Chadwick Rye

The first time Sylvia Thistlebone heard the whisper of broken things, she was just seven years old. It came as a sibilant murmur beneath her friend Elowen’s screams—a small voice beneath greater pain, as the girl’s forearm bent at an impossible angle after falling from the Crystal Orchard’s tallest tree. While others ran for help, Sylvia remained, drawn by that strange, insistent whisper.

*Mend me… align me… make me whole.*

Her small hands had moved of their own accord, fingers tracing the unnatural angle of Elowen’s arm. The pain had transferred like liquid poured from one vessel to another—Elowen’s cries suddenly silenced as Sylvia’s began, her own arm twisting, bones shifting beneath unblemished skin. For three excruciating minutes, she had carried Elowen’s fracture within her own body before it dissolved into nothingness, leaving only phantom echoes and a knowledge no child should possess.

That had been twenty years ago. Now, Sylvia was known throughout Lumenvale as the Bone Whisperer, and the Symphony of Fractures had grown from a single whisper to an ever-present chorus.

—

Dawn light filtered through stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscope patterns across the polished oak floor of Sylvia’s healing chambers. The spires of Lumenvale caught the morning sun, their crystalline structures fragmenting light into prismatic beams that pierced the mist shrouding the lower city. From her window in the Upper Ward, Sylvia could trace the winding path of the Luminescent River as it curved through the city’s heart like a silver serpent.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention from the view—the distinctive rhythmic tap-drag-tap of Magistrate Orlen’s gait. His left leg had never fully recovered from a particularly complex healing five years prior. Some breaks, Sylvia had learned, carried memories that lingered even after the bone knit true.

“You’re early, Magistrate,” she called, not turning from the window. The footsteps halted momentarily in surprise, then continued with determined purpose.

“Your hearing remains unnervingly acute, Bone Whisperer.” Orlen appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on his blackwood cane. The silver filigree adorning its length caught the colored light, creating the impression of captured lightning dancing along dark wood. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected of someone who claims to hear the whispers of broken bones.”

“Not claims, Magistrate.” Sylvia turned, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her amber eyes. “I hear them now. Your left tibia never properly aligned at the molecular level. The fragment near your knee socket grinds with each step.”

Orlen’s weathered face remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened around the cane’s handle. “I didn’t come to discuss my old injuries.”

“Of course not.” Sylvia gestured to a chair positioned near the hearth, where blue-tinged flames consumed crystalized heartwood without smoke or ash. “You’ve come about the emissary.”

“The Council grows concerned.” Orlen lowered himself into the chair with the careful movements of one who has learned to accommodate persistent pain. “Lord Ambrose arrives in three days’ time. The peace negotiations—”

“—cannot proceed if Lumenvale’s representative appears weak or damaged,” Sylvia finished for him. “I’m well aware of the political implications, Magistrate. The Council has made them abundantly clear in their seven previous messages this week.”

Orlen’s gray eyes assessed her with the practiced scrutiny of a career politician. “Then you’ll attend to Lady Marielle today?”

A flicker of something—reluctance, perhaps, or apprehension—crossed Sylvia’s features before she controlled it. “I’ve already promised as much. Though I must again emphasize the complexity of her injuries. Multiple fractures, some weeks old, improperly set. The shattering of her left humerus alone would typically require—”

“We don’t have ‘typically,’ Bone Whisperer.” Orlen’s voice sharpened. “We have three days before Lord Ambrose and his delegation arrive from Duskenhallow, carrying terms that will determine whether our two realms forge alliance or return to conflict. Lady Marielle must appear whole and unblemished at those negotiations, or everything she suffered to obtain this opportunity will be for naught.”

Sylvia turned back to the window, watching as Lumenvale awakened to another day of precarious peace. Beyond the city’s protective wards lay territories still scarred from the last conflict with Duskenhallow—villages reduced to ash, farmlands blighted by shadow-magic, refugees still streaming toward the relative safety of the capital.

“I understand the stakes,” she said quietly. “I’ll do what must be done.”

Orlen rose with measured dignity, the tap-drag-tap of his approach stopping just behind her. His voice lowered, losing some of its official formality. “The Council recognizes the… personal cost of your gift, Sylvia. Arrangements have been made for you to recover undisturbed after the procedure.”

“How generous,” she replied, unable to keep the edge from her tone. “And will these arrangements include silencing the whispers that will follow? Or perhaps a potion to dull the memory of every break I must carry within myself?”

