The Resurrection of a Heart

Oris walked among the wounded, his steps heavy, his gaze hardened. Here, in these distant lands, far from Narcéa, he was no longer a prince. No longer an alchemist. Just a man healing with what little he had left.

He no longer counted the battles. Nor the dead.

But three heartbeats haunted him.

Just before the end.

Just before she slipped away.

Just before his mother disappeared.

Three beats he had felt in his chest—and the final echos of his mother before silence.

He closed his eyes for a moment. And then, he heard it.

Laughter.

Soft. Genuine. A light in the midst of blood and ashes.

He didn't move. He just listened.

Her voice.

Warm, alive—an intruder in this world of pain.

She was joking with the wounded. A healer, but more than that.

A force. A warmth.

Oris turned his head.

And everything shifted.

She was there. A slender silhouette, draped in black, sleeves rolled up, hands stained from work.

Her long, sleek brown hair caught the light like silk.

His heart stopped.

Then, it beat.

Hard.

Too hard.

A shockwave inside him.

A second heartbeat. Thunderous.

He felt his breath catch, like an invisible hand tightening around his throat.

The third exploded in his chest.

His heart had recognized her.

Before his mind could understand. Before he could even name what he was seeing.

It was her.

Without thinking, Oris fell to his knees.

His battle companion stared at him, stunned. Oris never fell.

Not under blows, not from exhaustion, not from pain.

So why now?

Why her?

Layla hadn't seen him yet.

She kept tending to the wounded, focused, caught between seriousness and tenderness.

But Oris…

Oris knew.

His heart had recognized her.

Before anything else.