For all the bells and chimes she had heard in her months in Palat’a Verena, Meira had never quite heard this. There was a melancholy panic to the sound of the bell being rung from the east tower of the palace wall. It sent a shiver of trepidation down her spine.

She looked up from the book she was currently reading through, a thick tome about the theory of amplification and dampening abilities. All of it had been theory until her. Ujo let out a hiss at the disruption, curling further into her side. She gave him a pat of reassurance. Quick steps came from the corridor, and muffled shouts snaked through the elaborate wood. Setting the book aside, she followed the noise.

In the nearly four months since she had arrived, her doorway had never been without the indigo shadows of the guards who waited outside. Now the archway lay bare, a potted palm the only sentinel. She glanced between her room and the hall, craning her neck for any sign of what had occurred. The hushed emptiness provided no enlightenment. Meira jumped as the unnerving tone reverberated once again. With one last look at Ujo’s sour expression from under the sofa, she closed the door. Bunching her long thistle-hued skirts in her hands, she followed the hall towards the center of the palace.

Noise grew as she got closer, everyone in the palace converging toward the main hall after the summons. There was a palpable agitation to the growing crowd, a tension as they flowed through the stone corridors. The energy within her answered to the agitation of wielders around her—burning and twisting in a distracting frenzy. It roared at her, louder than she had ever felt. Meira joined the river of bodies, searching for familiar faces. The crush opened up as everyone flooded into the main courtyard. They moved in different directions instinctually; the tide of people broke around Meira as she watched the scene before her, unsure of where to go.

Refugees were coming into the palace, the triquetra gate held open for easy passage. After months of a steady stream from the north and west, the simpler clothes and styles from outside of the city were easy to identify. They’d never come in this number or in such a state. Blood blossomed on nearly every person coming through the gate. The cries of the mass were punctuated with directions shouted across the cacophony. Makeshift stretchers held battered bodies. Some moaned, others were frighteningly still. Those who could still stand were carrying others, limping into the courtyard and amassing where the guards in blue instructed.

A flash of blonde hair staggered into her vision, and Meira called out Otsana’s name.

“Gods, you’re bleeding,” she said, rushing down the few steps between them. She instinctually reached toward the gash across the other woman’s neck. The blood had painted Otsana’s uniform and the limp arm she cradled.

“I need to find the Mak’are,” she said rigidly, brushing off Meira the best that she could in her state. Meira followed.

“What happened? Where are these people from?”

“What do you think happened?” Otsana replied. Her sallow skin shone with sweat at the effort of continuing up the steps, “Your people attacked Avad’ar.”

Meira had gathered as much, but the chaos and carnage was larger than she’d ever seen. Otsana limped on, and Meira looked out at the scene. Some escapees wailed, others sat with haunted stares. And these were the ones who survived. Tears thickened her throat for a moment before she pushed it down.

“Meira!”

She whirled around to see a frantic Kirsi waving her towards the entrance of the building. She hurried to the shattered redhead.

“What can I do?” she asked before the healer could speak.

“There are so many,” Kirsi said, emerald eyes welling.

Though her confidence had grown over the months, it was clear that Kirsi had never been in the aftermath of a battle; had never had to handle the simultaneous triage of others’ pain and her own emotions.

A sage blur came up to them. The healer wasn’t one Meira knew well, but the way Kirsi straightened up told her it was one of the more senior healers.

“We need help with the minor injuries,” the woman said, her countenance rattled but still intact.

“Go over there.” she pointed towards a mass of people in the shade of one of the large pillars. “Do what you can to ease their pain and tend to their wounds.”

Kirsi nodded and the woman dashed away, following a gurney being floated down the hall by an air wielder guard.

“Come on,” Kirsi said, confidence returned in the face of direction.

“But I’m not a healer!” Meira said, thinking of the beautiful power her friend possessed.

Kirsi let a ghost of a smile light her lips, “You didn’t stop being a Khaantul healer when you became the Soul Wielder.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

It was the first time someone here valued her past. But in the face of this moment, Meira wasn’t sure Khaantul could do anything but harm.

“Grab a guard, have them get you whatever you need. We can do this.”

***

She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but when Meira next emerged from the group of fractures, dislocated shoulders, cuts and scrapes, the sun had begun its afternoon descent. Between Kirsi’s wielding and her own knowledge of wartime medicine, they could ease much of the refugees’ suffering. It was the emotional suffering she worried about now.

Meira stood, stretching her aching back. The water in the bowl before her was bright red from the cloth used to clean away wounds. Her last patient had been a child, the bullet graze across her temporal lobe causing more blood and panic than pain. Fires of rage and betrayal that Meira had been pushing down all morning stoked and shifted every time she saw another wound she recognized. These were civilians, but they looked more like target practice.

