Night bleeds slowly into the healer's hut, spilling violet shadows through narrow slats in the walls. In the dim light, the child looks almost ghostly—skin pale, breaths shallow, eyes shut tight against pain or nightmares. Enna works silently. Her hands are swift and sure, leaving trails of warmth across fevered skin. Her whispered words break the silence like thin ice, sharp and deliberate.
"Almost done. You're going to be fine."
She lies with the skill of practice, knowing the boy won't make it through the night without her true abilities. Without the magic she can't afford to show.
"You're so brave," she murmurs, voice steady as she dabs a wet cloth across his forehead. Her eyes flick to the door. No one there. Alone, she risks it. Her fingers brush his chest, her mind reaching through them. Warmth blooms, golden and soft beneath her touch. Energy swirls like smoke, sparking violet in the dark. She hears the boy's breath catch as she heals him. Hears him murmur in confusion, pain slipping away like a dream he won't remember.
She holds her breath. The subtle glow pulses under her fingertips, lighting the room with forbidden magic. Too bright. Too risky. But necessary.
"Sleep now. It's all right," she whispers, soft as moth wings.
Her hand trembles. She wills it steady. It takes longer than she hopes. Long enough for her nerves to scream. Long enough to imagine footsteps outside, the creak of betrayal at the door. The thought coils like ice in her chest, but she pushes through it. Focuses on the boy's breathing, now smooth. His pulse, no longer fluttering like a trapped bird.
She wipes sweat from his brow. Her touch lingers just a moment longer, then withdraws. He doesn't stir. Doesn't wake. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of a healthy child.
Enna sinks back on her heels, watching the glow fade. She hadn't meant to take the risk tonight. But then, she never does. There's always someone who needs more than herbs and whispered comforts. Someone she can't bear to lose.
The futility of it presses down on her like the low ceiling above. Her palms still tingle with leftover magic. She rubs them against her cloak, as if to erase the evidence. As if she could forget.
Her mind drifts to Lorin's voice—a memory wrapped in years of secrecy and discipline.
"You mustn't let them know," the elder warned, tone a blend of gentle reprimand and ironclad certainty. "Your life depends on it."
He stood across the room in her memory, hearthlight painting flickers across his lined face. His eyes, kind but unyielding, crinkled as he watched her struggle.
Young and frustrated, she met his gaze with defiance that was mostly for show. "They wouldn't find us here," she insisted, even then not fully believing it. "We're too far."
Lorin's silence was answer enough, heavy with history and prophecy she didn't yet want to understand.
In the hut, she closes her eyes, letting the memory spool out like a thread.
"It's only a matter of time," Lorin said at last, not unkindly. "Especially if you're careless."
His words chase her back to the present.
She wasn't careless. Not yet.
The room is empty. She's still alone.
Safe, for now.
She looks at the boy. His breathing is steady. He'll wake soon. She should leave before that. But part of her wants to stay. To see his eyes open. To know it mattered.
Instead, she moves with practiced caution, her fingers once more healer's hands. Bandages. Herbs. The rhythm of pretend normalcy. She makes everything look right. Believable.
She is a healer. A gifted one. But only that.
When the child wakes, he won't remember the warmth. The light. How close he came to never waking again.
She tucks the blanket tighter around his shoulders, a gesture meant for herself as much as for him.
Before she leaves, she takes one last look around the room. No traces of forbidden craft. No proof of what she's done. Just a sleeping child and the clutter of harmless vials.
Outside, the world presses close, vast and hungry. Her thoughts circle like hawks: the boy. Lorin. Herself. Alone beneath the weight of secrets.
The village feels too still. The quiet carries a warning.
She pulls her cloak tighter, bracing against the chill she pretends is just the night air.
The boy's father waits. His face is a mess of relief and disbelief.
"Thank you," he breathes. "We thought he was—"
"Not this time," Enna cuts in. Her smile is thin, brittle. "He's a fighter. It'll take more than fever to claim him."
The man's eyes glisten. "Healers like you... we're lucky to have you here."
She nods. Words catch in her throat. He doesn't know what he asks of her. How much it takes. No one does.
She watches him slip inside, gather his son into his arms. Hears the sob, thick with relief.
The door closes.
Enna stands there a moment longer, wanting to feel something other than exhaustion. Other than the fear that never leaves.
She turns away, the sound of father and son echoing behind her like a memory she can't hold.
Her pulse races. Fragile threads keep her tethered to this place. To the next hidden room. The next impossible decision.
She doesn't know how much longer she can do this. But she has no choice.
The village stretches ahead, swallowed in shadow. One light flickers in the distance, drawing her home.
Toward her quiet cottage.
Toward a garden full of poisonous secrets.
Her feet drag. Her hand slips beneath her cloak, brushing the last spark of magic still clinging to her skin. It flares once, then fades.
Just like always.
Just like the hope she keeps trying to bury.
The world narrows to the path before her. To the echo of Lorin's voice.
It's only a matter of time.
Her heart knows.
But it beats anyway.