---
The healing ward was overflowing.
Himari moved from bed to bed, her voice a constant presence—soft songs of restoration, golden light flowing from her hands. A child with fever. An elderly man with a failing heart. A young woman injured in a construction accident. A demon with poisoning. A human with infection.
One after another after another.
"Himari," Brother Marcus said gently, touching her shoulder. "You've been here for twelve hours. You need rest."
"After this one," she said, moving to the next patient. "Just one more."
She'd been saying that for six hours.
Her voice had started to rasp. Her hands trembled with exhaustion. The golden light of her healing was dimmer than usual, requiring more effort to manifest.
But there were always more patients. Always one more person in pain. Always one more life she could save if she just pushed a little harder.
"Himari—"
"I'm fine," she said, beginning another healing song. "I'm—"
The world tilted.
She caught herself on the bed frame, breathing hard. The patient—a middle-aged human with a sword wound—looked at her with concern.
"Miss Angel, are you alright?"
"Fine. Just dizzy. I'll—" She tried to sing again, but her voice cracked. The healing magic flickered and died.
Brother Marcus was there immediately, catching her as her legs gave out. "That's it. You're done for today."
"But there are more—"
"There are always more. That's why we have multiple healers. You're not the only one who can help these people." He guided her to a chair, calling for water and food. "When's the last time you ate?"
Himari tried to remember. Breakfast? Or had that been yesterday's breakfast?
"That's what I thought." He pressed bread and cheese into her hands. "Eat. Then sleep. That's an order."
"You can't order me. I'm a hero."
"I'm your supervisor in this ward. I absolutely can order you. Now eat or I'm getting Ren to command you to rest."
The thought of Ren using his power on her—even for her own good—was enough to motivate compliance. She ate mechanically, barely tasting the food.
"You're burning out," Brother Marcus said quietly. "Just like Aria did, eighty years ago."
"Who?"
"A hero from a previous summoning. She had restoration magic like yours. Worked herself to death trying to save everyone. Literally—her heart stopped from exhaustion." He looked at Himari seriously. "Seraphina told me about her. Warned me to watch for the same pattern in you."
"I'm not working myself to death. I'm just... helping people."
"By destroying yourself. That's not helping—it's martyrdom. And martyrs don't heal many patients after they're dead."
Himari knew he was right. Logically, intellectually, she understood that she needed to pace herself, set boundaries, accept that she couldn't save everyone.
But knowing something and feeling it were different things.
Every person she didn't heal felt like her mother all over again—lying in that hospital bed, Himari unable to help, unable to do anything except watch her die.
Here, she had power. She could actually save people. How could she not use it? How could she turn away someone in pain when she had the ability to help?
"Go home," Brother Marcus said firmly. "Sleep for twelve hours. Come back tomorrow if you want. But right now, you're a liability, not an asset. You're too exhausted to heal effectively and you're scaring the patients."
That got through. The thought that she was making things worse instead of better.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll rest."
---
She made it back to the Hero's Wing on autopilot, moving through familiar corridors without really seeing them. Her room was exactly as she'd left it—bed unmade from yesterday morning, sheet music scattered on the desk, dirty dishes she'd forgotten to return to the kitchen.
She should sleep. Brother Marcus was right—she was exhausted.
But when she lay down, her mind wouldn't stop.
Every patient she'd healed today. Every injury, every illness, every person in pain. Their faces blurred together in her memory, becoming her mother's face in that hospital bed.
*I'm not helpless anymore,* she told herself. *I have power now. I can save people.*
But could she? How many patients had she seen today—forty? Fifty? And there were thousands more in the city. Tens of thousands throughout the kingdom. Hundreds of thousands across the continent.
She couldn't save them all. Couldn't heal every injury, cure every disease, prevent every death.
The futility of it crashed over her like a wave.
She was one person with one power, trying to hold back an ocean of suffering with her bare hands. She'd save fifty people today, and tomorrow fifty more would need help. And the day after. And the day after.
It never ended. It would never end.
*Then what's the point?* a dark voice whispered in her mind. *If you can't save everyone, why bother saving anyone?*
She recognized that voice. It was the same one that had convinced her to take those pills, to end her pain by ending herself. The voice of despair masquerading as logic.
