Roger approached, his expression a complex tapestry of pity interwoven with a touch of sorrow.
The Fourth Elder, grasping at straws, reached out to touch Roger, his voice a blend of desperation and hope, "Prince Saint, I have accomplished what you asked of me. My family..."
Roger deftly avoided the Fourth Elder's scarred hand, his voice steady and reassuring, "I keep my promises. Rest assured."
In the Fourth Elder's eyes, there seemed to be a fading light, a sign Roger recognized all too well - the ebbing away of life.
The Elder's body, already weakened by old ailments and the forced breakthroughs that left behind wounds inflicted by sage powers, was hard to heal.
These were not just physical scars but damages intertwined with the very laws of magic, notoriously difficult to mend.
His life was already hanging by a thread, and now he was sacrificing his last vestiges of vitality to pave a golden path for his family.
