The journey westward to Windmere had begun with the quiet weight of parting. Poca had given Abraham and Jareth the night to say their goodbyes, understanding the gravity of the moment. She had returned home, planted the Landlock Root in her garden, ensuring it would keep her farm safe and her crops in stasis while she was away. The puppet cat she set up would ward off any beasts or scavengers, a vigilant guardian in her absence. She had slept deeply that night, waking at first light to begin the long journey.
When Poca returned to Jareth's house the next morning, she was surprised to find Abraham already outside, a small bag slung over his shoulder. The boy was just eleven years old, with dark curly hair that framed his face in unruly tendrils. His eyes were large and a deep brown, holding a mix of innocence and the hardened look of a child who had seen too much, too soon. His clothes, though rough around the edges, weren’t the tattered rags one might expect from someone living in the slums of Valarian. He wore a patched-up vest over a simple shirt, sturdy trousers, and boots that had clearly been through their share of rough days. The outfit spoke of his humble life but also of a quiet dignity.
Abraham didn't speak as he climbed into the back of the wagon. He merely glanced at Poca with those deep, quiet eyes, then looked away, focusing on the horizon where the sun was just beginning to rise. The air was crisp, filled with the promise of a new day, but there was no joy in the moment, only the heavy silence of an unspoken understanding. He had said goodbye to the man who had raised him, knowing it was likely for the last time. Poca didn’t press him to talk; she understood the pain of leaving someone behind, the finality of a farewell that carries the weight of never seeing someone again.
As they traveled, the road stretched out before them, winding through forests and open fields, the city of Valarian slowly receding into the distance. Hours passed, and Abraham remained silent, his eyes fixed on the world around him, but Poca could see the struggle within him. His small hands clenched around the straps of his bag, his posture stiff as if bracing against the reality of what lay ahead.
Poca kept her thoughts to herself, focusing on the rhythm of the oxen’s hooves and the creak of the wagon wheels. But in the silence, she couldn’t help but reflect. When Abraham had stolen from her, she hadn’t seen this coming. She had been angry, ready to reclaim what was hers, and then walk away. Yet here she was, escorting this boy to a new life, a life away from the only family he had left.
She told herself she needed to control her emotions, to stop letting herself get caught up in other people’s problems. She needed to be stronger, more guarded. But the boy’s silence forced her to think, to remember, and she found herself slipping into memories she usually kept buried.
Her father. Geppetto. The mad puppeteer. As the wagon rolled on, Poca looked down at her blue hands, the hands he had crafted with such care. She placed a hand on her heart, feeling the beat beneath her fingers. She was real. She knew she was real. She could feel the wind in her hair, the breeze on her skin. But the memories of her father’s descent into madness were always there, lurking just below the surface.
She remembered everything—her birth, if one could call it that. It wasn’t birth in the traditional sense, but it was the moment she came to life. She swallowed hard, her throat tight with the weight of those memories. She knew why her father had gone mad, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. It was because of her.
It didn’t make sense; it wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for this life, for his life. But the Tree of Life had given him a path, a cruel and unforgiving path, one that demanded four sacrifices to reach the pinnacle of his craft, to become a Diamond Tier Puppeteer. The first three sacrifices had been devastating—parts of his heart, his brain, his essence. Each step had taken him further from the man he once was and closer to the edge of madness.
Poca smiled sadly as tears welled up in her eyes, unwilling to fall. She remembered the day he realized what the final sacrifice would be. He was supposed to take control of her, his creation, his daughter, to replace her soul with his own and achieve immortal life. But he couldn’t do it. Even in his madness, he couldn’t take that final step. He couldn’t see her as just a vessel for his own existence.
She was free now, without strings, without the weight of his control. But the cost had been too high. He had left her when she was just six years old, leaving behind a letter that said if he ever saw her again, he would take her soul and replace it with his. The man who had once loved her, who had poured his heart into creating her, was gone, lost to the madness of his own ambition.
