Elain woke before the sun, the sky still cloaked in velvet gray. Her sheets were tangled at her ankles, her nightgown clinging to her skin. Sleep had not been kind to her, her dreams had been vivid, cloying, laced with laughter that didn’t belong to her.
Azriel’s voice. Morrigan’s laugh. The sound of a kiss, soft and lingering.
And that ache in her chest, sharp and sudden, blooming with something dangerously close to jealousy. She had bolted upright, breathless, angry with herself. It was foolish. Silly. Jealousy was unbecoming. Her mother’s voice had said so a thousand times over. Ladies do not envy. Ladies smile and stay composed. And Azriel didn't want her. He wanted Morrigan. That is what everyone told her. She was being ridiculous to read into anything else.
Elain pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool the heat.
It had only been a dream.
Still, it clung to her. The bitter taste of it.
She dressed quickly, slipping into her dark green cloak, her fingers trembling as she laced her boots. She wrote a note to the twins lettering them know she would be back later, and she left it on the kitchen table, unsure if anyone else would read it. Feyre wouldn’t notice she was gone. She never really did anymore. She had too much to focus on.
The streets of Velaris were quiet as she walked. Pale morning light crept along the cobbled stones, turning the buildings gold at the edges. The stars still shimmered overhead, stubbornly refusing to fade. Her breath came in small puffs, clouding the air in front of her. She tugged her gloves tighter around her fingers, but they were still cold. The wind carried the scent of salt, crisp and clean, and Elain closed her eyes for a moment to breathe it in. Somewhere, gulls called softly, their cries echoing over the rooftops. A baker’s fire cracked to life behind shuttered windows, sending the scent of sugar and rising bread into the street.
As she rounded a corner, a shadow darted at the edge of her vision.
She froze. Her heart gave a startled jolt. But when she turned—nothing. The street was empty. Just the shifting of leaves on a breeze. Her mind was playing tricks again she told herself.
The Healer’s Hall loomed ahead, tall and stately in the pale light, its ancient stone façade draped in flowering vines that had long since withered for winter. The carved wooden door groaned softly as she pushed it open.
Inside, it smelled of rosemary and dried oranges, the air warm and still. The clove-sting of crushed herbs lingered beneath it all, grounding her. Familiar.
Lyra was already waiting. Her posture was impeccable, her blonde hair braided down her back, her sharp blue eyes catching Elain immediately.
“Good,” Lyra said simply. “You’re on time. Follow me.”
Elain accepted the white apron with a nod and tied it over her dress as she trailed after the healer through long, sun-dappled corridors. They passed through a narrow hallway into the herb storage room, where warm, drowsy light filtered in from high, arched windows. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams in orderly rows—lavender, dried and sweet; rosemary, sharp and biting; feverfew, faintly bitter. Dust motes drifted lazily through shafts of light. Elain could hear the gentle grind of pestles, the hum of low conversation, the rustle of pages and parchment.
“Healing begins with what the earth offers,” Lyra began, lifting a bunch of silver-stemmed leaves. “Silverbloom. Old as any magic we know. Some plants bloom with the moon, others only under starlight. Lavender under the full moon. Bloodroot during the waning. They respond to her pull the same way the sea does. As healers, we are not just healing the body - but the Earth. And to do so, we have to listen to it. To hear what it tells us. To rise with the sun, to learn how to tend to the invisible strings that tie all creations together”
Elain followed her to another table where a young healer was gently crushing peppermint leaves with a marble pestle. The scent burst into the air, bright and cooling.
“Morning is for the waking herbs,” Lyra said. “Peppermint, marjoram, feverfew. Their potency is strongest just after the dew lifts. Dusk is for the dreamers—moon poppy, jasmine, duskleaf. Those stir when the light softens.”
“How do you know?” Elain asked, her voice hushed. “When they’re ready?”
Lyra glanced at her. “Experience. Listening. Plants speak in time. So do wounds. Much of healing is about patience. You watch. You learn. The body heals in its own ways. Each one different then the next. A potion or salve for one fae may not work as well for another. So you have to adjusting with each patient."
She gestured for Elain to follow as they moved deeper into the hall. "How did you learn to become a healer?" Elain asked.
Lyra paused. “I was born in a village at the edge of Dawn and Day,” Lyra said, her voice distant with memory. “My family were farmers. I used to sit for hours in the dirt, talking to the roots, feeling the pull of the sun. When I was twelve, I cured a blight no one else could identify. That’s when I was sent to Kalahan.”
"Where is that?" Elain asked.
Lyra laughed softly, "I forgot you were human once. It's the temple of learning in Dawn Court. Fae from across the courts go there to train. They take fae of any age, but most start young like me. I arrived at fifteen. Stayed until I was thirty. Now—I’m here. Seventy-two years.” Lyra looked no older than 25. And yet... she was 102. Elain’s heart skipped at the number. Her human years had felt so long. But here, time was measured differently. Stretched and coiled in ways she didn’t understand.
"Does everyone have a specialty?" Elain asked.
"Yes. While we all have general healing and plant growing skills, so we can be used in times of war anywhere, we all have our speciality's. I specialize in celestial herbology,” Lyra went on, guiding her to a room lined in shelves. “Sunlight and moonlight can change a plant’s essence entirely. And I work with bones and blood. Others, like Amara, handle traumatic injuries. Madjas are Illyrian wings. Ester—potions.”
Ester nodded from a nearby table, surrounded by bottles in every hue. One glowed faintly gold, its surface swirling like starlight.
Lyra began to show her how they organized all of the dried herbs. The shelves stretched higher than Elain expected, floor to ceiling, with narrow ladders tucked between the rows like secrets waiting to be climbed. Each jar gleamed under the soft glow of faelight, labels meticulously inked in precise, looping script that marked the date of harvest, the phase of the moon, the temperature of the soil.
“These shelves are sacred,” Lyra said, her voice quiet now, a kind of hush that didn’t come from habit but from honor. “Every bottle here has a story. A healer who gathered it. A hand that touched the root. A patient it saved. We keep them like we keep memories.”
She walked Elain into another room, through their library of books. The books were even older than the jars. Their spines worn, stitched with thread, not magic, as if to remind them that some things needed the patience of mortal hands. The oldest ones were wrapped in silk cloths, weathered edges peeking out like brittle leaves in the fall.
“This one,” Lyra said, pulling a thick volume from a lower shelf, “was written by the first archivist of Kalahan. Handwritten, every page. She bound it herself with her own hair and thread soaked in moon water.”
Elain’s breath caught as she opened it. The pages were fragile, but the ink still clear. Diagrams of roots, sigils for safe harvest, notes scrawled in the margins in a slanted, almost hurried script. It felt like reading someone's private journal. Someone who had loved the earth deeply and left behind a map for others to follow.
“I had no idea…” Elain whispered. “That healing could be… this.”
Lyra smiled softly, her gaze distant, as if she were standing not in a storage room but a temple. “This,” she said, brushing her hand along the row of books, “is what the world forgets. That healing isn’t just about broken bones or fevers. It’s memory. History. Earth and magic and time.”