The hall had quieted around her, patients treated and ushered off to be clothed, fed, and cared for. Even Kirsi had been called back to the healing center to offer additional support. Meira walked aimlessly, wishing the knots in her mind could untwist as easily as those in her body. Murmurs from the central hall drew her closer.

The afternoon sun filtered through the dome in a spotlight, angled to the side of the central pool. Around it people bowed, praying. Smaller clusters of people huddled together, comforting each other. People Meira recognized from the palace were bringing necessities to the groups, arms piled with food, clothing, and bedding in a way that reminded Meira of her first day at the palace. The Verena herself was bent over an elderly woman. Her many rings shone in stark contrast to the crisp bandages around the woman’s head where she held it up. There was a calming confidence as she spooned sustenance into the woman’s mouth. Meira noticed blood on her aqua skirts and warmth pulsed for the woman. This wasn’t just performative aid—she’d been helping the people in the same way they all had.

A whisper whipped through the crowd and heads rose in Meira’s direction. She shrunk towards the carved wood of the door where she leaned. Did they know? Her gaze darted across the faces, looking for anger. Were they about to chase her out for being Khaantul? For being a reminder of their pain and devastation. Her shame burned. The voices grew louder. She pulled her arms across her body, turning to leave, but more refugees had come up behind her.

Instead of the agony and betrayal she was searching for, she found only admiration and relief in their eyes. A brave soul reached out to her, grasping her clenched hand. He repeated one Juri’a phrase over and over as the others joined in.

D’vasia Sventasis, ou svantana!

Spirit Saint, our savior.

***

The change in the room could be felt. A calmness washing over the gathering after they had gotten their time hugging or bowing to their living saint. The Verena, seizing the moment, had taken Meira around to each group, allowing everyone to be comforted by the near-silent savior. Meira smiled at the devotees, returning the gestures and providing what comfort she could. But she didn’t have the words as bodies brutalized by her own people held eyes that looked at her with hope.

Burning orange was pulling across the sky when she returned to the entrance of the palace, drained of all emotion. Her hand rubbed her temple as she walked. The pulsing energy and warring emotions thrashing inside of her would not be tamed. She closed her eyes with the effort. A thick wall of muscle stopped her in her tracks.

Strong arms stopped her fall, curling around her bicep quickly. Her eyes surged to Sorin’s imperturbable face. He let her arm go gently, wordless gaze holding the same tumult of emotions as her own.

“We’re going to Avad’ar,” he said. His voice was quiet, more restrained than she had ever heard it. “We’re looking for survivors. I need you to come in case there are injuries.”

It wasn’t an order, but she wouldn’t refuse. He gestured towards the outer courtyard as soon as she agreed.

“I need a few minutes. I can’t go like this,” she said. The sleeves of her lilac bodice were stiff with blood, and the skirt sported similar rusty stains. The underskirt was significantly shorter, as she had ripped strips to create bandages and tourniquets during her work.

Sorin only nodded and told her to meet them outside. His easy acquiescence gave her another drop of apprehension. How bad was it if her regular adversary was giving into her?

Returning to her rooms, she adorned herself in the few green pieces in the expansive wardrobe. She could use any extra help from the healing goddess she could get. On her walk back to meet the rest of the party, Meira took a detour by the healing center. The water wielding thread within her came alive the closer she got, undulating in response to the power beyond the curtains. They’d been pulled back for the healers, who were dashing about in earnest. Cots were set up in every additional space, trickling into the halls for the less seriously injured. It was there that Meira found Kirsi.

The woman finished setting a fracture, helping the man prop his leg up on some pillows before turning to Meira. A tired smile floated across her lips.

“You look good in my color,” she joked.

“I’m going to Avad’ar,” Meira said without the same levity. Kirsi’s smile fell. “We’re looking for survivors.”

The redhead nodded, coming over to Meira and taking her hands in her own. Meira could sense the volume of emotions and thoughts running through her companion’s mind, but she seemed to have trouble deciding which to voice.

“Just be careful, okay? We can’t lose you.”

Meira nodded ruefully. “Can’t be losing a beacon of hope at a time like this can, we?”

Kirsi stepped closer.

“We can’t lose you.”

The energy pulsing between them was stronger than any Meira had felt. It wasn’t one she could manipulate or control, and that frightened and exhilarated her in turn.

A baby’s cry shattered the moment. Kirsi looked around, seeming to remember her responsibilities again. She squeezed Meira's hands and smiled again. Nervousness tinted the edges and somehow reassured Meira.

“Good luck,” the healer said, dropping Meira’s hands softly. But she didn’t step back. Kirsi tilted on the balls of her feet, the indecision punctuating every move. With the speed of a striking snake, she placed a soft kiss on Meira’s cheek. Her own were aflame as she stepped back. Wordlessly, Kirsi turned to the healing center and disappeared in its shadowy depths.

Meira felt her lips across every mile to Avad’ar.