Nyara's face burned as Riona carried her to the guard's house, her embarrassment lending some color back to her cheeks, which were white with exhaustion. A woman, looking to be in her late forties, opened the door, tsking as she took in Nyara's admittedly pitiful-looking state.

  "What kind of stray have you brought back now, Gerald?" the stern-looking woman asked, her hand on her hips.

  With a small spark of amusement, Nyara realized her pointed ears were covered by her hair.

  "This woman must think I am just some foolish human girl that her husband has taken pity on," the elf realized, her lips quirking up into a small smile.

  The guard—Gerald, she supposed she ought to start calling him—opened his mouth, then closed it just as fast, looking to Riona for help.

  "Hi! My name is Riona. I'm this lovely healer's bodyguard. Your husband told us that we could rest here while Nyara recovers her strength."

  Now Gerald jumped in. "It was incredible, Maurice! She healed 13 people fully of the Frost Fever!"

  The woman's brows raised, and she finally stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

  "Guest bedroom is the second door down on the left," she said curtly.

  Riona quickly made her way down the hall and deposited Nyara gently on the bed before she shut the door and came back to sit by Nyara's side.

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  "So, how ya feel, elf?" Riona asked, her irreverent tone a poor mask for her concern.

  Nyara grinned weakly. "I'm fine. Well, not really fine. My body is protesting from lack of mana. It is similar to how our bodies rebel when we are exhausted or starving," she explained.

  A wave of relief washed over Riona's face, turning just as quickly into mild anger.

  "I thought I told you not to overdo it! What happened to being careful?"

  Nyara sighed, exhaustion etched into her face as though she had not slept for days. The merc, realizing that Nyara needed rest, dropped the subject, instead tucking the elven healer under the covers. Riona sat by the elf's bed until she fell asleep, her breath coming in even, rhythmic bursts.

  The next morning, Nyara woke up and immediately jumped out of her borrowed bed. She ran to the forge and choked back a sob as she realized that one of the women—the older lady she had noticed the day before—was dead.

  Nyara moved to the next patient, then the next, her hands trembling with each effort. Her vision blurred, and her breaths came in shallow pants, but she didn’t stop. When she reached the blacksmith couple, her magic sputtered and faltered, the reserves in her mana core scraping dangerously close to empty.

  “Just one more,” Nyara whispered to herself, her voice hoarse. She poured what remained of her strength into the blacksmith, watching as the man’s labored breathing evened out and the tension in his body eased.

  As the last of her magic faded, Nyara collapsed to the ground, her body wracked with pain as her empty mana core ached like an open wound. The world tilted, and darkness crept in at the edges of her vision. That was how Riona found her—a crumpled heap on the forge floor,

  "Damnit elf. Using that much mana can't be good for you." the human muttered as she carried Nyara back to the guard's house.

  When Nyara awoke a full day later, she frowned, rattling the chain connected to her wrist and the bed. A few moments later RIona came into the room.

  "What the hell is this?" Nyara asked shaking the chain more vigorously.