Elya drifted in and out of consciousness, her body floating in the hazy space between sleep and waking. At first, she could not tell if she was truly alive or caught in some fevered dream. There was warmth, something soft beneath her aching limbs, a stark contrast to the biting cold that had gripped her before she fell. Slowly, awareness returned, creeping in like the first light of dawn.

  Her mind pulled her elsewhere, into the depths of her dreams. She found herself submerged in the cool embrace of water, moonlight glinting off the surface as she floated weightlessly. Lina was there, swimming ahead, her dark hair sleek against the waves. Elya's gaze met hers, and for a fleeting moment, something almost tender flickered between them—until Lina's expression shifted. Her playful smirk twisted into something sharp, unreadable, a silent accusation hiding behind her eyes. Elya’s stomach tightened, her muscles tensing under the water’s surface.

  A splash echoed through the night, and Jalen surfaced nearby, shaking droplets from his hair as he grinned. His presence soured the moment, and Elya’s annoyance burned just beneath her skin. He belonged here even less than she did. She swam away, distancing herself, but the laughter of the two behind her followed like a specter, inescapable, lingering in the space between her and the warmth she once sought.

  The scene shifted. Now, she stood outside a house she barely recognized. Through the window, she could see her siblings gathered around a wooden table, their faces lit by the flickering glow of candlelight. They were older, changed, their smiles free of burden. They belonged in this place, in this life, and she was just a shadow outside their warmth. She knocked, but the sound did not reach them. She called out, but her voice was swallowed by the night. They did not see her, did not hear her. The ache in her chest spread like a wound too deep to heal.

  Then, suddenly, she was in her own home, or what she imagined home should be. A fire roared in the hearth, casting golden hues over sturdy wooden floors. Small feet pattered across the room—her children, their laughter ringing like chimes in the wind. She reached out, lifting one into her arms, feeling the weight, the warmth, the absolute certainty of belonging. A man’s voice called from another room, steady and familiar, though his face remained just out of reach.

  Magic thrummed in her veins, untamed and perfect. With the flick of her wrist, flames danced, water rose, and the wind sang at her command. The world obeyed her will, and the others—mages of renown—stood back, watching in reverence. She had become what she was meant to be. Whole. Powerful. Unbreakable.

  Then it all shattered. The fire dimmed, the warmth drained away, the children dissolved into mist. The magic bled from her fingertips, slipping through her grasp like sand in an hourglass. The house cracked apart, the walls peeling away like parchment in the wind, until she was left standing in the cold, alone, weak, and wanting.

  She fell into the void, the weight of loss pressing into her chest. When she landed, the real world returned, bringing with it an unfamiliar sense of comfort, a balm against the long years of pain and suffering.

  She inhaled deeply, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs, woodsmoke, and something faintly floral. It was different from the damp rot of the forest, from the dust and sweat of the road. Her fingers twitched against soft fabric, her head resting on a pillow that felt impossibly plush compared to the unforgiving ground she had known for so long.

  Elya forced her heavy eyelids open, her vision blurry at first. The ceiling above was wooden, beams stretching across it in neat lines. Soft golden light filtered in through a small window, casting gentle shadows on the simple but tidy space. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of herbs, folded cloth, and carefully arranged vials of liquid. The scent in the air suddenly made sense—this was a healer’s home.

  A chair scraped softly against the floor. Elya turned her head, her neck stiff with disuse, and saw a woman watching her with quiet intensity. The woman’s face was lined with wisdom, her dark eyes patient but assessing. Strands of silver threaded through her neatly braided hair, and her hands, though strong, moved with practiced care as she set aside a bowl of steaming liquid.

  “You’re awake.” The woman’s voice was calm, steady. “Good.”

  Elya tried to speak, but her throat was raw, her voice catching in her chest. She barely managed a croaked whisper.

  “Drink this.” The woman, Mirelle, as Elya would later learn, lifted the bowl and brought it to Elya’s lips, helping her sip the warm broth. The taste was simple but rich, the warmth flooding through her, settling in her stomach like an anchor.

  Tears pricked at the edges of her vision. The kindness was too much, too foreign. She had prepared herself for pain, for rejection, for the end. Not this. Not someone lifting a spoon to her lips, making sure she swallowed, adjusting the blankets so she would not catch a chill.