Poca stared down at her hands, the tears finally spilling over. She looked up as the oxen pulled them along the road, the countryside peaceful and quiet. Carter sat next to her, ever silent, ever watchful. In the back of the wagon, Abraham had finally fallen asleep under the midday sun, his small form curled up against the side of the cart.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. This was the life she had been given, the life she had chosen to live after her father’s madness. She would see this journey through, not just for the boy, but for herself as well. There was a strength in moving forward, in not letting the past dictate the future.
Yet, Poca’s thoughts refused to let her go, no matter how much she wished they would. Geppetto hadn’t earned his name as the mad puppeteer for creating her. No, that title came after. Left alone at six years old, Poca had to fend for herself, surviving in a world that made little sense to her. In those six years under her father’s care, she had learned much, but it wasn’t enough to prepare her for what came after.
Her creation was unlike anything else. She had no mother, no maternal figure to guide her—only a father who had given his life, quite literally, to bring her into existence. Poca wasn’t sure how she was alive or even what she was made of. She bled, but not red blood. Her blood was blue, the same color as her skin. It was one of the many mysteries she had to unravel on her own.
Her father, after bringing her to life, never explained why she existed. He only taught her how to survive, how to care for herself, how to treat others, and how to live harmoniously with nature. He instilled in her a deep sense of morality, a relentless drive to be a good person. Poca knew, in a literal sense, that she was part of who her father had been. As the years passed, she came to understand that the madness consuming Geppetto had started the moment he transferred all the goodness in him into her. She was filled with love, goodwill, purity—and she hated him for that because it was the only thing she could hate.
Here she was, driving a child she didn’t know to a place she didn’t care about, and for what? She could have said no, should have said no, but something in her wouldn’t allow it. Poca had learned of her creation through the letter Geppetto left her before he vanished. It was clear to her now that those six years had been his final act of defiance against the madness, a way to show her, and only her, what little good remained in him before he lost himself completely.
Geppetto. The name still haunted her, whispered in the corners of the world as a legend, a cautionary tale. After he left, she heard the stories—the mad puppeteer who turned people into puppets, who killed, mutilated, and controlled. He had become a living nightmare, a monster parents warned their children about. No one knew about Poca, or who she was. No one knew that the monster had once been her father.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to break free from the relentless pull of these thoughts. She focused on the world around her, the sandy terrain stretching out on either side of the road, the distant mesas rising against the horizon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch forever.
Poca looked back at Abraham, still sleeping soundly in the back of the wagon. His small chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep, his face peaceful in a way that only the innocence of youth could allow. Then she turned to Carter, who sat beside her, his carved smile fixed in place as always.
"Carter," she said aloud, her voice cutting through the silence. "You need to stop letting me get so introspective."
Carter, ever silent, turned his head slightly to look at her with those hollow, wooden eyes, then shifted his gaze back to the road ahead.
Poca nodded as if he had spoken. "Oui, oui, zat makes sense. But still, you could at least try to help, non?"
She gave a small, rueful smile, then sighed dramatically. "I suppose I 'ave to be ze responsible one, as always. Can’t leave it to ze brawn of ze team. It’s hard, you know, being both ze beauty and ze brains."
Carter’s wooden face didn’t change, but Poca could almost imagine him rolling his eyes at her. She chuckled softly, the humor lightening her mood just a bit.
Off in the distance, she spotted a small outpost, little more than a cluster of tents and makeshift structures huddled together on the barren landscape. The outpost seemed to be a hub for travelers and traders, a place to rest and resupply before continuing on the long road west.
"We should 'ead zat way," Poca said, pointing toward the outpost.
Carter turned his head again, this time giving her a longer stare, his unblinking eyes fixed on her as if to say that was already the plan. Then he turned back to face the road.
Poca shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "What would you do wizout me, Carter? You’d be lost, I swear."
The outpost grew closer as they traveled, the details of the makeshift buildings becoming clearer. The tents were worn but sturdy, patched together from various materials, and the structures were cobbled together from wood, metal, and anything else that could be scavenged from the surrounding area. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to rest, and that was enough. Especially after being on the road for a whole day, although it felt like hours. The boy having spoken not a word the whole time.
As they approached, the sounds of life reached them—the murmur of voices, the clatter of tools, and the occasional bark of a dog. A few people milled about, their eyes flicking toward Poca’s cart as it rolled in, their gazes lingering on Carter’s unsettling grin before quickly looking away.
