The soft glow of lanterns flickered against the wooden walls of Lyra's healing station, their light struggling to push back the creeping dusk. The air was thick with the scent of herbal poultices and faint traces of iron. Lyra stood at her worktable, grinding dried roots into powder, her hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion that lingered in her bones.

The scars crisscrossing her arms and face caught the light, silent reminders of lives saved at her own expense.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet. The door swung open, and two villagers stumbled in, supporting a figure slumped between them. Blood dripped onto the worn floorboards, pooling beneath torn boots. The injured person’s breaths came shallow and rapid, their face pale beneath a layer of grime.

Lyra’s sharp eyes swept over them—an ugly gash across their abdomen, bruises spreading like ink, and a trembling hand clutching a makeshift bandage that failed to staunch the flow.

“Lay them down,” Lyra commanded, her voice firm yet soothing. The villagers obeyed, lowering the injured figure onto a cot. Lyra knelt beside them, her fingers brushing their bloodied hand. Their eyes flickered open, filled with pain and fear. “You’re safe now,” she murmured.

As her hands began to glow with a soft, golden light, the gash started to close, but a fresh line of pain seared across Lyra’s own skin, a new scar forming. She gritted her teeth and kept healing—she always did.