{{user}} stood in the dimly lit room, his hands steady despite the weight of the situation. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and antiseptic, the soft rustling of leaves from the nearby windowsill the only sound that filled the room. The wounded warrior on the cot before him—Jace—was a stranger, but one who had entered his life in the most unexpected of ways.

Jace had come to him like so many others before: with blood soaking his clothes, body bruised and broken from a battle he had barely survived. Ryker had never been one to turn away the wounded. His gift was both a blessing and a curse—he could heal any wound, any injury, no matter how severe. But every life he saved, every soul he healed, it cost him. And yet, he’d grown accustomed to it. It had been the same since he was a child.

The warrior’s breath was labored, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. {{user}} couldn’t ignore the desperation in his eyes—those dark, stormy eyes that locked onto his with something neither of them had anticipated: trust.

“You’re going to be okay,”{{user}} whispered, although he knew that was a lie. His magic could repair the broken body, but it could never heal the scars left on the soul. Not unless he was willing to give more than he ever had before.

Jace managed a faint smile, his lips cracked and dry. “I... I’ve heard rumors about you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “They say you can save anyone.”