Poca guided the cart to the edge of the outpost, pulling the oxen to a stop. She glanced back at Abraham, who was still asleep, and decided to let him rest a bit longer. The boy had been through a lot, and there was no need to wake him before it was necessary.
She looked at Carter, who remained steadfast by her side. "I'll see what zis place 'as to offer, eh?" she said softly.
With that, she climbed down from the cart, her bare feet sinking into the sandy ground. The world felt different here, quieter, but not in a way that was comforting. There was an edge to the silence, a tension that she couldn’t quite place. Poca pushed the feeling aside and moved toward the cluster of tents.
As she made her way into the heart of the outpost, Poca kept her eyes open, scanning the area for any signs of trouble. The people here were hardened, like the landscape itself, but they weren’t unfriendly. A few nodded in acknowledgment as she passed, and she returned the gesture with a polite smile.
Poca’s bare feet carried her through the smooth sand as she explored the stalls of the small outpost. The makeshift market bustled with activity, a blend of vibrant colors and enticing scents filling the air. She moved gracefully, her light blue skin and stitched smile drawing curious glances. Her curiosity led her from stall to stall, each vendor offering something unique, from handmade trinkets to exotic spices.
As she wandered, a particular stall caught her eye. The vendor was a man with dark, penetrating eyes and a friendly smile. His stall was brimming with fruits and vegetables that Poca had never seen before. Strange, vibrant produce with unique shapes and colors were neatly arranged on his table. One fruit, in particular, caught her attention—a deep purple orb with shimmering gold streaks running through its skin.
"Ah, I see you’ve found my prized Starfruit," the vendor said, his voice smooth and welcoming. "It’s said to have remarkable healing properties."
Poca’s eyes widened with interest. "Healing properties, you say? I am a healer myself. How much for zis fruit?"
The vendor’s smile broadened. "A fellow healer, eh? I’ll make you a deal. My name is Tariq, by the way. If you help me with something, I’ll not only give you the Starfruit but throw in some of these exotic fruits as well." He gestured to the other fruits on his stall—bright red berries that glowed faintly, green and blue striped melons, and silver-skinned tubers that seemed to pulse with energy.
Poca tilted her head, intrigued. "What kind of 'elp do you need, Tariq?"
He leaned in, his expression earnest. "My daughter, Amara, has been ill for weeks. No healer here has been able to help her. If you can heal her, I’ll make sure you leave with more than just the Starfruit."
Poca nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. Take me to 'er."
Tariq led Poca through the outpost, past the stalls and into a small tent at the edge of the market. Inside, a young girl lay on a makeshift bed, her skin pale and her breathing shallow. Poca’s heart ached at the sight of the suffering child. She knelt beside the bed, her hands hovering over the girl’s frail form.
"I will need a moment," she said softly. Poca closed her eyes, focusing her mana. Strings of ethereal blue light began to form at her fingertips, weaving intricate patterns in the air. These strings, her unique gift, allowed her to connect with the essence of a person’s ailment, to understand and control it like a puppet master.
The strings of mana connected to Amara, spreading out like a web over her body. Poca could feel the sickness within the girl, a dark, consuming presence. She concentrated, directing her mana strings to attack and isolate the disease. It was a battle of wills, but Poca’s high mana pool and her control over the strings gave her the upper hand.
Gradually, the darkness receded, replaced by a warm, golden glow that spread through Amara’s body. The girl’s breathing steadied, and color returned to her cheeks. Poca withdrew her strings, the mana dissipating into the air.
"It is done," Poca said, opening her eyes. Tariq watched in awe as Amara’s eyes fluttered open, her strength slowly returning.
"Thank you," Tariq said, his voice choked with emotion. "I don’t know how to repay you."
Poca smiled gently. "Ze fruits will be enough."
Tariq nodded, already gathering the promised fruits. As Poca stood, she glanced back at Carter, who was keeping watch over Abraham by the cart. The boy had woken up and was sitting quietly, observing the activity around him with wide eyes.
Stolen novel; please report.
