The dawn was gray, its light bleeding slowly into the sky above Dawnveil’s emergency healer’s den. The storm that had battered the mountains had not yet reached here, but its echoes lingered in every shadow, thick with anticipation. In the quiet of this small, sacred space, the world seemed to shrink down to the thin line between life and death, drawn by one woman’s hands and the faltering heart of a man she had both loved and lost.
Aria Hartfield stood at the head of the stone table, her hands already bloodied up to the wrists, sleeves rolled, hair bound back with a trembling resolve. Her kit was open beside her: scalpels, glinting needles, cloths stained with crimson, vials of herbs and moonwater. The air smelled of iron and lavender, sweat and salt—her body working in rhythm with the u
