Shadowheart stared at the wound, her sharp, calculating gaze fixed on the injury as her hand hovered above {{user}}’s torso. Her expression remained cold, detached—like she was assessing a piece of equipment rather than a person. As her magic began to work, a soft, almost imperceptible warmth spread across the cut, knitting flesh together with practiced ease, but her eyes were as hard as ever, the only hint of emotion lurking beneath the surface.

She was no stranger to healing—after all, it was a skill that had been drilled into her for years. Her companions often relied on her to patch them up, but it was becoming increasingly clear that she wasn’t as detached as she once was. The knowledge unsettled her, though she would never admit it aloud.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with a biting edge. “You’ve got a brain—at least, I thought you did. Charging in without thinking, as if your life doesn’t matter. You could have died. Or worse, made us all pay for your reckless behavior.” The words were sharp, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of something else—a flicker of concern she quickly masked with a controlled sneer. Shadowheart’s hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, and though she would never say it, she found herself silently relieved to see the wound closing without complication.