"Thank you, Princess. I understand." Natasha said, her voice stripped of its former arrogance, replaced by genuine humility. She executed a small, perfect bow.
A faint, almost ethereal smile touched Ellen's lips—a rare display of warmth. She stretched forth her hand, and a gentle wave of luminous, shimmering energy washed over Natasha. All traces of the bruising, the broken ribs, and the spilled blood vanished, leaving her body perfectly healed and her energy core fully restored.
"You don't have to thank me," Ellen replied, her voice soft but authoritative.
Natasha instinctively inspected herself. The healing was instantaneous and absolute. She stood in thoughtful confusion, her mind grappling with a single, monumental question:
'If this twelve-year-old princess possesses such mastery over Divine energy—healing as easily as she destroys—why is her father, the King, still searching for bodyguards? Is this elaborate tournament merely a show of dominance?'
