There, standing in the middle of the room, was a guy I didn’t recognize. He was blond, with strikingly handsome features, but completely covered in blood and dirt. It was almost surreal—he looked like some tragic hero straight out of a battlefield. As I held my breath, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, I suddenly heard James's voice.
“Thank you for helping me bring him here,” he said, his tone low and serious. “You should go see a Healer. And go see our resident hotelier after, he’ll have a room ready for you.”
The blond guy nodded, gave James a tired look, and then portaled out, leaving nothing but the smell of sweat and iron behind him.
I pushed the door open further, stepping into the room with trepidation. My breath caught in my throat as my gaze fell on James.
He was just standing there, blood and dirt streaking his face and clothes, but it wasn’t just the physical damage that stunned me—it was the look in his eyes. Lost. Hollow. Like he was still in the middle of a battlefield no one else could see. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight, his hands hanging limp at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
“James?” I said softly.
He looked up slowly, almost dazed, as if he hadn’t realized I was even there. His eyes met mine, wide and wet, full of something unspoken. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move, like a man unsure if he was still allowed to fall apart.
So I walked to him.
My steps were slow, careful, but steady. And when I reached him, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him in. For a second, he didn’t react—still frozen, still lost. Then, all at once, he melted into me. His arms wrapped around my waist, clutching me like I was the only solid thing left in a world that had collapsed in on itself.
He held me tight. Like he needed to feel someone still breathing.
I glanced past him at the couch, and my stomach knotted at the sight of the man lying there—pale, still, and heartbreakingly familiar. I hadn’t known him long, but I’d come to respect him more than most. And now, just like that, he was gone.
As if James’s grief had found its way into my own heart, a sudden relentless lump formed in my throat. I closed my lids, fighting back tears, wishing for something—anything—to ease the overwhelming sorrow. If only I had the power to undo this, to change what had happened. The thought was wild, desperate, but it wouldn’t let go.
I wished for the power to bring people back from the dead.
To bringhimback.
Maurice.
SIX
EMMA
The first week after Maurice’s death was nothing short of chaos.
Maria spiraled into a manic state, and sealed Cyclos off beneath a bubble for days. No one could translate—not even to get basic things like food or water—without risking death. It took James over forty-eight hours to coax her back from the brink of madness.
When Nino finally returned from Crown, she resumed our lessons at the Academy, mercifully putting an end to AJ’s little power trip.
I hadn’t told anyone about my newfound ability to heal myself. But I’d been testing it—patching up smaller wounds whenever I could. That is, until Maria’s bubble cut off all translation, and left the whole Collective powerless.
While James was helping the whole of Cyclos dealing with their new loss, the questions in my mind were piling up, and I had no idea how to get answers without raising suspicion about my “talent.”
One late afternoon, I sat alone in my room—again—replaying every moment since I left the Human World, and I realized there was one person who might have some intel for me.
Someone who had healed me more than once.
Justine.
It took effort—and no small amount of courage—knowing she wasn’t my biggest fan. But curiosity won out, and I found myself making my way to the Healer’s wing of the Academy.
The hallways were quiet, save for the faint rustle of movement. Glimpses of Healers passed in and out of view, their footsteps whispering against the floor. My pulse quickened as I neared one of the 'labs' and caught sight of Justine through the open door.
She was at the far end of the room, hunched over a table of vials, her long, blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail. The room was dim, bathed in the pale lemon glow of her haze. I knocked gently on the doorframe, careful not to startle her.
Justine looked up, her demeanor hardening the moment she saw me. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice laced with indifference. Her gaze flicked over me, as if searching for some sign of injury, probably hoping I had a legitimate and impersonal reason to be there.
“Not hurt this time,” I said with a small, uneasy smile. “I thought it was about time I thanked you—for everything. You have saved my life more than once.”