Just as she was about to leave, Poca noticed a dark line on the western horizon. Her heart sank as she realized what it was—a massive sandstorm, its towering clouds consuming the sky. The storm was moving quickly, a wall of swirling sand and wind that would make travel impossible.
Tariq followed her gaze and frowned. "That storm will trap us here for at least a day, maybe more."
Poca’s expression hardened. "I cannot afford to wait. I 'ave a journey to complete."
Tariq placed a hand on her arm, his grip firm but kind. "You won’t make it far in that storm. Please, stay and help us. There are others here who could use your healing skills. In return, you’ll have a safe place to wait out the storm and more provisions for your journey."
Poca hesitated, her mind racing. The logical part of her knew that venturing into the storm would be dangerous, perhaps fatal. She looked at Tariq, then back at the approaching sandstorm. Finally, she nodded.
"Very well," she said. "I will stay and 'elp where I can."
Tariq’s face lit up with gratitude. "Thank you, Poca. You’re a blessing to us."
Poca returned to the cart to inform Carter and Abraham of the change in plans. Carter’s fixed smile remained as ever, but his presence was reassuring. Abraham, still quiet, seemed to understand the necessity of the decision without words.
"Looks like we’re staying 'ere for a bit," Poca said, her voice gentle. "But don’t worry. We’ll be safe, and I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of." Poca returned to the cart where Abraham sat, staring off into the distance, his expression unreadable. She approached him with a gentle smile, hoping to coax a word or two out of him.
"Abraham," she began softly, "how are you feeling? I know zis is 'ard for you."
The boy glanced at her briefly before looking away, his lips pressed into a thin line. Poca sighed inwardly, understanding that he wasn’t ready to open up. She decided not to push him further and instead focused on ensuring his comfort.
Just then, Tariq approached, his face beaming with relief and gratitude. "Poca, I cannot thank you enough. Amara is resting peacefully now. She’s going to be fine."
Poca nodded, her heart warmed by the news. "I am glad to 'ear it, Tariq."
Tariq gestured towards a distant dune. "There’s an inn on the other side of that dune. It’s the only one around here, but it’s a decent place to stay. Let me show you."
They gathered their things, and Poca guided Carter and Abraham toward the dune. The sand was smooth under her bare feet, a soothing contrast to the rough terrain they had traversed earlier. As they crested the dune, a small shanty town came into view, nestled in a shallow valley. The town was a patchwork of makeshift buildings and tents, a hidden sanctuary away from the bustling markets and the lawless expanses beyond Valarian.
The inn Tariq led them to was a modest structure made from salvaged wood and metal, its exterior weather-beaten but sturdy. A faded sign above the door read "Oasis Inn," and the faint sounds of music and conversation drifted from within.
Inside, the inn was surprisingly cozy. The main room was lit by oil lamps, casting a warm glow over the worn furniture and rough-hewn tables. A few patrons glanced up as they entered, their expressions a mix of curiosity and mild surprise. Tariq spoke briefly with the innkeeper, a stout woman with a kind face, and soon enough, Poca was shown to her room.
The room was small but comfortable, with a simple bed covered in clean linens, a wooden chair, and a washbasin. Poca set her bag down, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over her. It had been a long day, but there was still work to be done.
After ensuring that Carter and Abraham were settled, Poca followed Tariq back outside. He led her to a small gathering of people, each one in need of her healing skills. Healers didn’t often make it out to places like this, where the community was too remote and too poor to afford regular medical care.
"This is Yara," Tariq said, introducing her to a frail-looking woman who sat hunched over, her face pale and drawn. "She’s been ill for weeks."
Poca knelt beside Yara, her hands already beginning to glow with the familiar blue light of her mana. "Do not worry, Yara. I will do my best to 'elp you."
She extended her mana strings, letting them weave through the air and connect with Yara’s body. She could feel the sickness, a dark mass lodged deep within the woman’s lungs. Poca concentrated, directing her strings to surround and isolate the disease, attacking it with precise bursts of energy. Slowly but surely, the darkness began to recede, replaced by a soft, golden glow. Yara’s breathing steadied, her color returning as the illness was driven out.
