The years had passed swiftly, and the world Mirelith once knew was now unrecognizable. It had been five years since she left Aurelith Castle behind—five long years since she was stripped of her title, her life of privilege, and her future. The kingdom, once bathed in opulence and grandeur, now smoldered in the brutal grip of war with Dunmere. Cities burned, villages scattered, and the very heart of the kingdom trembled under the weight of its losses. Yet for Mirelith, the echoes of that distant, gilded world had begun to fade, replaced by a deeper understanding of herself and the raw, unvarnished reality of the life she now led.

Gone was the naïve young noblewoman who had once clung to dreams of wealth, status, and a future at Caius's side. That girl had vanished, her illusions shattered the day she was cast out. In her place stood a woman hardened by hardship, tempered by survival, and driven by an unyielding passion for the art of healing. Mirelith had transformed, not merely out of necessity but out of a fierce determination to reclaim her worth—not through titles or privilege, but through purpose.

Her journey had been far from easy. The first years of exile were marked by hunger and uncertainty, but they were also years of discovery. Each passing season saw her wandering from one village to another, her hands learning to wield the practical knowledge she had once only read about in her father's books. She apprenticed under herbalists who knew the secrets of the forest, midwives who brought life into the world, and master physicians whose understanding of the human body seemed almost magical. The most influential of these mentors was Marvic—a 35-year-old, silver-haired physician with a reputation as sharp as his intellect. Stern and demanding, Marvic had little patience for mediocrity. Yet, beneath his gruff exterior, Mirelith discovered a mentor whose teachings shaped her both as a healer and as a person.

"You don't save lives with hope alone," Marvic had told her once, his eyes piercing into hers during a late-night lesson. "You save them with skill, with precision, and with a will strong enough to face failure and keep going."

Under his tutelage, Mirelith grew. Together, they worked tirelessly, their hands often stained with blood and their minds consumed by the urgency of survival. Word of their skill spread across the region, and Mirelith became known as a capable and reliable healer in her own right. Villagers spoke her name with gratitude, though few knew of the noblewoman she had once been. She had long since shed the trappings of her former life, trading silks and jewels for practical tunics and the tools of her trade.

One evening, as they cleaned their tools after a particularly grueling day, Marvic broke their usual silence. "You've come a long way from the trembling girl who barely knew how to hold a scalpel," he said gruffly, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. "You're still reckless, though."

Mirelith raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Reckless? Or resourceful?"

"Reckless," he repeated firmly. "You took a risk today stitching that boy without more compresses. If you'd slipped..."

"But I didn't," she interrupted, her tone even. "And he's alive because of it."

Marvic snorted but didn't argue further. Instead, he handed her a fresh cloth and returned to scrubbing. Moments like these had become their rhythm—a dance of challenges, lessons, and mutual respect. For all his sternness, Mirelith knew Marvic saw her potential, and she was determined not to disappoint him.

Anna, her loyal maid from the days of Aurelith, had been her steadfast companion during those early years of exile. Anna's presence had been a source of comfort, her warmth and humor a balm for Mirelith's wounded spirit. But as the years passed, Anna's path diverged. Her kindness and resilience caught the attention of a traveling merchant, and love soon blossomed between them. When Anna married and moved to the southern villages, Mirelith felt both joy and loss. Though they saw each other less often, Anna's letters and occasional visits remained a cherished connection, a reminder of a friendship forged in loyalty and hardship.

It was a crisp autumn morning when the proclamation arrived in the village of Everspring. The square, usually filled with the gentle hum of daily life, buzzed with nervous energy as a royal crier unrolled a parchment and began to read aloud. The edict was clear: the war with Dunmere had reached a critical point, and the king was demanding that healers from across the kingdom be sent to the front lines.

Mirelith had known this day would come. Rumors of the kingdom's desperation had been circulating for months, yet hearing her name called aloud sent a chill through her veins.

"The chosen are Marvic of the West, Mirelith of Everspring, and Melissa the Herbalist."

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with finality. Mirelith glanced at Marvic, who stood beside her. His face, ever composed, betrayed no hint of fear or hesitation.

"It was always going to be us," he said quietly, his deep voice calm as ever.

That night, as Mirelith packed her belongings, she found herself lingering over each familiar object in her modest cottage. Everspring, with its cobblestone streets and the quiet faces of its people, had become her sanctuary. Here, she had built a life of purpose and quiet dignity. The thought of leaving it all behind filled her with a sorrow she hadn't anticipated. Yet, as she stood at the threshold of her home, her resolve hardened. The woman she had become would not run from her duty.

The following morning, Mirelith mounted her mare, Solace, and set off with Marvic and Melissa. The journey to the warfront was a somber one. They traveled through forests stripped bare by the autumn winds and villages where the scars of conflict were evident in every hollow-eyed face. Though the roads were treacherous, Mirelith felt an eerie calm settle over her. She had faced hardship before. She had faced loss. Whatever awaited her at the front lines, she would endure it as she had everything else.

As they set up camp one night, Marvic sat sharpening his scalpel by the fire. "You're quieter than usual," he remarked without looking up.

Mirelith glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. "Just thinking. About what we'll face when we get there."

"Don't waste energy on what-ifs," Marvic replied curtly. "Focus on what you can control. The rest will sort itself out."

Melissa, the herbalist, chimed in, her voice softer. "He means to say he's nervous too, but he's too proud to admit it."

Marvic shot her a glare, but Mirelith couldn't help but laugh, the tension in her chest easing just a bit. It was moments like these that reminded her she wasn't alone in this journey.

As they approached the capital, the sight of Aurelith Castle on the horizon stirred conflicting emotions within Mirelith. Once, those towering walls had been her home, a symbol of safety and grandeur. Now, they loomed like a distant memory of a life she barely recognized. She thought of Caius—his face, his voice, and the coldness in his eyes when he had renounced her. The pain of that betrayal still lingered, though it no longer defined her. Mirelith had made peace with the fact that she might never return to Aurelith, at least not as the woman she had once been.

Marvic's voice broke her reverie. "Regrets?"

She shook her head, her gaze steady. "None that matter anymore."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. Regrets are for people who've got time to waste. And we don't."

When the battlefield loomed and the first echoes of war reached their ears, Mirelith tightened her grip on Solace's reins. The kingdom had taken much from her, but it had not broken her. She was ready to face whatever lay ahead.