“Your service to Lumenvale has always been appropriately acknowledged,” Orlen said stiffly, political mask sliding back into place. “The Council’s gratitude is without question.”

“Their gratitude is noted.” Sylvia turned to face him fully. “As is their expectation that I will continue to bear whatever is necessary for the greater good.”

The Magistrate inclined his head in a gesture that managed to be both acknowledgment and dismissal. “Lady Marielle will arrive at midday. The Council thanks you for your dedication.”

As his uneven footsteps receded down the corridor, Sylvia pressed her palm against the cool glass of the window. Below, the city continued its morning ritual—market stalls unfurling their awnings, apprentice mages practicing minor illuminations to light the lower thoroughfares, children running along the canals that connected Lumenvale’s thirteen districts.

All of them unaware that their peace hinged on her ability to absorb another’s broken bones. All of them unknowing of how many fractures she already carried in her memories—phantoms that awakened in cold weather or moments of exhaustion, ghostly breaks that had never truly been her own.

—

Lady Marielle Corvus arrived precisely at midday, carried in a curtained litter by four stone-faced guards whose ceremonial armor did little to disguise their practical vigilance. They bore the insignia of the Shadowborne—Lumenvale’s elite intelligence operatives who moved through darkness as easily as light, gathering secrets from enemy territories and returning with information crucial to the realm’s survival.

Sylvia watched from her chamber balcony as they navigated the winding approach to the healing tower, noting the unusual caution with which they handled the litter. Lady Marielle’s injuries must be even more severe than the reports suggested.

“Shall I prepare the sanctum, Mistress?” Her apprentice, Elian, appeared at her elbow—a slender youth with quick hands and a quicker mind.

“Yes. The full crystalline array, highest concentration of blue heartstone we can manage.” Sylvia kept her voice measured, giving no hint of her apprehension. “And Elian—prepare the binding restraints as well.”

The apprentice’s pale eyes widened fractionally. “The restraints? But those are only for—”

“For transfers that may prove… difficult to contain,” Sylvia finished. “Lady Marielle’s injuries are extensive. I may need additional support to process them.”

Elian nodded, disappearing to make the preparations with the efficiency that had made him the most promising of her three apprentices. Unlike the others, he never questioned why she refused to train them in the actual transfer of fractures—the core of her healing art remained hers alone to bear.

By the time the Shadowborne escort arrived at her chamber doors, the healing sanctum had been transformed. Crystalline resonators positioned at precise intervals throughout the circular room, each attuned to a different frequency of pain. The central dais now held a bed of polished moonstone, its surface inlaid with silver channels designed to conduct and diffuse magical energies. Around it, a circle of blue heartstone fragments glowed with steady inner light, their arrangement following patterns known only to Sylvia and recorded in texts kept under lock and key.

“The Council sends its regards, Bone Whisperer.” The lead guard bowed shallowly, his gaze never fully leaving her face. “Lady Marielle awaits your ministrations.”

At his gesture, the others carried the litter into the sanctum, movements precise despite the awkward confines of the doorway. With ceremonial solemnity, they transferred a slight figure from the litter to the moonstone bed.

Lady Marielle Corvus bore little resemblance to the striking diplomat Sylvia remembered from Council gatherings. Her olive skin had taken an ashen pallor, dark hair shorn close to her scalp on one side to accommodate a vicious head wound that had been stitched with obvious haste. Her breathing came in shallow bursts, each inhalation carefully measured to minimize the movement of her ribcage.

But it was her left arm that drew Sylvia’s immediate attention—or rather, what remained of it. Bandaged from shoulder to fingertips, the limb lay at an unnatural angle against the moonstone, its shape distorted in multiple places beneath the wrappings. Even without removing the dressings, Sylvia could hear the cacophony of fractures, each one crying out with its own distinct voice.

*Seventeen separate breaks,* they whispered to her. *Crushed between stone and malice. Fragments adrift in seas of pain. Mend us… align us… make us whole.*

“Leave us,” Sylvia instructed the guards, her tone brooking no argument. “My apprentice will remain to assist. The procedure cannot be observed by others.”

The lead guard hesitated. “Our orders are to maintain watch over Lady Marielle at all times. She carries information vital to—”

“Your orders mean nothing in my sanctum.” Sylvia’s voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. “She carries broken bones that sing to me in voices you cannot hear. Would you like to explain to the Council why their chief diplomat remains shattered because you interfered with my work?”

