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For a breath, nothing happens.

Then, the silver surface turns liquid, and my hand sinks through to the human plane. The ley lines snap into place, and life-giving energy flows up my wrist, spreading through my veins like liquid sunlight.

The sensation burns, not with fire, but with magic older than the fae realms themselves.

The energy races through my body, seeking every injury, every ache. It finds the wounds left by the crystal beast, the lingering damage from my battle with the hollow stag, the bone-deep exhaustion, and each pain flares bright before dissolving into nothing.

My knees buckle as power continues to pour into me. I catch myself against the wall, fingers digging into stone for support. The mirror grows hot in my hand, almost too hot to hold, yet I can’t release it. The magic holds me in its grip now, rewriting damage on a level deeper than flesh.

Moryth watches, fascination overcoming his fear. “Impossible. No witch should be able to channel that much ley line energy without⁠—”

“Shut up,” I gasp between waves of healing fire.

The golden light pulses one final time before sinking beneath my skin. I pull my hand free of the mirror, and the reflective surface returns. I tear away the blood-soaked bandage at my side, revealing perfectly smooth skin beneath. Not even a scar remains to mark where the crystal beast’s claws tore into me.

Strength returns to my limbs, clarity to my mind. I stand straighter, drawing my first deep breath in longer than I can remember.

Moryth extends a hand. “The mirror, if you please.”

“Consider it payment.” I tuck it into my coat, ignoring his distress. “For your cousin’s betrayal.”

He flinches at the mention of Kelaros, fingers twisting in his robes. “What happened with Kelaros puts every Nyt’Fall on your list now, does it?”

My silence answers for me.

Moryth’s shoulders slump. “He’s always been dangerous. Even as children, he took what he needed from others.”

“What do you mean?”

He kneels to gather his healing materials back into his bag. “Kelaros feeds on others to heal himself. It’s a rare talent, even among our family.”

I remember the way Kelaros healed from a mortal wound, the blood returning to his body, the wildling falling. “Has he always had this ability?”

“Yes, and he grows more powerful by the year.” Moryth’s earlier fear resurfaces. “He doesn’t just take the flesh from others. He can steal the magic, too. He has betrayed even his own clan many times.”

Moryth pauses, caution settling over him. “Whatever he promises King Nyctarian will benefit only himself.”

The knowledge settles cold and heavy in my gut. I move toward the door. “You may go.”

“Wait.” Moryth rushes forward. “You must not reveal that you are fully healed. It is a well-known fact that I am weak. It’s why I was traded to the Silver Sithe.”

I hesitate before stepping away from the door again. “It’s too late to escape this time. I’m bound to Prince Elionn. It doesn’t matter if they know I can heal myself now.”

Moryth shakes his head. “They already know you’re a healer of some kind.”

I frown. “How?”

“Because all Nyt’Falls are healers, and only we have been taken,” he explains. “It’s why I’m under guard. King Nycatarian and the Silver Flame will have figured out by now that you share our blood, cousin.”

I stare at him in horror. “What?”

“Did you not know?” His brow furrows before he shakes his head. “No, why would you? Your appearance does not take after our clan.”

Reeling from this new information, I ask, “So if they know⁠—”

“You cannot let Kelaros know how strong you are.” He peers toward the closed door. “He hungers for power above all else. If he knew, he would not have let you out of his grasp.”

A bloodthirsty smile spreads across my lips. “Let him try. I can do far worse than a knife through the heart, and I won’t hold back next time.”