FIRST PAGE FROM HEALER'S TOUCH

 

CHAPTER I

Anya of Niobe

 

The eyepatch is the first thing I put on every morning and the last thing I take off every night. Even now, as I step out of my apothecary, my hand drifts to adjust it—a habitual check, though I know nothing is revealed beneath the fabric. A comfort, a shield, a prison.

 

Through the delicate weave, the world remains clear, my vision uninterrupted, even as it conceals what must never be seen.

 

What must remain forever hidden.

 

The irony is, people fawn over mismatched eyes. So long as they’re the right sort of different. 

 

A summertide blue paired with an earthy brown will draw gasps of delight and whispers of unique beauty. But mine? A warm brown beside a shade of burnished gold? There is no admiration for such a pairing, no appreciation of its rarity. Only dread.

 

At the center of that gilded eye rests a vertical pupil—an elongated slash of darkness in place of the expected circle. Together, the gold and serpentine pupil mark me as what I am. The kind of difference that doesn’t inspire curiosity or invite fascination. Instead, it brands me as something wretched. An abomination. A monster.

 

And so, the patch becomes both sanctuary and shell, concealing what would mean my death if exposed.

  

With a resigned sigh, I lock the shop door behind me. Low-hanging sunlight stretches across the hamlet, gilding thatched rooftops and gray stone walls. The warmth of the day lingers, but the air has cooled, carrying the scent of roasted sugarnuts from a nearby cart.

 

The street, a wide ribbon of well-trodden earth, hums with familiar life. Merchants tidying stalls, vendors calling out final bargains, children laughing and darting between carts, and elderly neighbors moving with slow, deliberate steps. 

 

A Western trader stands out, his deep, rolling speech setting him apart more than his fair complexion, a hue not uncommon even here in the South. Next to him, a local tradeswoman arranges her wares, her words flowing with a rhythmic softness.

 

I smile to myself, recalling how Mother would quiz me during our trips to larger towns. “Where is that lady from, Anya? And what about the group of gentlemen over there?” Never once in these lessons did she mention the shape of their nose, the color of their skin, or the tilt of their eyes. For what would be the point? Every shade and feature are present in all corners of Leonathis.

 

 

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