A tense silence stretched between them before the guard signaled his companions. “We will wait outside. But understand, Bone Whisperer—if harm comes to her beyond what she already bears, not even your gift will protect you from consequence.”

When the heavy doors closed behind the Shadowborne, Sylvia approached the moonstone bed, finally allowing her professional mask to soften. “Oh, Mari,” she whispered, using a name she hadn’t spoken aloud in years. “What did they do to you?”

Marielle’s eyes fluttered open—dark irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils, whether from pain or medication, Sylvia couldn’t tell. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by a ghost of her formerly radiant smile.

“Sylvia.” Her voice emerged as little more than breath given sound. “They said… you would fix me. Like before.”

“Like before,” Sylvia echoed, memories surfacing of a much younger Marielle with a simple broken wrist, acquired during diplomatic training. A routine healing, before Marielle had been assigned to Duskenhallow’s court, before politics had carved a chasm between childhood friends. “This is somewhat more extensive than a training accident, Mari.”

“Somewhat,” Marielle agreed, attempting humor despite the pain etched into every line of her face. “Turns out… Duskenhallow’s dungeons aren’t designed for comfort.”

Sylvia’s throat tightened. “The Council said you were injured during extraction. They didn’t mention—”

“They wouldn’t.” Marielle’s eyes closed briefly. “Diplomatic… complications… best not discussed.”

“Torture isn’t a ‘complication,’” Sylvia hissed, anger flaring hot and bright. “It’s a violation of every treaty between realms, even during open conflict.”

A soft, pained laugh escaped Marielle’s lips. “Hence the… urgent negotiations. Hence… why I need to appear unbroken.” Her uninjured hand moved slightly, fingers seeking Sylvia’s. “Can you do it? Can you make me whole again?”

The question hung between them, laden with meaning beyond the physical. Sylvia stared down at the broken form of a woman who had once been closer than a sister, who had chosen duty to Lumenvale over all else—including the future they might have shared.

“I can heal your bones, Mari.” Sylvia took the offered hand, careful not to disturb any hidden injuries. “But some breaks leave marks that never truly fade.”

Understanding passed between them, acknowledgment of wounds that went deeper than bone or flesh. Marielle’s fingers tightened fractionally around hers.

“I never wanted to leave,” she whispered, words meant for Sylvia alone. “The Council gave no choice.”

“I know.” And she did know, had always known, though the knowledge had done little to ease the ache of abandonment. “Rest now. The healing will not be gentle.”

Turning to Elian, who had maintained a respectful distance during the exchange, Sylvia’s demeanor shifted back to professional efficiency. “Begin the resonance sequence. Full spectrum, starting with the base harmonics. I’ll need to assess each fracture individually before attempting transfer.”

As Elian moved among the crystalline array, activating each resonator with precisely calibrated touches, the sanctum filled with sound just below the threshold of normal hearing—vibrations that made the air itself seem to shimmer. The blue heartstone fragments responded, their glow intensifying until the circle around the moonstone bed pulsed like a living thing.

Sylvia approached Marielle once more, now moving with the measured grace of a ritual long practiced. Her fingers hovered above the bandaged arm, not quite touching, sensing the damaged architecture beneath.

“I’ll start with the simple fractures,” she explained, as much for Elian’s education as for Marielle’s comfort. “The clean breaks in your radius and fourth metacarpal. Once those pathways are established, I’ll progress to the compound fractures, leaving the comminuted breaks for last.”

Marielle managed a weak nod. “Will it… hurt less than last time?”

“No,” Sylvia answered honestly. “It will hurt considerably more. But I’ve improved my techniques since that wrist of yours. The pain will be… channeled more efficiently.”

What she didn’t say, what she never said to any patient, was that efficient channeling meant the pain would flow more directly into her own body, a river of agony contained within her flesh rather than dispersed through the crystalline array as her teachers had originally taught. Somewhere along her journey as a healer, Sylvia had discovered that bearing the full brunt of transferred fractures accelerated the healing process—though at significant personal cost.

“Elian will administer a sleeping draught,” she continued, nodding to her apprentice. “When you wake, the worst will be over.”

“No.” Marielle’s voice strengthened momentarily, surprising them both. “No draught. I need… to be conscious. To remember.”

Sylvia frowned. “Mari, the pain—”

“Is nothing compared to what I’ve already endured.” Determination flashed in those dark eyes, briefly overcoming the haze of existing pain. “I carried these breaks across enemy territory for a reason. Let me carry the memory of their healing as well.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sylvia inclined her head in reluctant agreement. “As you wish. But I’ll need to secure you to the bed. Involuntary movements during transfer could complicate the process.”

