The child's scream clawed at Luther's ears. His hand hovered over the boy's charred side, the skin split open like burning paper. The smell of ash and rot lingered, biting at his nose.
The apprentice at his side choked out another plea.
"Please, Saint! We don't know what to do. Nothing we try works—"
"Don't call me that," Luther snapped, his brows knitting together. His tone wasn't loud, but sharp enough to make the girl flinch back.
He pressed his palm down. His magic surged—not carefully, not measured, just raw instinct. Golden sparks shot from his hand, light snaking over the blackened skin. The boy screamed again, body arching—then fell still.
When the light faded, so had the wound.
The boy's flesh was whole, unscarred, as though the fire had never touched him.
Luther blinked. "…No way."
The apprentices gasped in unison. Their voices rose in awe, disbelief tumbling from their lips.
"He healed him!"
"It's impossible… but—look!"
"The Saint has destroyed the corruption!"
