Amara
He was dying.
A young warrior—barely past his first shift—was laid out across the clinic table, blood pouring from a wound no poultice could fix. His name was Theo. I barely remembered him before this moment, but now all I saw was the terror in his eyes.
The slice across his abdomen was deep. Ragged. Faintly glowing with something unnatural.
Poisoned steel.
Laced with rogue magic.
“He’s crashing,” Lena said, voice tight. She pressed a cloth to the wound, but it was useless. “We won’t make it in time.”
I froze.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because something inside me was waking.
My hands trembled.
Nyra was pacing now, her voice in my head sharp and clear. Don’t fight it. Let it through.
“What if it kills him?” I whispered.
It won’t. You know what it wants. It wants to save.
