Chapter 120

Nora

The morning light filtering through the infirmary windows felt accusatory as I fumbled with the silver root extract, my hands trembling so badly the vial nearly slipped from my grip. The crash never came—Dr. Hawthorne's steady hand caught it mid-fall, his weathered face creasing with concern rather than irritation.

"Nora." His voice was gentle, the kind of gentleness that made my throat tight