The Saintess swayed.
Her hands slipped from the boy's chest, and Sir Luke caught her before she could fall. One arm supported her back while his other hand steadied her shoulder.
"Saintess!"
"I'm all right."
"Are you certain?"
She nodded, drawing a slow breath.
"Only exhausted. My life isn't in danger."
"I rarely see you this exhausted."
A weak chuckle escaped her.
"Well, bringing someone back without sacrificing another person or my own life is something I'm proud of." She glanced at the boy. "If exhaustion is all I have to endure for that, I don't mind."
Luke remained silent.
The boy had sat up. His broken sword rested across his knees while he pulled his shirt aside and stared at his chest.
The hole was still there.
Its narrow path remained open through his chest and heart. Yet no blood escaped. He breathed normally, watching the wound as though the next breath might finally convince him it was real.
Luke's lips parted.
"A miracle."
The Blessing of Miracle.
