Outside the healer’s chamber, the world bloomed. Wildflowers returned to soil long barren, and the air buzzed with life. Wherever Aria walked, the pack greeted her with reverence. Mothers asked for blessings. Elders spoke of the night the spirits returned.
But inside the healer’s chamber, there was only silence and fear.
Aria paced the stone floor barefoot, her daughter pressed to her chest. The baby, once radiant with moonlight, now burned with fever. Her cheeks were pale, her breath quick and shallow. Only yesterday, she had been a symbol of hope. Now she whimpered softly, wrapped in damp blankets, too weak to cry.
Aria’s heart twisted. She had led warriors into battle, stitched wounds that should have killed, and stood before gods and ghosts. But nothing compared to this helplessness
