By afternoon, restlessness had driven me to my feet again. I paced the confines of my room, the energy building beneath my skin like lightning before a storm. I needed an outlet, something to focus on besides my own turbulent thoughts and the phantom echoes of Kael's emotions.
I started experimenting.
Small things at first.
I lifted a bowl of water from the side table and tried to send the silver light through it. The liquid shimmered, rippling with energy, catching the light like thousands of tiny mirrors, but didn't change its fundamental nature. It remained water—just water touched by something other.
Emboldened, I moved to the vase in the corner, where a single flower drooped, petals browning at the edges, stem bending under the weight of its own dying beauty. I touched it gently, just one finger against a withered petal.
The transformation was instant and astounding. Color flooded back into the blossom, the stem straightening with renewed vigor. Within seconds, it bloomed full and bright, more vibrant than it likely had been even when first cut, radiant with unnatural life.
That scared me.
Not the power itself.
The ease of it.
There had been no strain, no effort. Just intention and result, as simple as breathing. I could feel the magic now—always just beneath my skin, humming softly, begging to be used. It didn't roar like I'd expected power to do. It whispered. It invited. Seductive and certain.
Let me fix it.
Let me mend it.
Let me burn it all down.
I stepped back from the flower, suddenly afraid that I might do more than rejuvenate it—that I might push too far and turn it into something monstrous in its beauty, something that should not exist.
I paced the room until dusk, restless, sick with energy, watching as the sunlight slowly abandoned my prison. It wasn't really a prison, of course. The door wasn't locked. But where would I go? What would I do with this power I couldn't control, this bond I couldn't break?
I needed out.
Not escape. Just space. Air. Room to breathe without stone walls watching me, judging me, waiting for me to prove what kind of Moon Healer I would become.
But they were still watching me. I could feel it. Someone—or something—always kept a thread on me now. Not through the bond that connected me to Kael. Through the Council. An awareness, a vigilance that never fully retreated.
They weren't sure if I was a threat yet.
To be fair, I wasn't sure either.
As darkness settled over the room, I moved to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. In the distance, torches burned along the perimeter of the Council grounds. Guards, perhaps. Or simply markers to guide night travelers. Beyond them, the forest stretched dark and inviting. I imagined running through those trees, silver light streaming from my fingertips, illuminating a path to... where?
There was nowhere to go. No home to return to. Not anymore.
⸻
That night, I sat at the desk and started writing, the quill scratching against parchment in the silence of my room. The sound was comforting, normal, human in a way nothing else had felt since the silver light had appeared.
Not a letter. Not a journal entry.
A warning.
To myself.
Don't forget what he did. Don't let the ache become weakness. He didn't choose you. He left you on your knees.
You don't heal that.
You rise from it.
And you make him regret it.
I folded the paper carefully along crisp lines and slid it under the mattress where it would wait for moments of weakness, moments when the bond pulled too strongly and I found myself wondering if there was a way back. A reminder of why there shouldn't be.
Then I laid down on the bed, still fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. The silver light danced along my fingertips, softer now, almost soothing. I closed my eyes against its glow.
And for the first time in days, I slept.
⸻
I dreamed of fire and silver light—and Kael.
His silhouette stood in the center of a burning forest, tall and proud as I remembered him, but somehow diminished, as if parts of him were being eaten away by the flames. The trees bled light instead of sap, silver mixed with gold, and the sky wept ash that settled on my skin like snow. He looked like a shadow made flesh, his features blurred and indistinct except for his eyes, which remained sharp and clear.
And when he turned toward me, those eyes weren't cruel or dismissive as they had been the last time I saw him.
They were desperate.
"Help me," he whispered, voice hollow, the words barely carrying over the crackle of the burning forest. He reached toward me, and I saw that his hand was dissolving, turning to ash at the fingertips, the destruction crawling slowly up his arm.
But I said nothing.
I merely watched as the fire consumed more of the forest, as the silver light spiraled around us both, connecting and separating us in equal measure. In the dream, I felt my power growing, feeding on his desperate need, on the broken bond between us.
And some dark part of me relished it.
When I woke, sunlight was streaming through the window again, marking the start of another day in my new reality. My fingers were glowing again—brighter than ever before, the silver light casting shadows across the bedsheets.
I stared at my hands for a long while, watching the power dance across my skin, beautiful and terrible. Then I reached under the mattress and withdrew my warning to myself, reading the words again slowly, deliberately.
Don't forget what he did. Don't let the ache become weakness. He didn't choose you. He left you on your knees.
I traced each line with a glowing finger, the silver light illuminating the ink.
You don't heal that.
You rise from it.
And you make him regret it.
I folded the paper again and returned it to its hiding place. Then I stood and faced the new day, the silver light pulsing in time with my resolve.
Let him suffer. Let him beg. Let him feel every moment of the rejection he inflicted on me.
I wasn't a healer yet.
I was still becoming.
And what I became would be his undoing.