Amelia P.O.V.
The healer wing has started to feel like a cage.
A clean, herb-scented, magically warded cage with Rayven stalking around like a territorial hawk, but still a cage.
My body has finally stopped feeling like it’s buzzing with leftover lightning. The tearing sensation is gone, the mark quiet, my legs restless and impatient.
Rayven pretends not to notice for an entire hour.
Then she slaps a chart onto the foot of my cot and declares, “You’re going for a walk.”
I’m already pushing myself upright. “Really?”
“Light movement,” she warns, holding up a finger. “Meaning: no running, no magic, no testing the Gate, and if you fall on your face I will enjoy telling you ‘I told you so’ until I die.”
We can handle a walk, Shea huffs inside my mind, stretching with dramatic flair. We’
