Eon stood beside Nivi's bed, watching the rise and fall of her fevered breaths. Each inhale was a wheeze of heat; each exhale, a shudder of fatigue. Elira sat on the edge of the bed, clasping her daughter's hand, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. The room was thick with despair.
He cleared his throat. "Elira, step back."
She looked at him, startled. "What—?"
"I need space." His voice was gentle but firm. She hesitated a moment, then rose, brushing past the curtained window to give him room.
Eon closed his eyes. He let go of every mortal thought—of fear, of failure, of helplessness. He reached inward, toward that tiny spark of divinity that had flickered once in the hollow air. He whispered the word he didn't remember learning, but felt in his bones:
Amoria.
The syllable trembled on his lips. His palm hovered an inch above Nivi's brow. The air around him shimmered like heat haze. A faint glow gathered at his fingertips, soft and warm—like the last glow of a dying campfire, gentle enough to cradle a child's heartbeat.
Elira gasped, as though waking from a nightmare. The glow expanded, bathing Nivi's small form in golden light. For a moment, the fever seemed to pause. Her burning cheeks looked cooler; the tension in her brow relaxed.
Eon kept his focus unwavering. He poured every ounce of his fledgling empathy into that ember of power. He didn't know if it would save her life—but he refused to watch her suffer any longer.
A hush fell over the cottage. Even the wind outside stilled, as if listening.
Nivi's eyes fluttered open. They were glassy but clearer, less desperate. She reached out, her hand brushing Eon's glowing one.
"Papa?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
Elira rushed forward, scooping Nivi into her arms. The light dimmed and retreated back into Eon, leaving the room in soft lamplight again. Nivi nestled against her mother, her breathing slow and peaceful.
"It… it helped," Elira murmured, voice choked with relief. "She's calmer. I can't believe it."
Eon's knees hit the floor as the last of the glow faded. His chest ached with emotion—joy, sorrow, and the thinnest sliver of hope. He still had no cure, no power to banish the sickness, but for the first time, he had given something far more precious: comfort born from empathy.
Outside the window, the wind sighed through the trees once more. And in that moment, Eon understood: to heal would require more than magic. It would require love.