Elara Thorne wiped the sweat from her brow, her hands deftly working to grind herbs into a fine paste. The scent of lavender and thyme filled the air as she leaned over her small workbench, her gaze flickering to the open window. Beyond the neatly stitched curtains lay the village of Eldergrove, bustling with the chatter of merchants and the laughter of children playing in the sun-drenched square.
To everyone in Eldergrove, Elara was a healer compassionate, skilled, and tireless in her work. She never turned away a patient, whether it was a child with a scraped knee or a farmer with a fever that refused to break. But to Elara, her work was more than duty it was her calling.
She rolled up the sleeve of her worn linen blouse, exposing the birthmark on her forearm. It was a delicate crescent moon, dark against her pale skin. The mark had been there since birth, an oddity she had learned to ignore over the years. No one in the village spoke of it openly, though she often caught their curious glances.
"Odd mark for a healer," the old merchant, Harren, had once muttered when she handed him a tincture for his aching joints. "Almost looks like a brand."
"Or a blessing," Selene, her mentor and the village's enigmatic sorceress, had interjected at the time. Selene had always been protective of Elara, but her cryptic remarks about the mark never provided answers.
Elara often wondered if it meant something. She had spent nights staring at it, tracing its shape under the moonlight. But the years had dulled her curiosity; there were too many lives to save, too many wounds to mend, to dwell on a mark that had never caused her harm.
A sharp knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to open it. A frantic woman stood on the threshold, clutching a young boy in her arms. The child's face was pale, his breaths shallow.
"Please, Elara," the woman sobbed. "It's Liam. He collapsed in the fields."
Elara's heart tightened. "Bring him in," she said, guiding the woman to the wooden cot by the hearth. She worked quickly, assessing his condition. His pulse was weak, his skin cold. Poison, she deduced. Likely from the berries that grew wild near the stream.
She reached for a jar of powdered charcoal and began mixing it with water. "This will draw out the poison," she explained, her voice calm despite the urgency. The mother nodded, her eyes wide with trust and fear.
As Elara administered the antidote, a strange sensation prickled at her arm. The birthmark burned faintly, as if reacting to something unseen. She hesitated, her eyes darting to the crescent moon etched into her skin. It was just her imagination, she told herself, shaking off the unease.
Minutes later, Liam stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, and color returned to his cheeks. The relief in the room was palpable.
"Thank you," the mother whispered, tears streaming down her face. "You've saved him."
Elara offered a soft smile. "That's what I'm here for."
As the door closed behind them, Elara slumped against the workbench, her hand subconsciously covering the birthmark. She didn't know why, but something about today felt different. The burning sensation lingered, a quiet whisper beneath her skin.
From her corner, Selene watched her with an unreadable expression. "You felt it, didn't you?" she asked softly.
Elara turned, startled. "Felt what?"
Selene stepped forward, her fingers brushing the crescent moon on Elara's arm. "The magic. It's stirring, child. Whether you're ready or not, the mark will soon reveal its purpose."
Elara frowned, a chill running down her spine. "I'm just a healer, Selene. Nothing more."
The older woman smiled knowingly. "You are far more than you believe, Elara Thorne. And soon, the world will know it too."