POV: Soraya
The sun rises pale and soft over the dunes, scattering gold dust across the horizon. For the first time since the war ended, the land looks quiet—wounded, yes, but breathing. Alive. I ride at the front of a small caravan of Zehrael healers and Ashra scouts, Raevan somewhere behind me, giving me the space I asked for.
Today isn’t about Ashra.
Or Zehrael.
Or old wounds.
Today is about the people who lost everything fighting wars they never asked for.
And I carry the power to give some of it back.
We reach the first village by mid-morning. It’s a place I have memories of—flashes, really. A market I once walked through with my mother. A fountain where children used to play. A rooftop where she braided my hair. Now, the walls are collapsed, the wells dry, and the air thick with the smell of old ashes and grief.
The villagers gather as we enter. They stare at me—some with hope, some with suspicion, but none with hatred. Not anymore. Not after what they saw on the battlefield. Not after the desert itself answered to my call.
A small boy steps forward first.
His arms are thin. His cheeks hollow.
He carries a broken clay pot with both hands.
“L-Luna Soraya,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Can you fix it?”
My throat tightens.
They don’t ask for war. They don’t ask for power. They ask for their smallest pieces of life back. I kneel in front of him.
“What’s your name?”
“Jamir.”
“Jamir,” I say softly, “show me.”
He places the pieces in my palms. I close my eyes. The air shifts—cooler, charged. My power unfurls like a silver serpent, sliding beneath my skin, humming through my bones. It used to terrify me. Now it feels like breathing.
Light glows between my fingers.
Warm. Gentle. Forgiving.
The clay pieces knit themselves together as if remembering what they once were. Cracks melt away. Edges seal. The pot returns to whole.
Jamir gasps.
“You… did it.”
I smile and hand it back.
“No. You believed.”
Behind me, I hear Vienne whisper to Kaide,
“She gets stronger every day.”
Kaide hums in agreement.
“She’s becoming what the desert needs.”
Raevan says nothing, but I feel his gaze like a steady hand between my shoulder blades.
We move deeper into the village.
A woman limps forward, her leg twisted wrong from an old wound.
“Please,” she whispers. “I can’t farm. I can’t walk.”
I touch her ankle; my power responds instantly. Heat pulses under my palm, flooding into her muscles, smoothing torn tissue, stitching bone. Her body jerks once, then stills.
She stands slowly, tears spilling.
“You gave me back my life.”
I don’t know how to reply to that, so I simply pull her into my arms.
One by one, villagers line up—injuries, illnesses, broken structures, dried wells, poisoned soil. And one by one, I restore them. My power grows heavier each time I use it, like carrying a water jar that fills instead of empties. But I keep going.
At the collapsed fountain, I press my hands against the cracked stone.
“Water once flowed here,” I murmur.
A faint tremor runs beneath the ground.
“Flow again.”
The stone glows faintly.
And then a burst of clear water erupts upward, cascading into the basin, splashing onto the dusty ground. Children shriek with delight and run through the spray. Women laugh, hands covering their mouths. Men bow deeply.
Kaide watches with solemn pride.
“Your mother would be proud.”
I swallow around the ache in my chest.
“I hope so.”
He nods slowly.
“She would.”
We travel to the next settlement hours later. The road between villages is lined with tents holding wounded refugees—lone elders, starving families, orphans. I move tent to tent, healing burns, resetting bones, easing fevers. Some wounds are too deep, too old, or too cruel. For those, I can only hold their hands and promise shelter.
By sunset, my legs tremble.
My hands shake. My head pounds with magic. Raevan comes to my side quietly.
“That’s enough for today,” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper, pulling away. “There are still people who—”
“Soraya.” His voice deepens. “You can’t pour from an empty soul.”
“I’m not empty.”
“Not yet.”
His fingers brush my wrist—light but grounding.
“Let me help you,” he says softly.
“We both know you can’t,” I whisper
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
A little girl approaches us, clutching a wilted desert lily.
“For you,” she says shyly. “Because you fixed the sky.”
I blink. “The sky?”
She nods with conviction.
“The sun is brighter today.”
Raevan’s voice softens.
“She’s not wrong.”
I kneel and take the flower. “Thank you.”
The girl beams and runs back to her mother.
Raevan exhales slowly beside me.
“They look at you like you’re hope itself.”
“I’m just… me.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“You’re everything they prayed for, Soraya.”
The words crack something open inside me. I step away before my heart betrays me, before the warmth in his tone drowns me again.
We reach the third village by twilight. Half the homes are dust. The other half barely stand. Wolves rush toward us with desperation etched in every line of their faces.
“Please!” a man cries. “The well is dying. Our children can’t drink.”
I step forward without hesitation.
“Show me.”
The well is almost dry. Its stones are crumbling. The sand around it feels sick, like something poisoned the earth.
I kneel.
Place my palms on the warm ground.
Close my eyes.
And call the desert.
Magic rises instantly—silver, sharp, electrifying. It surges through the soil like a tide. The ground trembles. Light spreads in thin rivulets under the villagers’ feet.
A hush falls.
Then—
A roaring surge of water erupts upward, filling the well and spilling over its edges. The villagers gasp, falling to their knees, blessing the moons and the gods and everything between.
Raevan steps closer, voice barely audible.
“Soraya… you’re restoring the desert.”
I straighten slowly, breath unsteady.
“I’m restoring what Zarek destroyed.”
And for the first time since the war,
I believe I might be able to fix this world.
One village. One well. One broken piece at a time.