In the days that followed the wind storm, when the air had settled into a brittle cold that made every breath visible and every morning a battle against frost, my youngest cub fell ill.
Jasper had always been my sleeper, my lazy prince, the one who treated consciousness as an optional inconvenience. But there was a difference between choosing to sleep and being unable to wake. I noticed it first during the morning feeding, when the usual chaos of hungry cubs did not include his small voice raised in complaint.
Atlas, Chase, and Ryder had already begun their wrestling match for prime position at my breast, their golden heads butting against each other with the gentle violence of hungry toddlers. But Jasper simply lay where Soryn had coiled him, his small chest rising and falling too quickly, his skin burning hot when I pressed my palm to his forehead.
"Jasper, sweetie," I called, my voice carefully casual even as my heart began to hammer. "It’s time for milk, baby."
He did not stir. Not even the flicker of an eyelash, not the twitch of an ear. My lazy prince, who could wake instantly if Soryn so much as shifted his scales, lay still as stone.
I panicked.
I gathered him into my arms, his small body limp and terrifyingly light, and pressed my face to his neck. "Jasper? Jasper, open your eyes for Mama. Please, baby, open your eyes."
Soryn uncoiled beside me, his serpent form tense with alarm. "What is it? What’s wrong?"
"He’s burning," I choked out, tears already blurring my vision. "He’s burning up and he won’t wake up. Soryn, he won’t—"
And then I remembered.
I closed my eyes. Held Jasper tight. And I reached for the voice.
It had come to me first after Caelion’s sacrifice, after my merman had given his heart’s blood to save Atlas and the power had awakened in response. I tried to focus on the blue bind, focusing on the energy. The powers of the first daughter the healing tide. The voice had told me to learn this gift first, patient and persistent, to practice, to trust.
But could I really do it? Could I reach into my own son and mend whatever illness is plaguing him?
The power answered when I called it, rising up from that deep place inside me. I felt it respond to my desperation, the blue bind that flowing through my chest like a second heartbeat. I had healed before, instinctively, desperately. With Atlas now with my youngest cub Jasper. Hoping to whatever God is listening, to let this power of mine save my baby.
Focus, the voice was suddenly there. Trust. Let it flow.
I didn’t ask it question, whatever I needed to know could wait, my Jasper came first. I shaped the blue light with my will and sent it pouring down my arms and into my son’s fevered body.
I closed my eyes. Held Jasper tight. And I reached.
It felt like cool water pouring through desert sand. Like moonlight settling onto troubled waters. I felt the heat in Jasper’s skin meeting my tide, felt the sickness struggling against the light, and I pushed harder. The blue wrapped around him, weaving through his small form.
In moments, he stirred.
"Mama," Jasper mumbled, his voice thick with sleep but alert, aware, alive. He opened his eyes, and they were clear, focused, no longer glassy with fever. "Mama, hungry."
I laughed, the sound breaking from my throat as a sob. "Yes, Jasper. I know."
I lifted him to my breast, and he latched on with the fierce determination I knew so well, his small hands kneading against my skin, his eyes closing in contentment as he drank. My lazy prince was back. My baby was safe.
The rest of that morning passed in a blur of relief and gratitude. I watched him play with Soryn’s scales with the focused intensity that meant he was truly recovered. The other cubs sensed something had happened and were unusually gentle, even Atlas foregoing his usual roughness to pat his brother’s head with careful hands.
But the village had seen the storm. And the village had sick children of its own.
They came in the afternoon, a small delegation of worried parents carrying bundles of fur that moved too little or breathed too fast. I heard them at the door, heard Caelion’s low voice explaining that I was resting, that the cubs were recovering, that perhaps tomorrow—
"Please," a woman’s voice broke, high and desperate. "Please, help me. My baby is sick. The healer is gone with the delegation, and the herbs aren’t working, and I don’t know what else to do."
I stood in the doorway of the main room; I looked at the female, at the small bundle she clutched to her chest, and I felt the blue bind stir inside me.
This was my test. My practice. The voice advice came to my mind again; here were people who needed it.
I made my decision.
"Soryn," I called, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Please guide the cubs to me. Let the parents stay outside."
The serpent slithered to my side, his eyes questioning.
"If they refuse," I continued, loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear, "then they don’t need my herbs. But if they trust me, then they stay outside. Their cubs will be fine, but they cannot watch."
The woman at the door looked at me, fear and hope warring in her eyes. "What will you do?"
