The air in Veridia always hummed with low, resonant prayers to the Sun-Blessed One—a deity of blinding light and harsh judgment. From the moment he could understand words, Elos had been taught that the Sun-Blessed One was the sole bringer of warmth, dispenser of justice, and ultimate arbiter of fate. Its golden disc, carved into the temple square, was the first thing his young eyes saw each morning—and the last at dusk.

Yet, even as a child, a discordant note vibrated within him against the constant devotional hum of the town. He was a healer, his small hands gifted with an uncanny knack for soothing aches, reducing fevers, and coaxing fractured bones back into alignment. He saw no divine hand in his abilities, no flash of celestial power—only the intricate dance of nature's forces, the delicate balance of life, and the steady thrum of vital energy within all living things.

He mended, soothed, and brought comfort. But when the townsfolk prostrated themselves, faces pressed into the dust before the colossal solar emblem, Elos bowed his head in polite deference. His true reverence was reserved for the whisper of wind through ancient trees, the quiet unfurling of a fern frond, and the gentle, persistent will of a seed pushing through hardened earth.

From his earliest days, Elos had been drawn to the living world with an almost obsessive curiosity. While other children chased sun-dappled butterflies or played hide-and-seek among market stalls, Elos was often found kneeling by the riverbank, meticulously examining the veins of a fallen leaf or patiently observing how a tiny beetle navigated tangled roots.

This fascination grew into a methodical passion. He spent hours in his cluttered room, not poring over the Sun-Blessed scriptures required of all aspiring healers, but with his own crude parchment scrolls and charcoal sticks, sketching every plant and creature he encountered. He labeled them with invented names, noting the color of their blossoms, the texture of their leaves, the type of soil they preferred, and the creatures that interacted with them.

This was no idle curiosity. It was a profound need to understand the world—to break it down into its parts and discern its logic. His love of cataloging everything stemmed from a belief that understanding nature’s patterns and properties was the true path to healing.

“Why, Talmak,” he asked one day, a decade before his exile, his voice earnest despite his youth, “does the prayer to the Sun-Blessed One heal the fever, yet crushed willow bark also brings the fever down? Are they not both doing the same work?”

Talmak, the head healer and a staunch devotee, frowned, her gentle eyes clouded with concern. “Elos, the willow bark is merely a vessel, a gift from the Sun-Blessed One. It is the prayer, the faith that activates its healing potential. Without faith, it is just... wood.”

Elos nodded, but the explanation felt hollow. He tried the willow bark on a stray dog with a fever—a creature incapable of prayer—and watched as the heat subsided. He noted it down: Willow bark, effective regardless of conscious faith. These observations, carefully recorded in secret journals, began to form a counter-narrative to the temple’s teachings.

His need to question was not born of rebellion, but genuine yearning for truth and consistency. If something worked, he wanted to know how and why—not just accept decree.

His quiet dissent was an open secret. How could one so gifted, whose hands channeled undeniable power, deny the source of all blessings? The elders watched him, suspicion heavy in their gaze, their murmurs growing louder with each answered prayer unaccompanied by fervent declaration of faith in the Sun-Blessed One.

They valued his abilities—his healing touch was often more potent than temple rituals. Yet his subtle philosophical deviations were an irritant—a crack in the foundation of their rigid world.

Elder Marek, a man whose faith was as unyielding as the mountains of Vasal, often sought Elos—not to praise, but to admonish.

“Elos,” he rumbled, voice low and warning, “your gifts are a blessing, yes, but a dangerous one if not properly steered. You speak of patterns, properties, a ‘life force’ in plants. Where is the Sun-Blessed One in this? Do you forget who truly empowers your touch?”

“Elder,” Elos replied carefully, “I see the Sun-Blessed One’s light in how the sun warms soil, in the growth of grain, in the vitality of creatures. But the healing itself comes from a deeper, older wisdom. A wisdom inherent in Vasal’s fabric—a wisdom I believe the Sun-Blessed One also respects. It is the intricate design, the compassionate flow of energy through the world that I honor.”

These were never debates—only declarations by Marek and respectful but unyielding counterpoints from Elos.

He struggled to articulate the depth of his conviction in a ‘creator of love and compassion’—a deity from ancient, dust-laden scrolls he’d discovered in the village’s forgotten archives. Tales told of a time when the world worshipped a benevolent force, a universal embrace—not a demanding light.

To Elos, this older deity resonated with the harmony he saw in nature: the plant’s defenses, the symbiotic roots and soil, the precise chemicals in berries that cure or kill. These were not arbitrary gifts but a manifestation of an intelligent, compassionate force.

He saw its presence in the interconnectedness of all life on Vasal—a planet rich with forests, wetlands, soaring mountains, and vast oceans.

His prayers to this nameless creator were silent communions, offerings of gratitude for the wisdom in every leaf and stream, for existence’s intricate blueprint.

The confrontation came inevitably. A blight swept Veridia—starting as a dry cough that escalated to suffocating gasps, stealing breath from children and leaving adults feverish, weak, and burning with agony.

Panic gripped the village. The Sun-Blessed priests chanted ceaselessly, voices hoarse, rituals elaborate—but the sickness persisted.

Elos worked tirelessly. His hands moved with desperate speed, mind a whirlwind of botanical knowledge. He concocted poultices from rare mountain moss, brewed teas from deep-forest roots, meticulously administering them—often using ingredients secretly gathered from forbidden shadowed groves beyond village walls, places the temple deemed impure.

He saved many—perhaps more than any healer that season—but some he could not. The deaths, though few, fueled the temple’s narrative: the blight was a divine test, failure a sign of insufficient faith.

The final blow came in the somber quiet of the mourning hall. The air thick with incense and unspoken grief, Elder Marek fixed his strained gaze on Elos, pale with exhaustion but eyes still defiant.

“You speak of herbs, boy,” Marek boomed, voice echoing unnaturally in the hush, “but not once have you invoked the Sun-Blessed One! Not once truly prayed to the source of all healing during this affliction!” Elos met his gaze, voice soft but clear, conviction piercing the silence.

“I prayed,” he said. “To the creator of love and compassion—the spirit nurturing all life on Vasal. The one who hears silent pleas of suffering hearts, who weaves healing into the plants we use. The one who designed the willow bark Talmak spoke of.”

A collective gasp rippled through the villagers. The old deity—spoken only in hushed, ancient tales before the Sun-Blessed One’s rise—was named aloud. To acknowledge it openly in crisis was heresy—a direct challenge to the authority promising salvation. Whispers erupted—fear, shock, and hesitant understanding from those he healed.

“Exiled!” Marek declared, face a mask of righteous fury, voice shaking with weight.

“You are cast out, Elos! Let your blasphemous prayers guide you across the wastes. Veridia has no place for a healer who denies its light and undermines faith’s foundation!” The words struck Elos not with pain, but with a strange, liberating finality.

He turned to leave, heart heavy but steps firm. He felt villagers’ eyes—some pity, some anger, a few sparks of empathy or curiosity. His former patients looked torn, gratitude warring with ingrained fear.

No one spoke or reached out. Silence was the loudest accusation. With only a worn leather satchel containing a few dried herbs, a battered mortar and pestle, and simple clothes, Elos walked away from the only home he knew.

Cold air pressed against his cheeks; dust clung to worn boots.

The village gate, old and scarred, creaked open grudgingly—then clanged shut behind him with a hollow sound severing his past.

The weight of unbelief, once a quiet internal burden, now felt like air—thin, cold, but vast and unbounded.

Yet as he stepped onto the winding dirt path into Vasal’s boundless, whispering forests, a curious lightness unfurled—a blossoming purpose.