*No,* she told it firmly. *I save who I can. That has to be enough.*
But was it? Was "enough" really enough when people were still dying? When children were still in pain? When every person she couldn't reach was another failure?
She remembered Kael. The seven-year-old who'd died at the sanctuary. She hadn't been there—hadn't even known about the siege until it was over. But she'd heard about him from Daichi, seen the guilt in his eyes.
What if she'd been there? Could her healing have saved him? Could one more song have made the difference?
The thoughts spiraled, darker and darker, until she was crying without realizing it. Silent tears streaming down her face as she lay in her too-comfortable bed in her too-luxurious room, feeling utterly, completely helpless despite all her power.
A knock at the door startled her.
"Himari?" Kaito's voice. "Can I come in?"
She almost said no. Almost told him to go away, to leave her alone with her spiral of despair.
But Kaito's empathy could probably feel her distress through the door anyway.
"Okay," she managed.
He entered carefully, closing the door behind him. He didn't say anything at first, just sat on the floor beside her bed.
"Brother Marcus sent a message," he finally said. "Said you burned yourself out again. Said he was worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're crying."
"I'm fine and crying. Both things can be true."
"Fair point." He was quiet for a moment. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Want me to just sit here while you cry?"
"...maybe."
So he did. Sat silently while Himari cried out the exhaustion and frustration and crushing weight of responsibility she'd taken on.
Finally, when the tears slowed, she spoke: "How do you do it? Your empathy—you feel everyone's pain all the time. How do you not drown in it?"
"I did drown in it. For months. Until Yuki taught me to build shields, to filter what I felt." He looked at her. "You need shields too, Himari. Not mental ones like mine, but emotional ones. Boundaries. Ways to protect yourself while still helping others."
"But if I set boundaries, people suffer. People die."
"People suffer and die anyway. You're not responsible for all the pain in the world."
"But I could help—"
"Some of them. Not all. Never all." Kaito's voice was gentle but firm. "You're one person, Himari. One person with a powerful gift. But even infinite power means nothing if you burn out and can't use it anymore."
"Aria worked herself to death," Himari said. "Did you know that? Previous hero with restoration magic. Her heart stopped from exhaustion."
"I didn't know. But I'm not surprised. Healers have a tendency toward self-destruction. You take on others' pain and forget your own."
"What if that's the price? What if saving people requires sacrificing yourself?"
"Then you pay it and save no one after you're gone. Is that really better than pacing yourself and saving people for years instead of months?"
Logic. Cold, clear logic that her despair-driven mind couldn't refute.
"I hate that you're right," she said.
"I hate it too. I'd prefer a world where saving people didn't require calculated restraint. But that's not the world we have."
They sat in silence for a while. Then Himari asked: "Do you ever regret it? Coming here? Having these powers and all the responsibility that comes with them?"
"Sometimes. When I'm overwhelmed by everyone's emotions, when I realize I could have detected a threat sooner, when I fail despite my abilities." He smiled sadly. "But then I remember: in our old world, we had no power to help anyone. Here, at least we can try."
"Is trying enough?"
"It has to be. Because giving up isn't an option, and perfection is impossible. So we try, we fail, we learn, and we try again."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But it's also meaningful. And meaning matters more than comfort."
Himari thought about her mother. About singing to her for two years, hoping she'd wake up. About how meaningless that had felt when she died anyway.
But looking back now, from a year and another world away, she could see it differently. Those two years hadn't saved her mother. But they'd been acts of love. And love mattered even when it couldn't prevent death.
Maybe healing was the same. Maybe she couldn't save everyone, but the act of trying—of pouring love and hope into her songs—mattered regardless of outcome.
"Thank you," she said. "For sitting with me. For being honest."
"That's what friends do."
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
"Friends. Family. Team. All of the above." He stood. "Get some sleep. Real sleep, not the 'I'll rest for two hours then go back to work' kind."
"I'll try."
"Good enough."
He left, and Himari was alone again with her thoughts. But they were quieter now. Less spiraling. More manageable.
She slept.
---
Three days later, a plague hit the lower district.
It started small—a handful of cases, easily treated. But within twenty-four hours, hundreds were sick. Within forty-eight hours, thousands.
The healing ward was overwhelmed. Every healer in the city was called to help. Yuki and her demon mages worked frantically to identify the disease's magical signature, trying to develop a cure or vaccine.
