Time lost all meaning to Wilran. Her mind struggled to grasp the fleeting sense of reality as she drifted between vivid dreams and fragmented memories.

The strongest of the memories and sensations were of her mother and father. However, even those memories were vague and separated by discombobulation. At times she followed her younger self running through the streets of Clayborn as her parents chased her in good fun. She watched as the three of them sat on a bench enjoying her favorite cookie. She even observed the time her mother took her to pick flowers by the city gate.

But then there were moments that felt foreign, unreal—impossible even. She saw herself lying in a bed, her father carefully tilting a cup of warm liquid to her lips while her mother wiped her face clean. The two would then tend to the wound on her arm, read to her, or even talk to her as if she was fully awake. In those moments, she was their helpless youngling again. A ward to watch over with comforting words, slipping from her grasp before she could catch their meaning.

To Wilran it seemed as if her life was a never ending cycle of dreams and momories with one rising above all others—the day she lost them. It was always the same scene, a cruel cycle she couldn't escape. Once again she found herself on the streets of Clayborn, her mother standing before her, sadness hidden behind a brave smile. "Okay sweetie. You know what you have to do. Your father and I will be going into the fields to find work. Do your best to sell the flowers. If we're successful, I'll buy you one of those cookies you like."

Trapped and full of despair, she prepared to watch the image she had seen again and again, but this time something different happened. As her mother turned to leave, the dream manifested her heart's desire. The words she wished she had uttered so long ago; she now spoke in her fragmented state.

"Don't go."

The words came unbidden, escaping her lips as if some unseen force pulled them from deep within her. And suddenly, the memory twisted. It wasn't a dream anymore, or at least, it didn't feel like one. Her mother stopped. She turned around slowly, her eyes wide with surprise as she looked back at Wilran, as if trying to comprehend what she'd just heard. For a moment, she studied her, taking a tentative step in her direction before her fine lips finally parted.

"Did you say something?"

Wilran's heart pounded in her chest. It wasn't how the memory was supposed to go. Her mother had never turned back before. Panic and hope surged through her as she realized that maybe, just maybe, her mother was really there. Never mind that it shouldn't have been possible. Somehow, someway the two of them were together, and Wilran wasn't going to lose the chance to hold her mother again. She needed to communicate, her mind all but screamed the words she wanted to say aloud, but no sound came out.

When Wilran failed to break through the fog clouding her thoughts, dread slowly slithered into her mind. The world shifted, pulling her back to the familiar streets of Clayborn. She stood there again, clutching the delicate flowers in her small hands, watching the dream rewind as her mother knelt to hug her youngling self. The scent of the blossoms mingled with the soft warmth of her mother's embrace, but the words that followed still carried the sting of finality.

"Remember," her mother said gently, her voice filled with love, "we love you very much, and we will meet you back at the waiting place."

They were the last words her mother ever said to her. The words, spoken countless times in her memories, hit her like a fist to the chest. No matter how many times she had relived the moment, the pain was always sharp, always fresh. It stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her gasping as she watched her mother walk away, her figure growing smaller with each step.

Desperation surged through Wilran. She once again tried to move, tried to chase after her, but it felt like trying to run through quicksand. Water, thick and cold, filled her lungs as she struggled to speak, to call out to the woman slipping further out of reach.

"Please..." she choked out.

And then, impossibly, her mother turned. Not just a glance, but a full, urgent spin as if she had been waiting for Wilran's plea all along. Without hesitation, her mother sprinted toward her, arms outstretched. The world around Wilran shifted again, the streets of Clayborn dissolving into the dim, cramped room where she now lay grasping her mother's hand.

It feels so real.

That single touch was the magic Wilran needed, igniting a strength she didn't know she had. As her mother's fingers intertwined with hers, the final breath left Wilran's lungs, and with it, the suffocating pressure. She shot upright, gasping as the warm air of the room filled her chest, the sensation flooding her senses all at once.

Blinding light assaulted her eyes, making it impossible to focus on her surroundings. Yet in the brief, dazzling moment, she caught a glimpse of her mother's smile—a brilliant, radiant thing, full of warmth and tenderness. It seared into her mind like a beacon, the only thing keeping her grounded as the world around her spun.

Her mother held her tightly, cradling her as Wilran wept into her arms, every ounce of the loneliness and sorrow that had weighed on her soul pouring out. For that fleeting instant, Wilran felt whole again. Joy and relief swelled in her heart, pushing aside the shadows of despair.

But just as the euphoria took hold, a voice—strange and unfamiliar—broke through the haze. "Bidant! She's awake."

As footsteps made their way towards the door, Wilran's eyes adjusted. She watched as a figure burst through its arch, eyeing the room and ready to spring into action.

Father?