  Mirelle watched her, saying nothing, letting the silence fill the space between them. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she brushed Elya’s damp hair away from her forehead, her touch as light as a whisper.

  “You’ve been through worse than most,” she said softly. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

  Elya swallowed, feeling the knot in her throat tighten. Mirelle’s gaze held no pity, only certainty, as if she knew the weight Elya carried without needing to ask. She adjusted the blankets, smoothing them with a careful hand. “Rest now. You’re safe.”

  Safe. The word curled around Elya like a lullaby, soothing the tension she had held for so long. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she let herself believe it.

  Mirelle tended to Elya with practiced ease, explaining in quiet tones that she had found her barely alive on the outskirts of the village and had brought her in. Though her words were simple, her hands spoke of experience, wrapping Elya’s wounds with deft movements, applying salves infused with goldenroot and arnica to cool the heat of fever and ease aching muscles. She mixed herbal poultices of comfrey and willow bark, pressing them gently to bruised skin, while chamomile and valerian were steeped into calming teas to settle Elya’s frayed nerves. She worked tirelessly, ensuring Elya’s fragile body was nourished with warm broths fortified with bone marrow and medicinal roots to rebuild her strength. The warmth of the room, the scent of medicinal herbs hanging in the air, and the steady presence of the healer anchored Elya in reality, keeping the haze of her nightmares at bay.

  The process of healing was slow, her body, weakened from starvation and exposure, protested even the smallest of movements. Sitting up took effort, and standing felt like an impossible feat. Each day, Mirelle coaxed her into taking small steps forward, introducing her to light tasks that kept her mind engaged, sorting medicinal supplies, grinding herbs, learning the properties of plants and their uses. Elya, reluctant at first, found a quiet satisfaction in the work. The act of contributing, of using her hands for something other than survival, grounded her in ways she had not expected.

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  Trust did not come easily. In the beginning, Elya flinched at sudden movements, watching Mirelle with wary eyes, expecting cruelty disguised as kindness. But Mirelle never pressed, never demanded. She simply offered what Elya could take, never more. Days passed, then weeks, and in the silent hours of the evening, Elya found herself listening to the steady rhythm of Mirelle’s work, the scrape of mortar against stone, the rustle of parchment as she recorded her findings. The healer’s quiet presence became something Elya did not know she needed.

  Yet the past clung to her like a shadow. At night, the nightmares came, visions of her time on the road, of hunger gnawing at her ribs, of figures looming in the darkness, offering warmth at a cost she was too weak to refuse. She woke in a panic, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her body slick with cold sweat. Each time, Mirelle was there, as if she had been waiting. She would press a warm mug into Elya’s trembling hands, a mixture of herbs meant to soothe frayed nerves. Sometimes, she would speak in low tones, recounting stories of her own past, of battles fought not with swords but with patience and knowledge. Other times, she said nothing, merely staying until the storm within Elya quieted.

  Slowly, Elya’s body strengthened, her limbs no longer as frail, her movements steadier. The fear, though still present, loosened its grip. It had been nearly four months since she had left the tower, a journey that had stripped her to the bone and left her on the edge of survival. But here, under Mirelle’s care, she had begun to reclaim herself. And for the first time in as long as she could remember, she allowed herself to consider that maybe, just maybe, she was truly safe.

  Once Elya was strong enough to move without excessive strain, Mirelle began teaching her the foundational principles of healing magic. Unlike the structured, aggressive magic she had learned in the tower—where power was imposed through dominance and force—healing followed the same structured forms but with a different intent. All magic relied on precise spell structures, including healing, which required careful infusion of energy into the body's natural healing processes. Instead of using raw power to command change, healing magic was about precision, balance, and guiding the body’s restoration. Healing required patience, not brute force, and an understanding that the spell structure must align with the body's natural ability to repair itself. Rather than imposing change, a healer worked within the existing framework, reinforcing and accelerating the body’s processes using magical infusion.

  Mirelle explained that healing magic was not about forcing a body to mend, but rather guiding it toward restoration. "The body already knows how to heal itself," she told Elya. "We simply nudge it along, reinforce what is already there. Healing magic is cooperation, not control. It is about understanding the underlying structure of the body and using magic to enhance what is naturally occurring. Just as a broken bone must be set before it can heal, so too must magic work in alignment with the body's rhythms rather than against them. You cannot simply will a wound closed, you must provide the right conditions for it to heal properly, just as nature intended."

