Fantasy Clinic: Chronicles of a 3rd-Rate Doctor-Chapter 43: Riders of the Forgotten Line

The wind outside the city had teeth.

Dust swirled as Elric and Lira stepped onto the outer road, cloaks drawn close. Behind them, the city gates remained open—but the silence they left behind felt heavier than the road ahead.

The three riders stood beside their horses. Now that the urgency had passed, Elric took the time to study them properly.

The leader removed his hood first—a man in his thirties, with weatherworn skin, dark hair streaked by sun, and a jagged scar beneath his left ear.

"Elric," he said, extending a hand. "Name's Roran Vale. Scout-lead for the settlement of Halcroft. Out near the Ashridge line."

Elric took his hand. "You said you were healers."

"We were," Roran said. "Before the soil started to burn and the children stopped speaking their own names."

The second rider, a younger woman with a hawk feather braided into her hair, stepped forward. Her voice was clear, steady.

"Neera Calden," she said. "I run the last herbal station east of the ridge. My sister was the first to lose her voice. I came because no one else would."

The last figure remained quiet for a beat longer. Then pulled back her scarf. Older than the others, eyes lined with grief.

"Marin Elwyne," she said softly. "Librarian. I... keep records. Even of the things no one wants written."

Elric nodded once to each of them.

Lira raised an eyebrow. "You kept records?"

"In Halcroft, yes," Marin said. "But the Council stopped sending paper three winters ago. I write on bark now."

"Even bark remembers," Elric murmured.

He turned to his team—Sylas tightening the saddle bags, Veyra adjusting straps on the supply mule, and Cai seated quietly on the wagon's edge, eyes half-closed.

"We ride now," Elric said. "No more waiting."

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Same Time: Western Ridge Outpost

Council banners flapped weakly in the wind, forgotten by their bearers.

Inside a watchtower, a lone messenger scribbled a report with shaking hands.

> Symptoms accelerating. Whole village unable to speak for three days. Memory collapse consistent.

He hesitated.

> Rumor spreading: a healer walks from the capital. Not a king. Not a soldier. Just a name: Elric.

He sealed the scroll with wax—and hesitated again.

Then he wrote a final line.

> If he reaches Ashridge, the roots may rise again.

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Back on the Road

The trail wound east, through hills that once held orchards and now held only twisted bark and whispering leaves. As the group rode, Neera pointed toward the far skyline.

"There. That's the outer range. Once we cross it, we're in no-man's land. Council patrols don't come here anymore."

"Why?" Lira asked.

"Because they say the trees there remember things louder than people do."

Cai spoke suddenly, his voice low.

"They're right."

Everyone turned to look.

He pointed toward a thin stretch of forest in the distance.

"I hear them," he said.

Marin paled. "We call it the Shadeland Grove."

Elric narrowed his eyes.

"I think that's where we'll start."

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