Touched by Angels
Several things happened at once. Orthael and Merall recoiled; even Judgement shifted uneasily in its scabbard. Blood magic was old, from a time long before the first records of the Church. The High Conclave had never formally declared it heresy, though the inquisitors had not let this stop them from making examples of the more brazen practitioners of the art.
They watched blood roll now, knowing that it was only obliquely warned of in the Scripture yet instinctively revolted by the way scarlet drops disappeared into dark metal.
The magistrate and the paladin exchanged glances, even as the girl's wound vanished before their very eyes. But the hallowed practitioners of the healing arts did not presume to judge whom they would and would not aid.
Merall began rolling up the sleeves of his robe. He snapped his fingers, summoning a fragment of the Archangel of Sparks to his hand from the lamp that burned beside them.
"I am he. Come, child, for the Flame shall bring thee unto wholesomeness."
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