For a moment, the brown ponytail and strong jawline were familiar—comfortingly so. But as her eyes cleared, the differences became stark. This elf's hazel eyes lacked her father's stern gaze. His frame was too strong, too disciplined—like a soldier, not the rough, weathered laborer she remembered. And his stance—rigid, proper, almost too perfect—a refined taste her father never cared for.

Confusion spiraled, tightening her chest. Wilran's gaze snapped toward her mother, desperate for something familiar. But the woman at her bedside was a stranger. A white cloth draped over her brown hair, highlighting her pale, unfamiliar face. Panic clawed at Wilran's throat, and before she could stop herself, she let out a startled cry, shrinking back into the bed.

The woman stood abruptly, her movements revealing a Youngling of the Plains frame—not at all an elf.

Fear seized Wilran. She tried to scramble away, but her legs refused to move. Desperation set in, and she clawed at the sheets with her hands, only to realize that her dominant hand forearm were missing.

Before the woman could say anything, Wilran's trembling fingers found a book resting on a nearby chair. She snatched it up and aimed it at the intruder. The elf—Bidant—moved swiftly, positioning himself between Wilran and the woman, his body tense, ready to intercept the blow. That only made Wilran grip the book tighter. If this was her only chance, she'd make it count.

"Who are you? What did you do to me? Why am I here?" Wilran asked. Her voice came out in a dry rasp, rough from disuse.

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The woman placed a calming hand on Bidant's shoulder, her expression gentle. "Easy, Bidant. She's scared. Why don't you get us some tea? I'm sure her throat is killing her."

Bidant hesitated, casting the woman a cautious glance, but eventually obeyed. His departure left Wilran feeling slightly more at ease, though she kept a tight grip on the book, prepared to hurl it at the woman if she made any sudden moves.

The woman, however, made no attempt to come closer. Instead, she pulled the chair at the bedside closer towards her and sat down, her movements slow and deliberate.

"An old friend once told me," she began softly, her voice like the calm and smooth, "that it's important to lean on others—and a good cup of tea. I'll do my best to provide both."

The woman's smile was warm, almost disarming, but Wilran wasn't ready to lower her guard. Her mind raced, calculating the best moment to strike.

Is this best time to attack? If I act now, I could knock out the frailer of the two quickly and have time to recover the book before the elf comes back.

The woman seemed unfazed by the tension, her posture relaxed as she continued. "Let's start with your questions. My name is Gamma—just Gamma. The elf making us tea is my friend. You might've heard of him—Bidant of the Order of Kai? I understand he's quite well known in the city of Clayborn."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Wilan, but she couldn't place it. The Order of Kai was well-known in her hometown, but Wilran rarely interacted with its members. Even if she didn't know of the elf personally, the Order was a formidable organization. It only strengthened her resolve to attack, but slowly the book started to droop as she now struggled under its worn-leather weight. Her muscles were significantly weaker than they should have been.

Gamma's eyes flickered to the book as Wilran's grip faltered, but she continued to speak, keeping her voice even and measured.

"I promise we did nothing other than care for you. You were badly injured by the time we found you, and while we did our best to save you, there was only so much we could do for your arm."

Before Wilran could respond, Bidant returned, balancing a tray with a terracotta teapot and three small cups. His movements were fluid, practiced—he closed the door behind him with a graceful spin, not a drop of tea disturbed.

"That's not true," Bidant said. "You know you could've done more."

Gamma's composure faltered for the first time. "Not now, Bidant!" she snapped, a little too harshly. Wilran caught the brief flicker of pain in Gamma's eyes, but neither of them pursued the tension further. Instead, Gamma took the tray from Bidant's hands, setting it on her lap as she began pouring tea into the delicate cups.

By the time the last cup was filled, Wilran's grip gave way. The book fell from her hands, landing with a soft thud on the floor. She no longer had the strength to hold it, her body betraying her.

Gamma offered a warm smile, picking up one of the cups. She sipped from it slowly, then passed the tray back to Bidant before taking another cup and gently bringing it to Wilran's lips.

"I promise, this will help."

The aroma hit Wilran's senses immediately—a soothing blend of mint, spices, and berries. It was both nostalgic and unfamiliar, a pleasant warmth that made her mouth water.

When was the last time I smelled something so inviting?

Without much choice and with her strength gone, Wilran tilted her head and allowed Gamma to pour the tea down her throat. The heat of the liquid was immediate, soothing her parched throat as it traveled downward. It spread through her body, its warmth replacing the ache of her throat. Then, in a curious way, the warmth seemed to turn inward, settling heavily around her chest, as if wrapping itself around her heart.

Gamma watched her carefully. "Better?" she asked, her voice full of hope.

Wilran nodded, her voice no longer rasping. "What was that?"

Gamma's lips curled into a small smile. "A tea fit for a princess."

Something about the answer felt off, but Wilran didn't push it. She had more immediate concerns. Gathering her strength, she tried to move her legs again—only to find a deep, unsettling numbness that refused to yield.

