Morning light crept through the velvet curtains, spilling across the cold marble floor. Luna rose slowly, her body still aching from the night before. She bathed in silence, her bruises throbbing under the water's touch, and dressed in the simple clothes she had brought with her.
Her hand reached for the door handle, then she froze.
Damiano's voice echoed in her mind: Never wander this house without permission. Ever.
Her chest tightened. With a long breath, she withdrew her hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. Minutes bled into hours, silence pressing down on her until the door finally opened.
Damiano entered, a tray of food balanced in his hand. The aroma of fresh bread, cheese, and roasted meat made Luna's stomach twist with hunger. He crouched beside her, eyes glinting with mockery.
"Hungry?" he asked softly, holding a piece of bread just out of her reach.
Her hand trembled as she lifted it to take the food. But before her fingers touched it, his other hand shot out, wrapping around her delicate neck. With brutal force, he hurled her to the ground.
"You don't deserve food," he spat, towering over her crumpled form. "You don't deserve anything good, you vile soul."
Before she could move, his hand struck her cheek, the slap ringing like thunder in the small room. Her vision blurred as he picked up the tray and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
For a long moment, Luna lay still on the cold floor. Then the tears came- hot, silent sobs shaking her fragile frame.
She dragged herself to the mirror. Her face was swollen, her neck marred with deep red prints. She raised her trembling hand, willing her secret to erase the damage. But nothing happened. No warmth, no shimmer, no healing.
Her breath quickened. Panic surged in her chest. She touched each bruise, each mark, but her gift refused to answer.
Desperation clawed at her. Her gaze landed on a sharp knife left on the tray's side table. With a shaking hand, she seized it and pressed it against her wrist. The sting made her gasp, blood welling instantly.
She touched the wound. And just like that it healed.
The skin knitted together seamlessly, leaving no trace behind.
Luna dropped the knife, collapsing to her knees as sobs tore through her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking uncontrollably.
Why could she heal any other form of abuse inflicted on her by herself and others but not him…?
The question echoed in her soul, louder than her cries. And for the first time, she wondered if her gift was not a blessing at all… but a curse designed to break her from the inside out.