Lyra's POV
The child in my arms is dying.
"Please," the mother begs, her face wet with tears. "Please save him. He's all I have!"
I look down at the little boy. He's only five years old, maybe six. His skin burns with fever. Black veins crawl up his neck—poison from a snake bite. He has maybe ten minutes left to live.
My hands are already glowing.
I don't know how it works. It just does. When someone is dying, my hands light up like silver fire and I know exactly where to touch them. I press my palms against the boy's chest and feel the poison inside him like thick, dark mud in a stream.
"Hold him still," I tell the mother.
She nods, crying harder.
I close my eyes and pull. The poison fights me, but I'm stronger. I drag it out of his blood, out of his tiny body, and push it into the air where it can't hurt anyone. My hands burn hot, then cold, then hot again. The light gets so bright that the mother gasps.
Then it stops.
The boy's eyes flutter open. The black veins are gone. His skin is cool and healthy. He looks up at his mother and smiles. "Mama?"
"Oh, thank the gods!" The mother sobs and pulls him into her arms.
I sit back, breathing hard. Healing always takes something from me—energy, strength, something I can't explain. But it's worth it. The boy is alive.
I wait for the mother to thank me. Maybe even hug me.
Instead, she grabs her son and scrambles away from me like I'm the snake that bit him.
"Stay away from us!" she screams. Her eyes are wide with fear—no, with terror. "Don't you ever touch my son again, you... you freak!"
She runs out of my healing room, clutching the boy to her chest. The door slams so hard the walls shake.
I sit there on the floor, alone, with my glowing hands slowly fading back to normal.
This is my life. I save them. They fear me. Every single time.
Today is my twenty-fifth birthday, and I've never felt more alone.
I walk home slowly through the village of Ashenvale. The sun is setting, painting the sky orange and pink. It should be beautiful, but I barely notice.
People see me coming and cross to the other side of the street.
"That's her," someone whispers. "The witch girl."
"I heard she made Marcus's broken leg heal in one night. That's not natural."
"My grandmother says she's cursed by dark magic."
I keep my head down and walk faster. I'm not cursed. I'm not a witch. I'm just... different. And being different in Ashenvale means being hated.
But at least I have my family, right? The Ashwoods took me in when I was a baby. They raised me. Fed me. Gave me a home. They're not perfect, but they're mine.
And it's my birthday. Surely they remembered this time.
The Ashwood house comes into view—a large wooden building with a shop on the first floor and our home on the second floor. My adoptive father runs a successful merchant business. We're one of the richest families in the village.
I never see any of that money, though. I sleep in the small room near the kitchen. I wear old, patched clothes while my adoptive sister Mara wears silk dresses. I work in the healing room for free while my adoptive brother Theron spends gold on gambling and wine.
But family is family. And today, maybe they'll show me they care. Even just a little.
I reach for the door handle.
Then I hear the voices inside. Angry voices.
"—offering five thousand gold crowns!" That's Theron, my adoptive brother. He sounds excited. "Five thousand! Do you know what we could do with that money, Mother?"
My hand freezes on the door.
"Keep your voice down," my adoptive mother hisses. "The girl could come home any moment."
"So what? She can't understand anyway. She's too stupid."
They're talking about me. I know it in my bones.
I press my ear against the door, my heart pounding.
"The Celestial Court's agents visited me this morning," my mother continues. Her voice is cold, business-like. "They said the deal is done. Twenty-five years we've kept her hidden, just like they paid us to do. Now they want her back."
My blood turns to ice.
"We only took her in because the gold was good," Theron says. "I never understood why we had to pretend to care about some orphan freak."
"Because the Court paid us ten thousand gold up front, you fool. We've lived well off that money. And now they're offering five thousand more to tell them where she is. The deal is done. I already sent word."
My mother—no, the woman I thought was my mother—laughs. It's a cruel sound.
"After tonight, we'll never have to see her glowing hands or freakish eyes again. Good riddance."
I can't breathe. I can't think. My whole world is crashing down around me.
Everything was a lie.
They never loved me. They never even liked me. I was just a job. A paycheck. A burden they tolerated because someone paid them to.
And now they've sold me.
My hands start glowing without me meaning them to. Silver light spills from my palms, brighter than ever before. I'm shaking so hard I can barely stand.
Then I hear it. A sound that doesn't belong.
A low hum fills the air, growing louder and louder. The sky above the house starts to glow—not with sunset colors, but with cold, white light that makes my eyes hurt.
People in the street start screaming.
I look up and my heart stops.
The air is ripping apart.
A portal—swirling with silver and white light—opens directly above the Ashwood house. And through it, I see armored warriors with wings and glowing eyes descending like angels of death.
They're coming for me.
And I have nowhere to run.