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Being forced to rest on her laurels and recover is akin to torture, and Lauma’s unwelcome visits are the cherry on top. Lauma sits by her bedside at the Curatorium, infusing her wounds with Dendro, with prayer, with her blood. Before long Nefer’s eyes can make out shapes and light.
Later, she holds out her hands and for the first time in weeks sees the familiar absinthe green glow from the windows of the Curatorium. Nefer stretches each finger methodically, watching her digits move and morph under the beryl light. Long shadows cast against the wall, shadow puppets without a name. From her peripheral vision, iridescent blood still beading on her fingertip, Lauma smiles.
Against everything she’s ever known, Nefer has been bestowed a miracle, and has incurred a debt.