Liora placed her hands over his heart and summoned her power. Earth stirred around them. The wind thickened. Life responded.
Roots curled beneath the floorboards. The scent of soil filled the air. And from her palms, warmth flowed into Henry—deep, ancient magic drawn not from rage or duty, but from something else.
Something real and magical.
She didn't stop until his breathing steadied. Until his color returned. Until she felt the faintest flicker of strength reawaken in him.
Only then did she let herself breathe, whispering to him with a small, warm smile, "I won't let you die. We still have a war to win."
Henry was barely conscious, his breaths shallow as his blood-soaked body lay motionless on the makeshift cot. The pain had dulled into a strange warmth, and in the haze between sleep and death, he thought it was all just a dream. His eyes fluttered closed as a soft light enveloped him—warm, gentle, and undeniably real.
