Ravyn was four years old the first time she healed someone. She didn’t know that was what she was doing, all she knew was that her brother was crying.
Rion sat on the floor of their childhood home, his small hands gripping his leg, his face red and scrunched up with pain. He had tripped while running through the living room, his tiny body too fast for his still clumsy limbs. Ravyn had watched him fall, had felt something sharp and frightening twist in her chest when he screamed.
“Mama!” Rion sobbed. “It hurts!”
Ravyn scrambled toward him on her knees, her dark curls bouncing into her eyes. “Don’t cry,” she said urgently, her own voice wobbling. “I’ll make it better.”
She didn’t know why she said that. The words just came.
Rion’s leg was bent wrong. Even at four, Ravyn knew that wasn’t
