Page 14 of Restored

“Thanks, Hecktor.” I smile at him as I shut the door.

I pace the room as I scan the paper and my stomach sinks. This must have been the reason I’ve had a bad feeling all day. Oliver’s name is written boldly in the middle. “Seriously? Again, Oliver?” I whisper to myself.

Thea used to be friends with my mother; she had a meager garden she would share with us from time to time, which relieved the constant ache of our hunger. It was why I always looked for her, and her son’s, name and visited their cottage when they needed me.

What power I have left from the day lashes around inside of me, demanding I go. I know I don’t have much time to waste, especially if I want to avoid being caught. I debate accepting Hecktor’s offer to escort me to town, but I don’t want to put him at risk.

Throwing on my cloak and a pair of leggings to go under my dress, I move the picture off the wall. The door to the tunnels creaks open. I uncurl my hands and look back at the report with Oliver’s name on it. Grinding my teeth, I grab my boots knowing I won’t be able to rest tonight until I make sure he is okay.

Stumbling out of the exit, I squint up at the full moon. My head swivels around, making sure no one spotted me and once I am satisfied, I start the journey to town.

The walk feels longer tonight. My mind is racing, burning with paranoia. When I see the town lights, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Just this one stop and I’ll go back. Quick in, quick out,” I mumble to myself, pulling my hood up and closer to my face.

I amble through the quiet, empty streets. My head swivels and my heart pounds. My palms are slick as I brush them over my pants.

Thea’s dilapidated cottage comes into focus at the end of the road, and I briskly make my way over to it. I glance towards the spot where our humble cottage used to sit, now just a heap of withered remains and forgotten memories.

Sighing, I knock softly on the decaying wood of her front door. There is scuffling inside, and I only release the breath I’m holding when Thea herself cracks the door.

“Oh, Layla, thank Gods you came, love.” She swings open the door, sweeping me into an embrace. She smells of cinnamon and apples. “Quick, please come inside.” She ushers me in. I’m met with the cozy haze of fire in the hearth.

“Oliver was caught stealing a loaf of bread yesterday. Times have been tough lately, and he just wanted to help.” Her already bloodshot eyes rim with unshed tears. “I begged them to leave his hand. Pleaded they take my own instead. They didn’t care, barely heard me as they—” Her sentence is cut off by a heart-wrenching sob.

My stomach churns. Anger burns inside of me at the senseless act of violence for such a minuscule offense.

“Listen.” I take her hand in mine. “I’ll heal him the best I can. He’s a strong boy, he will make do. Everything is going to be alright.” I wish my father was here; he always knew the right thing to say in moments like this.

She squeezes my hand before dropping it and wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He developed a fever today. I’ve been using cold compresses and trying to get broth into his system. He is in a lot of pain.” Her voice is distraught as she leads me back to a stuffy small room. She touches his forehead and then rubs her thumb over his pale cheek.

Oliver’s skin is sheet white, and beads of sweat gather on his forehead. His eyes are closed, but his face is pinched with pain. He grabs at his arm and moans. He seems in and out of consciousness.

I wash my hands in the water basin next to the bed and begin to build my power. My palms itch as I pull on the dwindling energy I have to offer.

I gently pick up his wrist, unwrapping the ruddy bandage encasing it. I wince as his bloodied nub is revealed. It is a gruesome scene of blood, bones, and veins. It’s a nasty, jagged cut, as if the guards had to hack at it twice.

I clench my jaw to chase away the burning anger I feel for him. He is just a boy, and it was just a loaf of bread. The crime hardly matches the brutal punishment.

I know without my healing ability, an injury like this could be fatal. The powerless relied on their ability to work, and if he chose to stay among them, I feared he would now be fighting an uphill battle. He is spunky and strong, and I have to believe he will be okay.

I brush his curly, damp hair from his forehead, feeling the heat there. Taking a deep breath, I call on my power andchannel it to my palms. The room fills with a dim glow that seeps from my hands.

I’m prepared for the sharp stings of pain that shoot up my arms as I draw out any infection. Thea watches me with bated breath in the corner until a knock rasps at her door.

“I can’t imagine who that would be at this hour. Keep working, dear, I’ll be right back.” She excuses herself and leaves the room.

I’m too focused to pay much mind to what Thea says or even the knock at the door. My hands move confidently over Oliver’s injury, taking great care. I imagine his howling laugh, his face full of color, his adorably shy smile. I picture him healthy and happy. I wish I could regrow limbs, but I know my limits. I instead regrow the flayed skin, pad it with muscle and fix the damaged nerves.

His furrowed brow soothes, and his moaning ceases. His skin, while still pale, takes on a healthier sheen.

Satisfied, I attempt to reel my power back. It continues flowing, straying from Oliver. I stagger as a violent tug comes from deep in my belly.

The light from my hands is no longer seeping into Oliver’s hand but now trailing away. Curiously, I follow the light to where it is being channeled, and my very bones go cold.

There, standing in the doorway, a pair of familiar green eyes stare back at me. I’m momentarily stunned. Ledgergives me a menacing look. His hands are raised as if channeling my abilities.

His power trails along mine latching onto my wrists. I fight against it, yanking on my own power with all the strength I can muster. He grunts but otherwise shows no sign of stopping.

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