Yara looked up at Poca with tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with gratitude.
Poca smiled gently. "You are welcome. Rest now, and you will feel better soon."
Next, Tariq led her to a man named Farid, who lay on a makeshift cot, his body wracked with fever. Poca repeated the process, her mana strings connecting with Farid’s feverish form. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the infection burning like a wildfire. Poca directed her mana strings to cool and soothe, weaving a net around the fever and drawing it out, bit by bit. Farid’s body relaxed, his fever breaking as the infection was neutralized.
Finally, Tariq brought her to a young man named Karim, who had a deep gash on his leg that had become dangerously infected. Poca inspected the wound, noting the angry red edges and the foul smell of infection. She extended her mana strings once more, this time focusing on the physical wound. She directed the strings to clean the infection, closing the wound with delicate precision. The process was slower, more demanding, but eventually, the gash began to knit together, the infection fading.
Karim winced as the healing took place but soon relaxed, his eyes closing in relief. "Thank you, healer," he murmured, his voice filled with gratitude.
Poca stood, feeling the drain on her mana but also a deep sense of fulfillment. She had made a difference, however small, in the lives of these people. After tending to Karim, Poca felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. She turned to see Tariq, his dark eyes filled with gratitude and warmth. "Would you join me and my wife for some tea as a thank you?" he asked, his voice sincere.
Poca smiled and nodded. "I would like zat very much."
Tariq led her through the outpost, the massive sandstorm ever closer, its dark clouds rolling ominously. They reached his home, a large tent that was more of a home than its appearance suggested. The fabric was patched in places, but it was sturdy, designed to withstand the harsh desert conditions. Inside, it was cozy and welcoming, with rugs covering the ground and low cushions arranged around a central area where a small table sat.
His wife, Zara, was a petite woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile. She had a warm, motherly presence that immediately put Poca at ease. She wore a simple dress adorned with intricate embroidery, her dark hair neatly braided and adorned with colorful beads. Amara, their daughter, was still sleeping peacefully in a corner, bundled in soft blankets.
"Welcome, Poca," Zara said, her voice soft but welcoming. "Please, sit and make yourself comfortable."
Poca sat on one of the cushions, feeling the warmth of the fabric beneath her. Tariq and Zara moved with practiced ease, working together to prepare the tea. Their movements were synchronized, a testament to their years together. Tariq would hand Zara a cup, and she would pour the tea with a graceful efficiency. They exchanged small smiles and touches, the kind of silent communication that spoke of deep affection and mutual respect.
"Thank you again for healing our daughter," Tariq said as he handed Poca a steaming cup of tea. "Healers are so rare out here. It’s a long journey back to Valarian, and not many make it in time when we need them."
Poca took a sip of the tea, savoring the warmth and the delicate blend of herbs. "It was my pleasure. Amara is a strong girl. She will be well soon."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the sounds of the outpost a distant hum. The sandstorm loomed closer, the tension in the air palpable. Poca looked at Tariq and Zara, curiosity getting the better of her.
"What is zis place?" she asked. "It’s not on any map I’ve seen."
Tariq nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "This place started as a refugee camp many years ago. People fleeing from all sorts of troubles—wars, droughts, political strife—found their way here. Over time, it grew into a small settlement, a safe haven for those with nowhere else to go. Now it’s a bit of a landmark between Valarian and Emberfall."
Zara chimed in, her voice warm. "We’ve built a community here. It’s not easy, but we manage. We trade with passing travelers and caravans, and help each other as best we can."
Poca nodded, taking it all in. "And what about you two? How did you end up 'ere?"
Tariq smiled, his eyes meeting Zara’s. "We met in Valarian. I was a trader, and Zara was working at a market stall. We fell in love and decided to build a life together. When things got tough in the city, we moved out here, looking for a fresh start."
Zara reached over and squeezed Tariq’s hand. "It’s not the life we imagined, but it’s ours. And now, with Amara getting better, it feels like we’ve been given a new chance."
Their gratitude was evident, not just in their words but in the way they looked at each other and at Poca. The storm outside seemed to pause their world, giving them a rare moment of peace and reflection.