At Marielle’s nod, Elian brought forth the restraints—bands of supple leather lined with silk and inscribed with calming sigils. With gentle efficiency, he secured Marielle’s limbs and torso to the moonstone surface, each binding snug enough to prevent movement without restricting blood flow.

When he had finished, Sylvia positioned herself at the head of the bed, placing her palms on either side of Marielle’s temples. “Focus on my voice,” she instructed softly. “Let it anchor you through what comes next.”

The resonance in the room deepened as Sylvia closed her eyes, extending her awareness into Marielle’s broken form. The whispers became a chorus, each fracture singing its unique song of displacement and pain. She located the first target—a clean break in the right radius, a simple fracture likely sustained during the initial capture.

“I begin with the wrist that first brought us together,” Sylvia murmured, fingertips tracing the invisible fault line beneath bandaged skin. “A circle completed.”

With a deep breath, she established the connection—an arcane bridge between Marielle’s injury and her own untouched bones. The transfer began as it always did, with a trickle of sensation that rapidly built to a torrent. Beneath her touch, Marielle’s body tensed, a gasp escaping her lips as the pain of the break suddenly vanished, the separated bone ends drawing together with supernatural speed.

Simultaneously, Sylvia’s own right wrist twisted with audible protest, the bones shifting beneath unblemished skin as they mimicked the break they absorbed. White-hot pain lanced up her arm, momentarily stealing her breath. Years of practice kept her from crying out, but a sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead as she contained the transferred fracture.

The blue heartstone circle flared in response, drawing the injury’s essence through Sylvia’s body, accelerating the process by which she would metabolize the borrowed break. For thirty agonizing seconds, she held Marielle’s fracture within herself, feeling the edges grate against each other before gradually, mercifully beginning to dissolve.

One down. Sixteen more to go.

“The metacarpal next,” she managed, voice steady despite the lingering echo of pain. “The small bone in your right hand, broken when you made a fist.”

Again the connection, again the transfer, again the explosion of borrowed agony. This time in her hand, the distinct snap of bone followed by the grinding sensation of misaligned edges. Sylvia’s fingers spasmed against her will, drawing a concerned look from Elian, who maintained his position at the crystalline array.

Two fractures absorbed and dissolved, and already Sylvia could feel the toll on her system. Each transfer left a trace, a phantom memory that her body catalogued and stored. Healers like her didn’t age in the conventional sense—their faces remained unwrinkled, their hair untouched by gray—but the accumulated weight of borrowed breaks eventually bent them nonetheless, internal architectures stressed beyond their limits.

“Now the difficult work begins,” she told Marielle, whose eyes remained fixed on her face with fierce concentration. “Three ribs, cracked in sequence. I’ll take them together.”

This transfer brought Marielle’s first genuine reaction—a hoarse cry quickly swallowed as the crushing pain in her chest suddenly lifted. Sylvia, in turn, felt her own ribcage constrict as though gripped by a giant hand. Breathing became a studied exercise in shallow sips of air that wouldn’t further aggravate the transferred breaks.

The heartstone circle pulsed erratically now, struggling to process the complexity of multiple simultaneous fractures. Sweat dripped from Sylvia’s temples, and she felt the familiar copper taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue to maintain focus through the pain.

“Elian,” she gasped, “increase the harmonic resonance. Third frequency.”

Her apprentice complied immediately, adjusting the crystalline array until the subsonic vibrations intensified, creating a supportive matrix for the increasingly taxed heartstone circle. The blue glow steadied, though it now contained threads of crimson—a visible manifestation of Sylvia’s struggle.

Through it all, Marielle watched with unwavering attention, her gaze a tether to consciousness as Sylvia navigated the rising tide of borrowed injuries. No words passed between them, but none were needed. In the space between heartbeats, in the shared experience of pain given and pain received, something long broken began its own subtle mending.

By the time Sylvia reached the most devastating injuries—the compound fractures of Marielle’s left arm, where bone had pierced flesh before being roughly reset—her own body trembled with exhaustion. Seven fractures absorbed and dissolved, and still the worst remained. The whispers had become shouts, the chorus a cacophony of desperate pleas for wholeness.

“I need to rest,” she admitted, slumping slightly against the edge of the moonstone bed. “A moment to stabilize before attempting the arm.”

