impertinent question... where do you intend to go?"
Festus tilted his head, his clouded eyes seeming to recall something, or perhaps to confirm an address.
He grinned, revealing sparse, yellowed teeth. "Ha, just a place