Vica had never been blessed with an affinity for healing techniques - such magics required precision and care and a mind greater than the one she possessed. But anyone’s raw magic could blow upon the embers of life and strengthen it, even one as clumsy as hers, so surely there was something she could do. And yet, no matter how many times she changed the cool, makeshift dressing made of pressed plant leaves on Bren’s forehead, and no matter how many sparks of magic she attempted to pass to him through the palms of her hands, he refused to wake. Though his skin radiated with a reassuring warmth and he seemed to bear only a few superficial wounds on his arms - a cut here and there, a bruise - he remained utterly insensate to the world.
Surely fate wouldn’t condemn her this way, to remain as
