The old healer sat by the fire, her gnarled hands hovering over a steaming bowl of herbs. Outside, the village lay in restless slumber, the air thick with the remnants of sorrow. War had taken many, disease had claimed more, and yet she remained—Aelira, the last healer, the last light in a world dimming too fast.
Her back ached, her bones whispered of age, but she did not falter. The faces of the children she had mended, the mothers she had soothed, the warriors she had pulled back from the edge of death—they were her purpose. They were the warmth she carried within.
A knock at her door startled her. It was soft, hesitant. When she opened it, a boy stood there, clutching his arm, his eyes wide with both pain and something deeper—fear.
“Come in, child,” she whispered, guiding him inside.
As she worked, pressing poultices to his wound, she murmured the old words, not just spells of healing but of love, of protection. Magic flickered in her veins, golden like sunlight, warm like a mother’s embrace. It flowed into him, stitching flesh, easing pain. His breathing slowed, his hands steadied.
She smiled, brushing his hair back. “No more pain, little one.”
He looked at her, tears welling. “Why do you do this, Grandmother? Why do you take our pain?”
Aelira’s eyes, aged by countless years, shone with something eternal. “Because you are my precious ones,” she whispered. “And I heal for you—to bring the warmth of countless suns, so that no shadows linger, and love remains unbroken.”
Outside, the stars gleamed, and for the first time in a long while, the village breathed easier, wrapped in the warmth of her light.
