The man’s fingers began to move.
William watched them open against the priest’s sleeve. A moment before, the hand had hung uselessly beneath a blood-soaked binding. Now the man was staring at it, turning it slowly as though it belonged to someone else.
Warm light shone between the priest’s palms.
“Easy,” the priest said. “Give it a moment.”
William’s mother rested a hand on his shoulder. For the first time since they had left the cellar, her grip loosened.
The little chapel was crowded with people who had nowhere farther to run. Someone had pushed the benches against the walls. A woman carried water between the wounded while, outside, Stormwind burned.
Here there were candles. Here a man who had been crying could move his hand again.
William edged closer.
The priest noticed him watching and smiled without interrupting his work.
Then the doors shook.
A guard near the entrance shouted for something to brace them. The priest looked up. His hands remained over the bandage for a moment before the light faded.
“Through the back,” he told William’s mother.
People were already moving. A wounded man fell against her, and she caught him beneath the arms. Between one breath and the next, William lost sight of her.
The brace across the doors began to splinter.
The priest took William by the shoulder and lifted the cloth hanging from the altar.
“Under here. Stay still.”
William crawled between the stone supports. The cloth fell behind him, leaving a low gap through which he could see the floor and the benches beyond.
He could see the priest’s shoes.
They turned away from the rear passage.
The man with the bandaged arm had slumped beside a bench. The priest knelt before him again, his robe spreading across the stones. Light gathered around his hands. Beneath the cloth, William watched it touch the man’s face.
The doors broke inward. A guard fell back between the benches.
The priest stayed where he was and began a prayer William recognised.
An axe struck him before he finished.
The priest folded forward. One hand landed palm upwards beneath the edge of the cloth. William watched its fingers curl against the floor.
The man whose arm had been healed tried to rise. He used that hand to catch a bench.
He did not reach the passage.
Blood ran along a shallow seam between the stones. William moved his fingers out of its path, then found it beneath his other hand.
He tried to remember the prayer.
He knew the beginning. His mother had said it beside his bed. He formed the words without making a sound and waited for the warmth he had seen around the priest’s hands.
A boot stopped beside the altar.
William drew back. His heel scraped stone.
The cloth lifted on the point of a blade.
He twisted as it thrust beneath the altar. Pain opened high on his arm. He pressed his other hand over his mouth and bit against his palm.
Someone shouted from the doorway. The boot turned.
Then fingers closed around his ankle from behind.
William kicked once before he heard his mother whisper his name. She was on her knees at the far side of the altar. She caught his wrist and pulled him towards the passage, gathering him against her when his legs would not hold him.
Outside, she tore a strip from her skirt and bound his arm. Her hands slipped. She had to start again.
He asked her whether the priest was coming.
She pulled the knot tight and could not look at him.
Years later, the scar would pale beneath his sleeve. He would accept a healer’s help when he needed it. He had seen what the Light could do.
But when someone told him to trust it, he remembered the priest turning back towards a person who could not walk.
He remembered the warmth.
And the hand beneath the cloth.
