He guided her to sit, kneeling in front of her. “Give me your hands.”
The moment his fingers closed around hers, the pressure eased.
Relief flooded him so abruptly that it almost staggered him. Not just emotional—physical. As if something inside his chest had finally aligned. His magic settled into her like it recognized the shape of her fear and knew how to cradle it without smothering.
Not completely. But enough that his breath came easier. His magic flowed instinctively, silver light threading outward in careful lines, answering the frantic hum beneath her skin.
He had healed dozens of people before. Cuts. Burns. Broken bones.
This felt different. Like his magic recognized her before his mind did.
Her magic vibrated against his senses—bright, erratic, compressed too tightly beneath her skin, like a storm trapped behind glass.
No wonder she feared losing control. Anyone would, carrying that much power without understanding how to let it breathe.
Nythir inhaled and let his own magic glow warm around his fingers. A soft silver shimmer from his runespire trailed out, easing the tremor and loosening the tightness in her breath.
Slowly, the hum synchronized.
Her frantic energy softened, matching the steady rhythm of his own. The pressure that had coiled in his chest unwound, leaving behind something warmer. Quieter.
Nythir froze.
Magic did not do that by accident.
He had spent years studying spell response, mana exhaustion, and sympathetic resonance. This fit none of the known models. Bonds like this were discussed in theoretical texts and dismissed as metaphors. He had denied them, too.
Esther sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
The word landed deeper than it should have. Gratitude implied choice. Trust implied risk. Both sat heavy in his chest, unwanted and undeniable.
Luna plopped herself beside her. “My turn!”
“No,” the entire room said in unison.
Sable arched a brow. “I could use healing. Vorrik and I took blows in training.”
Nythir scoffed. Apparently bar fights now counted as training.
Esther perked up. “I can help.”
Nythir nearly choked. “Essie, you’re exhausted.” He wasn’t prepared for any more necromancer mishaps.
“But I can,” she insisted, worry pooling in her eyes. “They’re hurt.”
Before he could stop her, she slid off the bed and reached for them. She was unnaturally quick when she wanted to be.
Lyssara extended her arm first, unafraid. Esther brushed her fingers over a cut along Lyssara’s bicep. Warm gold light rippled out. The wound vanished.
Vorrik stepped forward next. He grinned sheepishly as Esther’s hand grazed his bruised shoulder. She inhaled deeply before letting her light engulf him, washing away all his wounds.
Then came Sable. She stepped forward silently, waiting. Esther laid her fingers gently on her shoulder. Light pulsed—and this time, something else flickered.
Sable inhaled sharply. “What was—” Her voice shifted mid-sentence, higher, softer, as if she hadn’t smoked like a chimney all winter.
They all stared as Sable’s face subtly reshaped itself. Fine lines smoothed. Her jaw softened. Her eyes brightened as if shedding years of exhaustion. Even her hair grew, wavy locks reaching her shoulders.
“Oh,” Esther whispered. “Oops.”
