Emery was in the healing halls with Mira when the world stopped.
The halls were quieter than they had been the day before, but they were still filled with the slow, heavy rhythm of recovery. Groans rose now and then from wounded soldiers. Healers moved between pallets with bowls of water and clean cloths. The smell of herbs and smoke hung thick in the air.
Emery had been helping where she could.
It was not much—changing bandages, carrying water, sitting beside those who woke screaming from dreams of battle—but it kept her hands busy. Kept her mind from wandering too far into dark places.
Mira sat beside one of the wounded, holding an old man's hand. The soldier had lost two fingers and most of the strength in his arm, yet Mira spoke to him with her quiet patience, her eyes gentle as she listened to his halting words.
Emery watched them for a moment and felt a small flicker of pride.
Mira was healing.
Slowly, painfully, but she was healing.
Then the dragon-glass burned.