I smiled; the expression borrowed from every mysterious healer in every story I had ever heard. "I will do what I can. But you must trust me."
She hesitated, then nodded.
Soon there was a line.
They came one by one, parents leaving their children in my care, retreating to wait outside with the nervous energy of those who have surrendered control. Soryn became my gatekeeper, his serpent form both comforting to the frightened cubs and intimidating enough to keep anxious parents at bay. Caelion prepared warm broth and cool cloths. Veylan stood guard at the door, his presence a silent promise that no one would disturb this work.
The first cub was worse than Jasper had been.
He was damp with sweat despite the cold, his breathing shallow and rapid, his small paws twitching with fever dreams. His mother had carried him wrapped in linen, and when I peeled them back I could see the flush of sickness high on his muzzle, the dangerous glassiness in his eyes, his whiskers drooping with exhaustion. The cub whimpered when I touched him, a thin sound that barely reached my ears, and my heart clenched at the vulnerability of him.
I took him in my arms, feeling the weight of his mother’s trust heavy as stone.
"What’s his name?" I asked softly, though I already knew what I would do.
"Kael," she whispered from the doorway, her voice breaking.
"Kael," I repeated, holding him close. "You’re safe now, little one."
I gave him the medicine drink Caelion had prepared, the bitter herbs masking the sweetness of what I truly offered. As the liquid passed his lips, I used my healing tide to heal him.
It came easier this time, as if the earlier healing had cleared a path. I felt the blue rise up; felt it flow from my chest down my arms and into the small body I cradled. Kael’s fever was a red thing, angry and entrenched, and my tide washed against it like waves against a cliff. I pushed harder. I imagined the cool blue wrapping around his heart, soothing his lungs, calming the storm inside him.
He stirred, coughed, and opened his eyes.
"Mama?" he whimpered, and I knew.
"He needs rest," I said, handing him back to his mother with hands that only shook a little. "And he needs this tea, three times a day until the fever fully breaks." I pressed a bundle of herbs into her hands, the gesture hiding the truth. The herbs would help, yes, but they were not what had healed him.
She wept as she thanked me. I told her to brew the herbs so he could continue to get better, and she nodded, clutching her son like treasure.
The full day I stayed vigilant.
They came, one after another, the sick and the suffering, the fevered and the weak. I used every herb in my stores, every tonic I knew, every trick of healing I had learned in my old world and this one. But behind each remedy, behind each cool cloth and soothing word, I sent the healing tide flowing with every touch. I thanked whatever god that was listening that they were too weak and tried to notice the blue glow of my power, but with every practice I controlled the surge more and more, until it became a subtle shimmer from my fingertips rather than the blazing torrent it had once been.
It was good for practice. I learned to control the flow, to direct it precisely, to heal without exhausting myself completely. I learned to read the different sicknesses, to feel the texture of fever versus chill, to know when to push and when to let the body finish the work itself.
But it was exhausting.
By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in bruised purples and exhausted oranges, I had healed seven cubs, three adults, and one ancient elder whose cough had lingered since the first frost. My hands trembled constantly now, and my vision swam at the edges. The tide still answered when I called it, but it felt thinner, more fragile, like water running through fingers I could not close.
The last parent left with her child, bowing and thanking, pressing dried meat and woven goods into Veylan’s hands as payment. I waved them off, too tired to speak, and stumbled toward my bed.
I did not make it to my room. I collapsed onto the furs in the living room, my body hitting the softness with the grace of a falling tree. I felt hands on me, heard voices distant and concerned, felt the familiar weight of cubs curling against my sides and the cool presence of Soryn’s scales wrapping around my ankles.
Whatever my mates and cubs decided to do after that, I was not aware of it.
I slept like the dead, like a vessel completely emptied, my body heavy and warm against the furs. But my mind, even in dreams, turned over what I had learned. I had practiced until my hands shook, until the blue bind responded to my thoughts before I even called it, and I truly believed I was getting the handle on it. The healing tide was mine now, not just a strange power that surged unbidden but a tool I could wield with intention.
My thoughts drifted to what came next. I had three more gift I need to learn eventually, I had more than one path. The second gift waited for me, the blooming blessing, the power to coax life from seed and soil, to turn barren earth into abundance, the gift of prosperity. I imagined our village with full storehouses, with fields heavy with grain, with wealth enough that no cub would go hungry, and no parent would fear the winter. I smiled as I drifted deeper into sleep, I can’t wait.