  At first, Elya struggled. Her energy reserves remained low, and even the simplest spells left her drained. Mirelle adjusted the lessons accordingly, introducing meditative exercises to help her conserve strength and focus her intent. She taught Elya controlled breathing techniques, showing her how to regulate the flow of magic to prevent unnecessary exhaustion. "You must listen first," Mirelle insisted. "Before you heal, you must understand what is broken. Pay attention to the body's signals—where pain lingers, where energy stagnates. If you impose magic blindly, you may cause more harm than good."

  To reinforce this, Mirelle had Elya practice by holding her hands above a bowl of water, sensing the ripples and disturbances with only her magic. "Healing is about attunement," she explained. "Just as the water moves with the slightest touch, so too does the body respond to energy. Learn to recognize the shifts, and you will guide them rather than force them. Feel the patterns in the water, how even the smallest disturbance creates a chain reaction. Healing works the same way, subtle, continuous, never abrupt."

  She had Elya repeat the exercise multiple times, closing her eyes and focusing only on the sensation of the energy beneath her hands. "You are not imposing your will upon the water, you are merely acknowledging its movement and influencing it with intention. Healing is not about overpowering, it is about understanding."

  Mirelle then placed a small, floating leaf in the bowl and asked Elya to influence its movement without touching it. "The leaf represents an injury within the body," she explained. "You must learn to adjust the flow of energy around it, guiding it gently into alignment rather than forcing it. If you push too hard, the water will reject your influence, but if you are patient, it will follow."

  Elya struggled at first, her attempts either too forceful or too hesitant, but with each repetition, she learned to sense the delicate balance. The more she practiced, the more she understood that healing was not a battle, it was a conversation between magic and the body, a dialogue where both needed to be heard."

  To that end, she introduced Elya to diagnostic magic. At first, it was overwhelming, feeling the disturbances in a person’s body, sensing pain and imbalance, tracing the invisible threads of illness and injury. But with time and practice, she began to grasp the intricacies of this skill. Instead of using brute force, she learned to attune herself to the subtle flow of a person’s lifeforce, sensing weaknesses before attempting to mend them.

  Her first success was small, easing a bruise on her own hand. It had taken nearly an hour of concentration, and by the end, she had nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but the darkened skin had lightened, the ache dulled. Mirelle had merely nodded in approval. "A healer must be as patient with herself as she is with others," she said. "Strength comes with time."

  With each lesson, Elya grew more confident. She learned the delicate art of weaving healing magic through the body’s natural pathways rather than imposing it from the outside. Mirelle guided her through the process of mending minor wounds, reducing fevers, and soothing strained muscles. Each time, the results were small, incremental, but undeniable.

  One evening, after hours of practice, Elya sat by the fire, her hands tingling with residual magic. The sensation was no longer unfamiliar, but there was a newfound steadiness in the way she held them, as if her body was finally beginning to accept what her mind had fought so hard to understand. Mirelle watched her with quiet amusement, setting aside the mortar and pestle she had been using to grind herbs. "You’re learning faster than I expected," she admitted, her voice tinged with something like approval. "Healing was never meant to be easy, but you have an instinct for it. A careful touch, one that doesn’t seek to overpower but rather to guide. That is what sets great healers apart."

  She gestured toward the pot of simmering tea over the fire. "It’s much like brewing medicine, too strong, and it overwhelms the body, too weak, and it does nothing at all. Healing magic requires that same precision. Every bit of energy you weave must serve a purpose, nothing wasted, nothing excessive."

  Elya nodded, absorbing the words. She thought of how, in the tower, magic had been taught with an emphasis on control, on force, on bending power to one’s will. Here, it was different. It was about listening, about working in tandem with what already existed.

  Mirelle studied her for a long moment before reaching out to clasp Elya’s hand, her grip firm but warm. "I believe you have the heart of a healer," she said. "Now, you must have the patience to match it."

  Elya glanced at her hands, thinking of all the times they had failed her before, all the times her magic had been insufficient. Now, for the first time, she felt a glimmer of purpose, a path that was hers alone to walk. It was not the power she had once sought, but it was something far greater: the ability to mend rather than destroy, to give life rather than take it.