Poca hadn’t realized how far she had come on her journey. "I am helping ze young boy with me, Abraham, get to Windmere," she explained. "It sounds like I am already a quarter of ze way zere."
Tariq nodded. "Yes, Emberfall is the halfway mark to Windmere. You’re making good progress."
As they talked, the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the outpost. The sandstorm, which had seemed so threatening, suddenly dissipated without warning. The dark clouds receded, leaving the sky clear and calm.
A murmur of surprise spread through the camp. A man approached Tariq, a puzzled look on his face. "The storm just vanished," he said, his voice tinged with confusion. "It’s like it was never there."
Tariq nodded thoughtfully but turned his attention back to Poca. "These storms come and go quickly around here. It happens all the time."
Poca, unfamiliar with the territory, had to take his word for it. "If you say so," she replied, a hint of skepticism in her voice. Tariq poured another cup of tea for Poca, steam rising from the delicate porcelain as they continued their conversation. The storm outside seemed to have quieted for the moment, but the dark clouds still loomed on the horizon, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the desert. Poca sipped the tea slowly, savoring its warmth and the hint of spices that lingered on her tongue.
"You mentioned storms like this happen all ze time," Poca said, glancing toward the tent flap that fluttered slightly in the breeze. "It must make travel 'ere quite difficult."
Tariq nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It does. But I’ve made a name for myself out here. Traveling to sell exotic fruits and vegetables isn’t easy, but the market in Valarian has been good to me. Being in the middle here, with a reputation for quality, has given me an edge. People know to come to me when they’re looking for something special."
Zara, sitting beside Tariq with a gentle smile, added, "He’s being modest. Tariq is known as the ‘Desert Harvester’ in the markets. Traders from far and wide seek him out for his produce."
Poca smiled at the term. "Desert 'Arvester. I like zat. It has a certain ring to it."
Tariq chuckled. "It’s not always glamorous, but it’s honest work. And it allows us to live here, away from the politics and dangers of the larger cities."
Poca nodded, understanding the appeal of such a life. The quiet, the simplicity—she could see why someone might choose this place to make their home. "Zis place, it has an interesting history. A refugee camp turned into a small town. You must have seen a lot of changes over ze years."
"We have," Tariq said, his tone turning reflective. "This place was a haven for so many who had nowhere else to go. It grew out of necessity, but now it’s something more. A community, a home for those who choose it."
Zara placed a hand on Tariq’s arm, her touch light and affectionate. "We’ve built something here, something worth protecting. It’s not always easy, but we have each other, and that makes it worthwhile."
Poca watched the exchange with a soft smile, appreciating the warmth between them. "You two 'ave a strong bond. It is nice to see."
Tariq smiled warmly at his wife. "We’ve been through a lot together. But every challenge has made us stronger, more grateful for what we have."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of the outpost muted by the thick canvas walls of the tent. Poca felt a sense of peace in this small, hidden corner of the desert, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She had always been a wanderer, never staying in one place for too long, but there was something about this place, about these people, that resonated with her.
"So, you are traveling to Windmere with the boy," Zara said, breaking the silence. "It’s a long journey."
Poca nodded. "Oui, it is. But he needs to get to his family zere. I 'ave promised to see him safely to his destination."
Tariq looked at her with admiration. "You’re a good person, Poca. Not many would take on such a burden."
Poca shrugged, a rueful smile on her lips. "Sometimes I zink it is not about being good, but about not being able to say no."
Before the conversation could continue, a commotion outside the tent caught their attention. Shouts of alarm and calls for help echoed through the camp. Poca's heart raced as she exchanged a quick glance with Tariq. Without a word, she rose to her feet and rushed outside, her bare feet sinking into the soft sand as she emerged into the open air.
The storm clouds still hung ominously in the distance, but the source of the commotion was not the weather—it was the sight of a figure running toward the camp, carrying another person in their arms.
Poca's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the familiar silhouette of Selene, her long dark hair trailing behind her as she sprinted toward the outpost. In her arms, she carried a woman, barely conscious and half-naked, her body covered in bruises and cuts. Selene's face was etched with desperation, her voice strained as she cried out for help.