Marielle’s now-healed right hand strained against its restraint, seeking contact. Elian, understanding without being told, loosened the binding enough for her to reach Sylvia’s arm.

“You don’t have to continue,” Marielle whispered, her voice stronger now that the pain of multiple injuries had been lifted. “What you’ve already done—”

“Is insufficient,” Sylvia finished, straightening despite the protest of her borrowed injuries. “You need to be whole for these negotiations. Completely whole.”

“At what cost to you?”

The question lingered unanswered as Sylvia repositioned herself beside the ruined left arm. The bandages concealed the worst of the damage, but the whispers told her everything—the humerus shattered in three places, the ulna and radius both broken and misaligned, each finger on the hand methodically broken at the knuckle.

This had not been accidental damage from extraction. This had been deliberate, systematic destruction.

“What information could possibly be worth this?” Sylvia asked quietly, anger momentarily overcoming professional detachment.

Marielle’s eyes darkened with shadows that had nothing to do with physical pain. “The names of Duskenhallow’s agents within Lumenvale’s Council. The exact nature of the weapon they’re building beyond the Ashfall Mountains. The price Lord Ambrose is truly willing to pay for peace.”

Understanding dawned like a cold sunrise. “You weren’t just gathering intelligence. You were planning to expose them at the negotiation table.”

“With irrefutable evidence.” A ghost of Marielle’s diplomatic smile appeared. “Evidence currently sealed in my apparently unbroken bones, where even the most skilled arcane scanners won’t detect it.”

Sylvia’s gaze snapped to the bandaged arm with new comprehension. “You hid documents inside your own broken bones?”

“Microscopic enchanted parchment, sealed in crystalline capsules and surgically implanted alongside the marrow.” Marielle’s expression held grim pride. “When I activate the retrieval spell at precisely the right moment in negotiations, they’ll emerge through my skin like—”

“—like stigmata,” Sylvia finished, horror mingling with reluctant admiration. “A dramatic revelation that cannot be dismissed or denied. Mari, that’s—”

“Necessary,” Marielle said simply. “But only if you can heal the bones without disturbing the implants.”

The impossible nature of the task momentarily overwhelmed Sylvia. To heal compound fractures was difficult enough; to do so while preserving foreign objects deliberately placed within the bone structure ventured into unexplored territory. The whispers from Marielle’s broken arm seemed to understand the complication, their pleas now tinged with uncertain harmonics.

“I don’t know if I can,” Sylvia admitted, the confession difficult after so many years of confidence in her abilities. “The transfer process naturally purges foreign materials. The implants might be expelled or destroyed.”

“Then we adapt.” Marielle’s voice took on the precise tone that had made her Lumenvale’s most effective diplomat. “What if you don’t fully transfer these fractures? What if you only… guide them toward healing, while leaving the implants undisturbed?”

Sylvia considered the suggestion, mind racing through arcane possibilities. “A partial transfer. Taking enough to accelerate the natural healing process, but leaving the bones to complete their own reconstruction around the implants.” She shook her head. “It’s theoretically possible, but Mari—you’d still feel the pain. For days, perhaps weeks.”

“Pain is an old companion now.” Marielle’s fingers tightened around Sylvia’s arm. “I trust you to find the balance.”

Trust. Such a simple word for such a complex gift. After years of separation, after the chasm politics had carved between them, Marielle still trusted her with not just her healing but with the secret mission hidden literally within her broken body.

Sylvia straightened, decision made. “Elian, recalibrate the array to the seventh harmonic. We’re attempting a partial transfer procedure.”

As her apprentice hurried to adjust the resonators, Sylvia leaned closer to Marielle, voice lowered to ensure privacy. “This will be unlike anything I’ve attempted before. I’ll need to maintain continuous contact throughout. If the connection breaks, the consequences could be severe for both of us.”

“Then don’t let go,” Marielle whispered, the double meaning clear in her steady gaze.

Sylvia placed both hands directly on the bandaged arm, closing her eyes to better focus on the complex network of fractures beneath. Instead of establishing the usual transfer bridge, she created something more akin to a permeable membrane—a connection that would allow pain and healing energy to pass between them without fully displacing the physical breaks.

The process began with excruciating slowness. Where normal transfers felt like rivers of sensation, this partial connection was more like the gradual seep of groundwater through soil—pain filtering through in measured doses, healing influence passing in the opposite direction. The heartstone circle responded with pulsing waves of blue-green light, adapting to this novel approach.

