The sky tore open with no thunder.
Just a shimmer—a ripple like heat on stone—then a figure collapsed into the tall, wind-swept grasses of the plain. Her staff clattered beside her, half-buried in earth, the end still glowing faintly with pale blue light. Around her, birds startled from the trees, and the horses grazing nearby bolted.
Yuna groaned, pushing herself upright. The world had changed.
The air was colder, cleaner. The land stretched wide and golden beneath a sky of impossible blue. No Macalania Woods. No guardians in sight. Only silence, and the rustling of wind through dry stalks.
She clutched her chest. "Fayth…?" Her voice trembled. Had they sent her here? Another trial? Or a mercy?
Before long, riders from a nearby village found her, speaking in a harsh tongue she did not understand. But her presence—gentle, unarmed, foreign—did not threaten them. When she healed the injured leg of a boy's pony with just a prayer, their awe turned to trust.
They brought her to their small village near the Entwash, where she tended to fevers, broken bones, and old battle wounds. They called her hælþu-cwen—the healing queen—even though she claimed no title. Her Rohirric was poor (obviously), but her heart was open.
She smiled often, but slept little. She dreamed of Zanarkand. Of Sin. Of the fayth whispering: Find your will again.
It was a quiet life, until the day a rider clad in the royal colors of Rohan thundered into the village, seeking help for a dying prince.
Edoras, the Golden Hall of Meduseld — twilight
Théodred lay still upon his bed, skin pale and breath too shallow. His body was covered in cold sweat, the wound at his side refusing to close. The scent of herbs clung to the air, sharp and failing. The healers had done all they could.
Éomer stood near the hearth, fists clenched, watching as his cousin faded inch by inch.
"He fought like a lion," he murmured. "He should not die like this—alone, and undone by poison."
"I am here," Éowyn said softly from the bedside. She dipped a cloth into cool water, wrung it out, and gently pressed it to Théodred's brow. "He is not alone." Her voice was steady, but Éomer saw the grief hidden behind her pale eyes. She had barely slept since Théodred had been brought back from the Fords. Their cousin was more like a brother to her.
Winfrith, the chief healer, stood back, silent and weary. "The wound festers faster than we can treat it. I fear the blade was poisoned."
Éowyn looked up. "Is there no remedy? Not even from the South?"
"We have sent for what herbs we can," Winfrith said, "but nothing reaches him in time."
Éomer cursed under his breath. He turned from the bed and stormed down the length of the hall, the weight of his armor like chains around his shoulders. He couldn't bear to watch Théodred slip further from them with every hour.
That was when the stable-boy appeared—dust-covered, breathless, clutching his cap in both hands.
"My lord Éomer—my lady Éowyn—there's word from the Eastfold. A village by the Entwash. They say a healer lives there now… a stranger. A woman who came out of nowhere. Pale as snow, dressed like no one from Rohan, but she heals with light."
Éomer froze.
"What do you mean 'light'?" Éowyn asked sharply, rising.
"I—I don't know, my lady," the boy stammered. "They say she speaks little, but she touched a child with fever and he stood by evening. A man with a crushed hand—he's working again. They say it's not of this world."
Éomer met Éowyn's eyes, the unspoken thought passing between them.
"Magic," Éomer said. "Or something like it."
Éowyn didn't flinch. "Perhaps that is what we need."
Winfrith shook his head. "You would put your trust in some foreign witch?"
"I would put my trust in anyone who could save him," Éomer growled. "If she's a charlatan, I'll know it soon enough. Where is she?"
"The village is called Harlond's Hollow, my lord. Two days' ride east."
Winfrith scoffed quietly. "We are to trust rumors from dirt-farmers?"
"Would you prefer we trust silence?" Éomer snapped. He turned to his sister. "If there is even a chance she can help, I must go."
Éowyn moved to stand beside him. "Then let me ride with you."
But Éomer shook his head. "You must stay. Théodred will need you if he wakes—and our uncle needs someone he can still trust."
Her expression tightened. "And someone to watch Gríma's tongue."
Éomer nodded once. "I'll return swiftly, with aid if the rumors speak true."
She stepped forward, gripping his arm. "Ride fast. Before Théodred's hour passes."
He clasped her hand tightly, then turned without another word, his long cloak trailing behind him as he strode through the hall.
Outside, the wind whipped across the plains. The stables rang with the sounds of hooves and saddles, and within the hour, Éomer son of Éomund rode east beneath the rising stars—toward a healer whispered of in rumor, and a fate neither of them could yet see.
