Lyra sat quietly in the corner of the warm, herb-scented cabin, watching the woman—Mara, she had called herself—hover over an injured man sprawled on the wooden table. The man groaned as Mara carefully applied a mixture of crushed leaves and ointments to the deep gash running across his arm. Her hands moved deftly, her expression calm, but what happened next made Lyra’s blood run cold.
Mara’s lips began to move, whispering words Lyra couldn’t understand. A faint green glow emanated from her palms, and the wound started to knit itself together before Lyra’s very eyes.
Lyra gasped, the sound startling in the otherwise quiet room. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her body was frozen in place. Witchcraft was forbidden in her homeland—punishable by death. Yet here was this woman,