Marielle’s body tensed beneath the restraints, teeth clenched against renewed pain as her bones began the accelerated but still natural process of knitting themselves back together. Simultaneously, Sylvia felt phantom fractures bloom across her left arm—not fully formed breaks but shadowy impressions, ghost-cracks that threatened but did not materialize completely.

Minutes stretched into an hour, then two. The crystalline array hummed at the precise frequency Elian maintained, sweat beading on his forehead from the extended concentration required. Outside, the sun began its descent toward the western mountains, casting the sanctum in deepening amber light that played across the pulsing heartstone circle.

Throughout it all, Sylvia and Marielle remained connected—physically through the careful touch that channeled healing, emotionally through unflinching eye contact that spoke of shared purpose and rekindled understanding. Between them flowed not just the arcane energies of bone-mending but something far more profound: forgiveness, offered and accepted without words.

When the final fracture in Marielle’s smallest finger began its subtle shift toward alignment, Sylvia allowed herself to acknowledge the true toll of the extended working. Her entire left side felt hollowed out, not with specific injuries but with a bone-deep weariness that transcended ordinary fatigue. The phantom fractures might not have fully manifested, but her body had nonetheless absorbed enough transferred trauma to require weeks of recovery.

“It’s done,” she whispered, voice raw from hours of controlled breathing through pain. “The bones are healing. The implants remain undisturbed.”

Elian moved quickly to shut down the crystalline array, the resonant humming gradually fading until only the soft glow of the heartstone circle remained. With careful movements, he removed Marielle’s restraints, then retreated to prepare the post-procedure tonics that would help both women recover.

Freed from her bindings, Marielle slowly sat upright on the moonstone bed, experimentally flexing her previously shattered left arm. Pain flickered across her features, but the limb responded to her commands with increasing coordination.

“Remarkable,” she breathed, examining the arm with wonder. “I can feel the healing happening. Like tiny fires burning along each break.”

“Those fires will continue for several days,” Sylvia cautioned, still slumped against the edge of the bed. “You’ll need to wear a supportive brace for public appearances, but by the time Lord Ambrose arrives, you should have nearly full mobility.”

“And the implants?”

Sylvia nodded wearily. “Undisturbed, as far as I can tell. Though I’d suggest waiting until the absolute perfect moment for your dramatic revelation. Once those capsules emerge, the accelerated healing will cease.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with the soft sounds of Elian preparing medicinal teas in the adjacent chamber. Outside, Lumenvale’s lamplighters would be beginning their evening rounds, touching enchanted rods to the city’s crystal lamps until the streets glowed with gentle blue-white radiance.

“The Council will expect reports of my complete recovery,” Marielle said finally. “They’ll be suspicious when I appear with a brace.”

“Let them be suspicious.” Sylvia straightened, summoning energy she barely felt. “I’ve officially done all I can do. Bone Whisperer declares further intervention would endanger the patient’s life. They can hardly argue with my expertise.”

A smile touched Marielle’s lips—a real smile this time, reminiscent of the woman she had been before years of diplomatic hardship. “Still stubborn as ever.”

“Would you have me any other way?” The question emerged lighter than Sylvia had intended, closer to flirtation than professional banter.

“No.” Marielle’s uninjured hand found hers, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent. “I would have you exactly as you are—the woman who hears broken things and makes them whole again.”

Something long dormant stirred in Sylvia’s chest—not pain this time, but its opposite. A healing of fractures she had carried far longer than any transferred from patients. Breaks in trust, in hope, in possibility.

“When this is over,” she said quietly, “when your dramatic revelation has saved Lumenvale from Duskenhallow’s schemes… come back to my tower. Not as a diplomat or a patient.”

“As what, then?” Marielle’s eyes held cautious hope.

“As someone with her own stories of broken bones,” Sylvia answered. “Someone who understands that healing leaves scars, even when they’re invisible to others.”

Marielle’s grip tightened, her newly-healing bones strong enough for this small affirmation. “I’d like that.”

Beyond the sanctum walls, the Shadowborne guards would be growing restless, eager to report the diplomat’s condition to their Council masters. Soon, the demands of their respective duties would separate them again—Sylvia to her lonely recovery, Marielle to her dangerous diplomatic performance. But something had shifted between them, a fracture mended not through magical transfer but through that most fundamental of healing arts: truth spoken and received.

In the fading light of the heartstone circle, two women who had carried different kinds of broken bones found alignment once more—imperfect, still healing, but undeniably whole in all the ways that mattered most.