Eric's tone softened as he rocked back, his eyes glued not to John but to some lost recollection that nobody else was privy to.
"You see,
John…
Elsa's gift wasn't made in comfort, but in hurt. With every scar she healed on others, she carved an invisible scar into herself.
Healing is a price—something stolen from the healer, paid to the injured. But she paid it without complaint.
That is why, when I look at her, I do not see just a child, but the hope of a whole generation."
John sat in silence, his small fists clenching of their own accord on the cool, slimy surface of the table. He had known Elsa all his life.
They'd played among the palace gardens when they were children, run down the village streets, shared secrets in whispers under the stars. To him, she'd always been his friend—loving, gentle, obstinate at times, but still just a child.
Now, with his father's words finding home in his heart, she seemed something else altogether.
A princess.
A healer.
A light.
