Elara's heels clicked against the polished stone floors as she guided the guards toward her wing, her thoughts sharp and restless. A room had already been prepared, far enough from her bedchambers for discretion but close enough for her to monitor Given's condition.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was barely upright, limping heavily. His right leg dragged behind him, his ribs visibly strained with each shallow breath. His face was a gruesome mess of blood and bruises, and his left arm hung uselessly at the side. The sight ignited a fire in her chest—not one of pity but of resolve.
She prayed his wounds wouldn't heal too quickly. No, they needed to be seen and felt. Every bruise, every cut was a testament to the crimes committed against him. These injuries would serve as leverage in the battles ahead. She would not let them sweep this under the rug. The Queen Mother, Theron, and every other conspirator—they were all enemies now. And she would see them fall.
When they reached the room, Elara pushed the door open and motioned for the guards to enter. The space was modest but clean, with a sturdy bed and soft lighting that did little to ease the tension in the air.
"Leave us," she ordered, her voice clipped. "And send for the maids."
One of the guards hesitated, glancing at Given's battered form. "No physician, Your Majesty?"
"No," Elara said, turning her back on them as she moved toward the bed.
"But Your Majesty," the guard pressed, his voice cautious. "He needs healing. The court trials start tomorrow."
"Good," she said , her tone cold and final. "The sooner, the better. Now leave us be."
The guards exchanged wary glances but obeyed, shutting the door behind them. The quiet that followed was heavy, broken only by Given's labored breathing.
Elara approached the bed and sat onto the wooden stool beside it. She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing against his battered skin. "I remember," she murmured.
Given stirred weakly, his lashes fluttering. He made a feeble attempt to lift his head, but Elara pressed him back gently. "Shh. Stay still ans rest but ... don't focus on healing."
His cracked lips parted, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I can't move my neck, but I need to know… What do you mean, Your Majesty? What do you remember?"
Her gaze softened, though her resolve remained steely. "Not everything. Not everyone. And not myself—not fully. But I will. I'll fight for my memory, Given. What I do know is this , we are living with our enemies, and they want you dead. But don't worry—"She leaned closer, her hand tightening around his. Her words faltered as a strange sensation rippled through her fingers.
It began as a faint shimmer—a glimmer of blue and silver particles, dancing between their joined hands. The magic swirled upward, luminous and ethereal, settling over his wounds like a protective veil.
Elara's breath hitched as a sharp, stabbing sensation coursed through her. It felt like needles pricking her skin, her heartbeat erratic—racing one moment, stalling the next. Her head tilted involuntarily, her vision blurring as her eyes flashed white.
Given, though in agony, recognized the shift. He couldn't see her clearly, but he felt the change. Panic surged within him. 'Move your hand !' he screamed to himself inwardly, fighting against his battered body. He wrenched his hand free, tearing open fresh wounds in the process.
A knock resounded on the door, cutting through the charged air between them. No one opened the door, but the sound sent a chill down Elara's spine. She gasped sharply, her breath catching in her throat as her vision cleared, and she turned toward the door, her body tense with anticipation.
She froze as her eyes flickered from white back to their usual color. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with what had just happened. She glanced back at Given, who had been silently watching her. His gaze was intense, filled with a mix of confusion and awe as he slowly pieced together the impossible.
"What was that?" Elara asked in a breathless, shocked tone, her eyes still wide with the remnants of her earlier experience.
Given's voice was raspy, a mix of awe and disbelief. "You healed me."
The words hung in the air, a realization that shifted the entire dynamic between them. His eyes, too, had widened in realization, but the moment was cut short as the door fully opened.
The door creaked open, the sound startling them both. Elara gasped sharply, her vision clearing as she turned toward the intruders. Two handmaids entered, their heads bowed. "Your Majesty," they greeted in unison.
Elara blinked, regaining her composure. She stood, straightening her gown as she addressed them. "Clean him up, but do not apply any ointments or healing gels. He is to remain as he is." The handmaids exchanged puzzled glances but curtsied obediently.
Elara glanced back at Given one last time. His wounds were visibly healing, the cuts stitching themselves together as though guided by an unseen hand. His eyes met hers, filled with questions he dared not voice.
Without another word, she swept from the room, her thoughts a whirlwind.
'I can heal people,' she realized, her chest tightening. 'But I can also reduce their life spans . Just like I did to the Queen Mother .'
The memories of both sensations lingered—one gnawing and cruel, the other warm and overwhelming. That's why the sensations differ. That's why the pleasure differs.
Her steps faltered as the truth settled over her like a shadow. Whatever this power was, it would change everything. And she would wield it, no matter the cost.