Mira's POV
The door exploded inward with a crash that made my heart stop.
"Out! Now!" A guard's voice boomed through my tiny clinic. "You have one hour, magicless filth!"
I jerked awake on my cot, herbs and bandages scattering from where I'd fallen asleep working. My hands trembled as I stood. Three guards filled my doorway, their magic crackling in the air like angry lightning. Behind them stood Mr. Renwick, my landlord, his face twisted with disgust.
"Please," I whispered, hating how my voice shook. "I paid my rent. I have three more weeks—"
"Lord Cornelius complained." Mr. Renwick spat on my floor. "Says a healer with no magic brings down his property value. You're done."
My stomach dropped. Lord Cornelius lived four buildings away. He'd never even met me.
"But my patients need me," I said, louder now. Anger burned through my fear. "Mrs. Chen's baby has a fever. Old Thomas needs his bandages changed. They can't afford magical healers—"
"Not my problem." Mr. Renwick shrugged. "One hour. Leave anything behind, I burn it."
They left, slamming my broken door. It hung sideways on its hinges.
I stood there, breathing hard, my world crumbling around me. Again.
Why does this keep happening?
But I knew why. I'd always known.
In the Kingdom of Asterlyn, magic was everything. Those born with it ruled from golden palaces. Those born without it—people like me—were treated worse than dogs.
My hands curled into fists. These hands had saved thirty-seven lives in the past year. I'd kept count. Thirty-seven people who would've died because magical healers were too expensive or too busy. I'd set bones, delivered babies, cured fevers, and stitched wounds that magic couldn't touch.
And none of it mattered.
Because I had no magic.
I grabbed my medicine bag with shaking hands and started packing. Dried moonflower for pain. Silvervine for infections. Yarrow root for bleeding. Each herb I'd gathered myself from the forest, risking my life because I couldn't afford to buy them.
Father would laugh if he could see me now.
The thought came unbidden, bitter as poison. My father had left when I was eight, the day he realized his daughter would never develop magic. I still remembered his last words: "I can't raise a magicless child. It's too shameful."
My mother tried to make up for it. She worked herself to death—literally—trying to provide for us. When the plague came through the Lower Districts ten years ago, she got sick. The magical healers refused to treat her. Said she couldn't pay enough.
I was thirteen when I held her hand as she died.
That was the day I decided I'd become a healer. I'd never let anyone die because they were too poor or too "unworthy." I'd apprenticed with Old Master Theron, learning the ancient healing arts that didn't need magic. Just knowledge. Just skill. Just these hands that everyone said were worthless.
A sob caught in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I'd cried enough in my life.
I packed faster. Bandages, needles, my precious steel scalpel—the only thing of value I owned. My books, worn and re-read a hundred times. Clean cloth. Three changes of clothes. Everything I owned fit in one bag.
Pathetic.
I counted my coins. Three silver pieces. Enough for maybe a week of food if I was careful. Not enough for new rent anywhere.
"Where do I go?" I whispered to my empty clinic.
No answer came.
I was tying my bag closed when I heard crying outside. My heart clenched. I knew that sound.
I rushed to my broken door. In the street, Mrs. Chen clutched her baby, tears streaming down her face. Little Mei was burning with fever, her tiny face red and twisted in pain.
"Please," Mrs. Chen sobbed when she saw me. "The fever's worse. She won't stop screaming. I went to the magical healer on Fourth Street, but he wanted ten gold pieces. I don't have ten gold pieces. Please, Mira. Please save my baby."
My chest tightened. Ten gold pieces. A fortune. These people worked their whole lives and never saw that much money.
"Bring her inside," I said quickly.
"But the guards said—"
"I still have forty minutes." I took Mei gently, feeling her burning skin. "That's enough."
I worked fast, my hands steady even though my mind raced. Fever this high meant infection. I made a paste from feverfew and moonflower, applied it to Mei's chest and feet. I got water down her throat drop by drop. I whispered the old healing words Master Theron taught me—not magic, but something older. Something that came from the heart.
Slowly, Mei's fever broke. Her crying softened. She fell asleep, breathing easier.
Mrs. Chen wept with relief. "Thank you. Thank you. How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing," I said, even though I desperately needed money. "Just keep her cool and give her this tea three times a day." I handed her a small pouch of herbs. The last of my feverfew.
Mrs. Chen hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. Then she left, cradling her sleeping baby.
I stood alone in my clinic for the last time. My hands still smelled like healing herbs. My heart still beat with purpose.
But I had nowhere to go.
I picked up my bag and walked out into the street. The door hung broken behind me. My clinic—my life's work—was already being forgotten.
The afternoon sun felt too bright. The street too crowded. Everyone rushed past like I didn't exist. Because to them, I didn't. I was just another magicless nobody.
I started walking with no destination. Just... walking.
That's when I heard the screams.
They came from the alley to my left—terrible screams of pain and fear. My healer's instinct kicked in before my brain could stop me. I ran toward the sound.
The alley was dark, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, I froze.
A man lay crumpled against the wall, blood pooling beneath him. His clothes were fine—too fine. Rich fabric, expensive boots. But that wasn't what made my heart stop.
Three dead guards surrounded him, their throats cut.
And the man who was still alive—barely—had the royal crest stitched onto his collar.
His eyes opened. They were silver, like moonlight, and they locked onto mine with desperate intensity.
"Help," he whispered, blood bubbling on his lips. "Please... help me..."
Then his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
I stood frozen, my medicine bag feeling impossibly heavy in my hands. Every instinct screamed at me to run. This was palace business. Royal business. If I got involved, I'd be executed.
But his chest still rose and fell—barely.
He was dying.
And I was a healer.
My hands moved before my mind caught up. I dropped to my knees beside him, already reaching for my bag. My fingers found his throat, checking for a pulse.
That's when I saw it.
The black veins spreading under his skin like poison rivers. The blue tint to his lips. The way his muscles seized even unconscious.
My blood turned to ice.
Nightshade Tears.
The deadliest poison in the kingdom. Even magical healers struggled to cure it. And I had maybe an hour before it killed him.
I looked at the royal crest again. At his handsome face going pale. At the blood and the dead guards and the impossible situation I'd just walked into.
Then I heard it—boots. Many boots. Guards running toward the alley.
My heart hammered. If they found me here with a dying royal and three dead guards, I wouldn't even get a trial. They'd kill me on the spot.
I should run. I should leave him and disappear into the Lower Districts where no one would find me.
But my hands were already opening my medicine bag. Already reaching for the herbs I needed.
Because I was a healer.
And healers don't run.
The boots got louder. Closer.
I had seconds to decide: save him and probably die, or run and definitely survive.
My hands didn't shake as I pulled out the silvervine.
"Don't you dare die on me," I whispered to the unconscious man.
Then I started working, even as the guards' shouts echoed off the alley walls, even as my own death marched toward me with every heartbeat.
Some choices, I realized, weren't really choices at all.