“Gods, I’ve been so foolish,” she says. “And perhaps a little proud. I have been thinking only in terms of ‘healers’ and ‘miners’ and ‘wives’ and ‘children.’ Boxes.” Her eyes brighten. “But you are right. There is no reason some cannot learn the basics. They know the mines. They know the dangers. They would be highly motivated to protect their own.”
“Good.” I lean forward, energy buzzing through me. And I see it echoing in her.
“We start small. One shift. One crew. Maybe a couple of women who want to do more, a few younger miners who are quick on their feet. We test what works. Change what doesn’t. And every time someone survives who wouldn’t have before? You write down what helped, and we double down on it.”
Evonne studies me for a long, long moment, like she’s weighing my soul along with my words.
“You speak of this with such certainty,” she says.
I shrug, but my throat feels tight.
“Because I’ve seen it work. On my world. With my people. We’re not magical like you, but we’re stubborn and resourceful. And we learned the hard way that minutes matter. Seconds matter.”
I gesture between us, between her shelves of potions and my scribbled notes.
“I can’t change the SoulTakers or this war or the nightmares in the tunnels—but this? This I can help with.”
Something in me settles as I say it.
Like for the first time since I got dragged through fire into this impossible realm, I’m not just being thrust into it.
I’m becoming a part of it.
Like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
Maybe Nightfall is brutal and terrifying and deadly.
But maybe there’s a space for me in it.
Evonne nods once. Decisive.
“Lady—Delia. I think you might be on to something.”
She moves with sudden purpose, crossing to a nearby shelf and pulling down a stack of thin slate tablets and a pot of inky liquid that glimmers faintly crimson.
“Come,” she says, already clearing a table. “We will start by listing the most common injuries the miners bring in. Then we sort them by urgency. You will tell me how your EMTs triage. I will tell you what our draughts can and cannot do.”
I grin.
“Deal. But fair warning, I’m gonna be annoying about systemizing it. Color codes, symbols, all of it.”
Evonne barks out a laugh.
“Good. The men down there are more likely to listen if it is simple enough to follow while half-asleep.”
We sit at the table, shoulder to shoulder—her sketching out crude diagrams of mine levels and shafts, me drawing little stick-figure miners and scribbling notes about airway, breathing, circulation.
Outside, I can hear the muffled rumble of shift changes, the distant clank of ore cars, the faint neigh-roar of a Fire Mustang.
Inside, there is ink and slate and the smell of herbs.
And possibility.
For the first time since I got here, I feel grounded—like I can finally stand on my own feet.
Useful.
Not just a magical battery or a political bride—but Delia Esposito, EMT, who knows how to build something that saves lives out of nothing but protocols and stubbornness.
