Chapter 8

  Ihllaea shook her head at Papa and, feeling compelled, looked back at him. Terrified memory of Hennaea, the woman—the death-mage—that had owned her, brought that long-ago fear and anxiety surging back, turning her insides into a gibbering mess.

  Ihllaea stiffened her spine. She wasn’t a child any more. Well, at least not a young one. She was nearly an adult now. With that age difference—and strength she’d earned from those experiences as the death-mage’s servant—she bulled through the fear. Hands clenching, she lifted her chin.

  Fear couldn’t be defeated so easily, though. It lurked behind her Foresight, just waiting.

  Her drive to Heal, her refusal to fail again, her own Foresight… All three convinced her that she had to do this.

  A much more welcome memory of Nohl’s mentoring whispered in her mind—a Healer must be neutral. A Healer must be able to heal those they don’t like personally, don’t agree with, or even those they might fear.

  She told herself all of that, the conviction of her life path clear in her mind.

  It was the Spark that almost broke her determination.

  She stared at the man, calming her breathing with effort. Craning her head so he wasn’t upside-down, she took in his features warily. Blue-hued black hair of the true Tor Elf, heavy brows, narrow nose and jawline, a pointed chin, strong cheekbones, cheeks deeply sunken…

  “Are you alright, Laea?” Shonal’s worried voice came through their veil. Of course her brother felt her fear. She almost vibrated with it.

  “I’ll explain later, Sho,” she sent to him. For a moment she wanted to cling to her twin. But he wasn’t here, and couldn’t help her with this, help her face this. So, she focused intently on this strange man.

  This feeling, this need to Heal him, overwhelmed her. She wanted to ignore it, because he was a Cannibal. She wanted out of here more than she’d ever wanted anything, including being a Healer. His death-magic terrified her.

  He terrified her.

  But inside, something recognized him. She’d never seen this man in her life, she was certain of that. Then how could she recognize him? He was a Cannibal, a Shillialoran, by the sound of the few words he’d spoken.

  She’d only ever seen one other Shillialoran Tor Elf—the man that rescued her from her servitude and guided her to Daeg. A dark-cloaked man with contradictory death-magic and gentle hands that protected and soothed her anxious mind…

  But this man was not him, was younger, taller. This man was a complete stranger. And yet…there was a pull between them.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A Spark. That moment in time when two who could become soulmates recognized the potential within each other.

  Flames. What does it say about me, that I could share a soulbond with someone like this?

  Her Healing magic sensed the struggle. Nohl and Curu were making very little progress.

  He was dying.

  I can’t—I can’t let him die. I just can’t.

  Ihllaea stiffened her resolve, gritting her teeth and wading through her fear.

  She was going to Heal this man.

  But—if Papa felt her trying to Heal him, he’d have a fit. She was surprised he hadn’t bundled her out of here already.

  So she set about aiding those who were Healing the Cannibal. Ihllaea altered her magic to their frequency and poured it into them, saw their magic leap in response. Sensing the cold floor wasn’t helping either their patient or them where they knelt, she warmed the stone with her magic. Curu gave her a smile of thanks. She returned it shakily. Then with care, she began to search his body with her Healing, hoping to point out trouble spots to them.

  Ihllaea, taken aback by his condition up close, realized that Nohl hadn’t exaggerated. He was dying, and they might not save him. A nasty wound on his side lay visible—the tunic had hiked up when he fell. Black hair reached well past his shoulders, a mass of knots decorated with dead leaves and twigs. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his cheeks sunken hollows of starvation. He was dressed in dark-blue breeches with rents in the knees and thighs. The bottoms were completely missing and ragged. His tunic matched in color and fabric, filthy and torn, and the sandals were as derelict as his pants. Everything on his too-thin body was stained with dried blood.

  The wound on his torso just below the ribs glared red all around, streaks radiating angrily from the source. It leaked evil-smelling blood and pus. His body was trying to shut down.

  Every time Nohl managed to stabilize one system and turned to another, the one he’d left went unstable again. Ihllaea stepped in, keeping the man’s lungs moving as Nohl battled the infection, all while Curu kept the man’s kidneys and heart functioning.

  The infection was horrendous. It had seared his whole immune system. Nohl was fighting the infection from head-to-toe, all at once, because he had to. It had taken over everything.

  Abruptly, in her mind’s eye she could see her rescuer’s dark hood turn to her. She could almost hear his voice whispering in his accent, “time fer that magnificent Healin’, little sister.”

  Without hesitating a beat, Ihllaea plunged into the mess, focusing on the wound itself, burning the infection from every cell.

  This was her focus inside her calling; micro-Healing. And she was very good at it.

  This was the worst infection she’d ever seen. With growing confidence, she swept through the wound, killing all foreign cells, burning away dead tissue, watching for returning infectious cells, stamped them out ruthlessly. She moved out from the wound, further into his body, dimly aware that Nohl and Curu were still working, stabilizing everything while they, too, killed the terrible infection. But even killing it wasn’t enough. It had done so much damage. It went on and on…

  And then the tide turned. Ihllaea sensed his body settle, his organs no longer trying to shut down, working sluggishly once more—with the continued aid of the Healers around him.

  Ihllaea let out a soft sob, mind returning to her body. She sat crouched over his head, nearly touching his forehead with her own, hands wrapped in his hair as she held his head between them. She laughed softly, crying, and shaking. “He’s going to make it,” she whispered.

  Papa’s hand on her shoulder was gentle. “We don’t know that, sweetheart.”

  She did know it. Her Foresight, rainbow tinted, but limned in green, told her so. When she looked up, she found Daeg crouched beside Curu, watching her intently. And she saw it in his eyes, too.

  Somewhere nearby, she heard a soft sigh of relief—and satisfaction.