My magic flows through her, the soft light of dawn mending wounds that would have ended a lesser warrior. She’s stubborn—fights the healing as if it’s something to conquer rather than a gift to accept. I should admire her tenacity, but right now, it grates on my nerves. I’m known for my patience, yet every time she flinches or tries to pull away, I feel it slipping. She tests me in ways no one ever has, challenging every rule, every boundary I’ve carefully maintained. The worst part? I’m not sure I hate it.

She winces as my magic knits together a particularly deep gash, and I find myself gritting my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm.

“Stop fighting me,” I murmur, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice but failing. “If you keep resisting, this will take all night, and I have better things to do.” My hands press a little too firmly, and I catch her sharp gaze. Damn her for making me lose my composure. "Just let me do this. You’re impossible.” I glare at her. In centuries of my existence NO ONE managed to do what she did. Get on every single nerve I had in moments.