The scent of antiseptic and copper filled Margaret's nostrils as the world around her shifted. The crystal chamber faded away, replaced by canvas walls billowing in a hot summer breeze. Sunlight filtered through the tent's fabric, casting everything in a yellowish glow.
Margaret blinked, finding herself small—so small. Her legs dangled from a folding chair, feet unable to touch the ground. A coloring book lay open on her lap, half-filled with uneven crayon strokes that spilled beyond the lines. Six years old again, waiting while Mommy worked.
"Hold still, please." Her mother's voice cut through the ambient noise—the hum of generators, distant shouts, the steady beep of medical equipment.
Margaret looked up. Her mother stood across the tent, bent over a gurney where a hunter lay. Blood soaked through bandages wrapped around the man's torso. Her mother's hands glowed blue as she channeled her Essentia into the wound.
"Hurts," the man gasped, face contorted in pain.
