"Enough talking."

The healer's voice cracked, sharp as a door slamming shut on hesitation. Her fingers pressed against her knee to help her rise, then she bent toward the ground. Her steady hands picked up the vessel lying there, still heavy with the raw scent of crushed plants. She lifted it with the care of a priest holding a relic.

Maggie followed the movement with her eyes, unable to move anything more than her gaze. The vessel, crude yet clever, had a narrow spout designed so the liquid would flow straight into the mouth, leaving no chance of spillage. Like an ancient coffeepot, repurposed for another kind of awakening.

The air thickened with an acrid scent. A blend that stung the nostrils, scratching down into the lungs with an irritating bite. The smell of the ground leaves rose, sharp, acidic, saturating the cramped space of the tent. It was anything but inviting. Nothing in that odor inspired trust. One might have sworn it was poison, a concoction meant to purge a body rather than save it.

The woman raised the vessel, her eyes locked on Maggie's, grave and unwavering.

"It won't be the finest thing you'll ever taste, that much is certain." Her tone hovered between seriousness and a rugged hint of irony. "But you can trust me. Swallow, and tomorrow morning… you'll run like a child."

Those words, delivered with disarming certainty, struck Maggie as both balm and threat. Run… It sounded absurd. She, who could not even lift her head from the ground, now picturing herself upright, light, breathing freely. And yet, the promise carried a weight that pressed deep into her battered heart.

Maggie swallowed hard. Her throat was dry, rough, every movement painful. Yet she forced a sign, a faint nod of her head. Consent. Acceptance. Or perhaps simply the absence of choice.

The healer wasted no time. She brought the spout against Maggie's closed lips. The clay or metal—Maggie could not tell—was cold, alien. Then, without sparing her, the woman tilted the vessel and the liquid began to pour.

Not in drops, not in a trickle. No, in one bold, decisive rush, as if refusing all hesitation. Maggie felt the bitter flood invade her mouth. The taste was worse than the smell: a wild bitterness, an acidity that bit into the tongue, with undertones of damp soil and scorched resin. Her taste buds screamed, her whole body begged to spit it out. But the healer's firm hand supported her neck, and the flow did not relent.

She had no choice but to swallow. A burn slid down her throat, choking her breath. Her eyes blurred, her chest spasmed, but each gulp crashed into her stomach with the heaviness of stone.

At last, the vessel emptied. The healer pulled it away and, with a brisk swipe, wiped the trickle that had escaped the corner of Maggie's mouth.

"There. " Her voice was neither soft nor harsh. Plain, factual. Like a mark checked off on a list.

Silence fell, broken only by Maggie's ragged breathing. She felt the brew spreading inside her, like viscous ink seeping into her veins, heavier than blood. Every heartbeat seemed to drive it deeper, forcing it into the farthest reaches of her body.

Without pause, the healer placed her hands once more on Maggie's chest. Palms open, fingers slightly spread, as if to echo the rhythm of her breathing. Her eyes closed, her brow eased, and a subtle pulse radiated from her arms.

Essence.

It came like a soft warmth, different from the earlier brutal surge. A steady pulse, almost soothing, that guided the brew's circulation. Maggie felt her wounds respond, as if each cut, each fracture received a slow, patient wave urging the flesh to knit itself back together. Her bones gave faint cracks—not with unbearable pain, but with a dry whisper, as though her skeleton remembered its natural order and strained to return to it.

The healer shaped her breathing, channeling her essence to guide the substance, forcing it deeper. She accelerated regeneration, binding the foreign sap to torn fibers, shredded tendons, muscles still trembling with weakness.

Maggie, dazed, let herself drift on the contradictions. A dull ache awoke in every joint, but it was different. Not the ache of destruction—of mending. A burn of repair.

Minutes stretched on. The plant mixture, driven by the healer's essence, was already reshaping her body. Her lungs, once condemned to ragged, shallow breaths, now opened a little more with each inhalation. Her blood ran faster, thicker, enriched. A faint vigor slipped into her limbs—fragile, yet undeniable.

And still, a shadow remained.

The core.

Maggie felt it there, massive, swollen, occupying more space than it should. Like a crouched beast in her depths, watching in silence. The brew and the essence had tried to approach it, but again—it was consumed. Swallowed. Devoured. Nothing returned.

The healer knew it too. Her eyes opened, their dark gleam confirming what Maggie feared. She slowly pulled her hands away, exhaled, and sank back onto her heels.

"I've done what I can." Her tone was grave, cutting. "Your body responds. It's mending. You'll walk again, perhaps even fight, if you don't act recklessly. But your core…"

She shook her head, lips tightening as though holding back a curse.

"Your core is beyond my reach. Too vast, too hungry. It's not a wound to be stitched, nor a fracture to be set. It's… a storm."

Her voice lowered, eyes fixed on Maggie's.

"You'll have to live with it. Or learn to adapt. Refuse, and it will crush you."

Maggie remained silent. Her thoughts spun, torn between the fragile vigor building in her body and the icy threat coiled inside. She felt the contrast: a body ready to rise again, yet dominated by that insatiable core that craved only to consume more.

The healer finally rose, her arms dropping to her sides. She looked drained as well, emptied from offering so much essence. Still, her gaze stayed firm.

"Rest. Tomorrow, you'll feel the change. But remember—what I've given you is respite, not absolution."

Maggie closed her eyes, listening to her own breath. Yes, she could already sense the difference. But behind this fragile rebirth, the core pulsed—dark, immense, a beast locked in a cage too small.

And she knew, with chilling certainty: sooner or later, she would have to face it.

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