"Help! Please, someone help!" Selene’s voice was hoarse, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she neared the camp.
Poca’s heart lurched as she ran forward to meet Selene, a mix of surprise, excitement, and horror coursing through her. She hadn’t expected to see Selene again, let alone under these circumstances. The memories of their last encounter flashed through her mind, but she pushed them aside, focusing on the immediate need.
"Selene!" Poca called out, her voice trembling slightly as she reached out to steady her friend. "What 'appened?"
Selene’s eyes, wide with fear and urgency, locked onto Poca’s. "I... I found her in the storm. She’s badly hurt. Please, Poca, you have to help her. Her name is Paola."
Poca’s heart pounded as she guided Selene into the nearest tent, her mind racing with concern and confusion. Selene seemed distant, her eyes unfocused and hollow, as if she were watching everything from a distance. She carefully lowered the injured woman onto the ground, her hands trembling with exhaustion. The woman, Paola, was barely clinging to life. Her body was a broken, battered mess—crushed and thrown around as if she had been nothing more than a doll in a child’s cruel game.
Poca knelt beside Paola, her fingers tingling with the familiar energy of her healing magic. As she placed her hands over the woman’s shattered form, she could immediately feel how close Paola was to death. Her health was dangerously low, barely above 5%, and her body was teetering on the edge of the abyss.
"Mon dieu," Poca whispered, her voice trembling. She glanced at Selene, who stood by with a disassociated stare, barely reacting to the dire situation unfolding before her.
Poca pushed aside her own rising panic and focused on the task at hand. She extended her hands, summoning every ounce of her mana. Ethereal strings of light poured from her fingertips, more than she had ever needed to use at once. The strings intertwined, weaving a complex web of healing energy around Paola’s broken body. Poca felt her connection to the woman deepen as she directed the strings into every wound, every fracture, every piece of shattered flesh.
The damage was severe—far worse than Poca had anticipated. It was as if Paola had been crushed by an immense force, her bones splintered, her organs bruised and torn. Blood loss had been extensive, and the internal injuries were catastrophic. Poca gritted her teeth, focusing her energy on stabilizing Paola’s failing body. The strings of mana worked tirelessly to knit together the broken pieces, to close the gaping wounds and restore what had been lost.
But it was a losing battle.
Poca could feel it, the way Paola’s life force flickered like a dying flame, struggling to stay alight. Every time she managed to heal one wound, another seemed to worsen. It was as though Paola’s body was rejecting life itself, refusing to hold together. The strain of the healing process was immense, and Poca’s own mana reserves were depleting rapidly as she poured everything she had into saving this woman.
Her hands glowed with a bright, almost blinding light as she directed every strand of mana she could muster into Paola’s broken body. The strings wove in and out of the injuries, pulling together torn flesh, mending shattered bones, trying to bring the woman back from the brink. But the damage was too extensive, the injuries too grievous.
"Come on, come on," Poca murmured, her voice strained with effort. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heart ached with the knowledge that she might not be able to save Paola.
Selene remained eerily silent, her eyes fixed on the scene before her but with an empty expression, as if she were watching from a thousand miles away. Poca could feel the weight of Selene’s detachment pressing down on her, adding to the already overwhelming pressure of the situation.
"Stay with me, Paola," Poca urged, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m not giving up on you."
But despite her best efforts, Paola’s life force continued to slip away. Poca’s mana strings were losing their grip, unable to hold together the fragile threads of life that were fraying faster than she could repair them. The connection she had made with Paola was weakening, and no matter how hard she tried, it seemed inevitable that the woman would be lost.
Poca’s hands trembled as she fought against the encroaching darkness, her mana depleting to dangerous levels. She was running out of time, and she knew it. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of failure pressing down like a suffocating blanket.
"Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Please, don’t leave us."
But even as she pleaded, Poca felt Paola’s life force begin to flicker one last time, the last remnants of strength fading into the void. The strings of mana quivered in her hands, losing their light, and for the first time, Poca felt the cold grip of despair tighten around her heart.
She was losing her.
And as the final light in Paola’s eyes began to dim, Poca could do nothing but watch in horror, feeling the devastating realization that she might not be able to save her after all.