"Why can't I move?" she asked, a hint of panic in her voice.

Gamma turned toward Bidant, seeking confirmation. The elf merely shrugged, offering no answers. Gamma then placed her hand on Wilran's leg, her touch gentle, but its purpose understood. She was healer, Wilran was her patient, and she needed to confirm a diagnosis.

"I can't say for certain, but it seems like bed sickness," Gamma said softly.

"Bed sickness?" Wilran echoed, the term unfamiliar.

"It's what happens when your muscles waste away from lack of use. You've been bedridden for quite some time. We tried to keep your body as strong as possible, but... you've lost a lot of weight. Your body will need some time to adjust before you will be able to walk again."

"How long have I been here?" she asked, the uncertainty gnawing at her.

Again, Gamma and Bidant exchanged a look—this time, longer and heavier. The unspoken tension between them unsettled Wilran. She watched them struggle with their silent conversation until she couldn't bear it any longer.

"That long, huh?"

Their faces softened, sympathy etched in their eyes. Finally, Bidant spoke, breaking the silence and her spirit.

"Three months."

The words struck her like a hammer to the chest. Though she'd suspected she had been out for a long time, hearing the truth made her world tilt. Her breath quickened, her thoughts spiraled. Three months. Three months of her life wasted, her teammates missing, her magic drained, her dominant hand—gone. She was a shell of her former self. The goddess might not have claimed her soul yet, but at things were progressing, she wouldn't have long.

Her panic escalated, the room spinning around her. Just as she felt herself spiraling out of control, two soft hands firmly cupped her face.

"Miss! Miss! Look at me," Gamma commanded, her voice breaking through the haze.

Wilran's eyes snapped to Gamma's, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Their gazes locked, and in that instant, Wilran caught a glimpse of something deep within Gamma's soul. Her aura, dull gray, was marred by scars—heavy, ugly streaks that spoke of deep pain and wounds that never fully healed. Wilran didn't know what had caused those scars, but she understood enough to know they ran far deeper than anything physical.

"Follow my breathing," Gamma instructed.

Wilran nodded and took a deep breath, focusing on matching Gamma's rhythm. Gradually, her heart rate slowed, and her thoughts began to settle. As Gamma eased her grip, she reached for the third teacup, lifting it to Wilran's lips without a word. This time, Wilran accepted it without hesitation.

The rich aroma of the tea filled her senses once more, and while it wasn't as hot as the first cup, it still worked its magic, calming her nerves. She attempted to sit up and gather her composure, but made little headway before Bidant stepped in to assist her.

"I don't know what came over me," she admitted, embarrassment creeping into her voice.

Gamma gently squeezed her hand. "We understand," she said softly. "Take your time."

Wilran felt an overwhelming gratitude toward the two strangers, but it was quickly overshadowed by a wave of self-pity. Their kindness felt like a cruel reminder of her plight. Instead of being thankful, she spiraled into despair.

"What am I going to do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Even if I heal enough to move, I don't even know where I am or why I'm here. How can I find my team? Are they even looking for me?"

Bidant exchanged a concerned glance with Gamma, but she remained focused on Wilran, her grip tightening around her hand.

"I'm afraid we can't answer those questions," she said, her voice steady and reassuring. "But we will help you get back on your feet."

It was a comforting thought, but it didn't spare Wilran of the anguish and frustration she felt. She looked down at the stump of her arm. Knowing that without her goddess and magic, she was doomed to a life of condemnation and an afterlife of torture.

Perhaps I even deserved it.

"Why don't we start with something simple?" Gamma suggested, a small smile attempting to break the tension. "What's your name? I'm afraid I've been quite curious for some time."

Blushing, Wilran felt a pang of guilt for her earlier attitude.

Who brings a complete stranger into their home and meets all their needs without knowing them? Only the kindest souls would care for an abled-bodied guest for this long. I'm far from deserving.

"My apologies. You two have been so gracious, and I've been nothing more than an unruly guest. My name is Wilran Stillfond..." She hesitated, weighing the implications of her next words. But honesty felt like the least she could offer.

It's the least I can do, she reminded herself.

"...a disgraced cleric of my goddess."

Gamma's expression shifted; her head tilted, and her eyes widened as if recognizing something deeper. In that moment, Wilran sensed the scars etched into Gamma's soul, feeling an unexpected kinship with her.

"Oh?" Gamma said, curiosity piqued. "What goddess do you serve?"

Wilran responded without hesitation, a stark contrast to her usual cautious nature. "Lilith."

Gamma's hands fell away as she stood abruptly, knocking her chair over in the process. The sudden movement made Wilran flinch, and Bidant instinctively moved closer, adopting a protective stance.

Great, now I've done it, Wilran thought, berating herself for revealing her connection to Lilith, knowing how others often reacted to followers of the goddess. But before she could utter an apology or at the very least an explanation, a knock at a door echoed from the other room.