And Himari sang.
She set up in the main quarantine area—a converted warehouse holding five hundred of the most severe cases. She sang healing songs continuously, moving from patient to patient, her golden light spreading comfort and cure.
Four hours. Eight hours. Twelve hours.
"Himari, you need to rest," Ren said, appearing with food and water. "You're pushing too hard again."
"I learned to pace myself," she said, accepting the water. "I'm monitoring my energy. Switching between active healing and passive comfort. Being efficient."
"You've been here half a day—"
"And I'll be here half a day more. Then I'll rest for six hours and come back." She met his eyes. "I know my limits now, Ren. Trust me."
He studied her face, seeing the exhaustion but also the careful control. She was tired, yes. But not burning out. Not destroying herself.
"Okay," he said. "But I'm coming back in six hours. If you're not resting by then, I'm commanding you to sleep."
"Fair enough."
She returned to her patients. An elderly woman with fluid in her lungs. A child with high fever. A demon with a terrible cough. One after another, methodically, efficiently.
She couldn't save everyone in the city. But she could save these five hundred. And that was enough.
---
The plague lasted two weeks. In that time, three thousand people fell ill. Without intervention, perhaps half would have died.
With intervention—with every healer working around the clock, with Yuki's mages developing treatments, with Himari's songs bringing hope and healing—they lost thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven deaths. Three thousand lives saved.
Himari stood at the final memorial service, singing one last song for the deceased. Her voice was raw from two weeks of constant use, but she gave them her best.
*You were loved. You mattered. You're remembered.*
The families wept. The survivors bowed their heads. The city mourned.
And Himari felt... not peace, exactly. But acceptance.
She'd saved three thousand people. She'd failed to save thirty-seven. Both things were true. Both things mattered.
But the three thousand mattered more than the thirty-seven. Because they were alive. Because they'd go home to their families. Because they'd have futures that would have been erased without her help.
She'd learned to count the saved, not just mourn the lost.
It had only taken a plague to teach her.
---
One month after the plague ended, Himari received an invitation.
*The Lumina Academy of Arts requests the honor of your presence for a special performance. As the "Angel of Lumina," your voice has brought healing and hope to our city. We would love to share that voice with a wider audience.*
*We understand you're not a professional performer. But we believe art has power beyond entertainment. Your songs heal. Let them inspire as well.*
She brought the invitation to the others.
"It's a trap," Daichi said immediately.
"It's not a trap," Yuki said. "I checked—the Academy is legitimate. They genuinely want Himari to perform."
"But why now?"
"Because she's become a symbol. The Angel of Lumina. People want to see her, hear her, feel connected to the hope she represents."
"That's a lot of pressure," Himari said quietly.
"You don't have to do it," Ren assured her. "If you're not comfortable—"
"No, I... I think I want to." She reread the invitation. "I've spent all this time using my voice for healing. Maybe it's time to use it for something else. For art. For beauty. For reminding people what we're fighting for."
"What are we fighting for?" Kaito asked.
"Moments like this. Performances. Art. Culture. The things that make life worth living beyond just surviving."
She accepted the invitation.
---
The performance was scheduled for one month away. Himari spent that time preparing—not healing songs, but songs from her old world. Songs her mother had taught her. Songs about love, loss, hope, and resilience.
She practiced in her room, in the palace gardens, anywhere she could find privacy. The others would occasionally pause outside her door, listening, drawn by the beauty of her voice when it wasn't carrying the weight of magic.
"She's incredible," Daichi said one evening. "I mean, we knew she could sing. But this is different."
"This is art instead of utility," Yuki explained. "She's not trying to heal or restore. She's just... expressing. Creating beauty for its own sake."
"We should do this more," Himari said. "Have moments that aren't about saving the world. Just... living."
They agreed. Started making time for art, for games, for simple pleasures that had nothing to do with being heroes.
It helped. Reminded them they were still human beneath the powers and responsibilities.
---
The night of the performance arrived.
The Academy's concert hall was packed—nobles and commoners, humans and demons, all gathered to hear the Angel of Lumina sing. Not to be healed. Just to listen.
Backstage, Himari was terrified.
"I can't do this," she told the others, who'd all come to support her. "This is different from healing. What if I forget the words? What if my voice cracks? What if—"
"You'll be amazing," Himari said firmly. "You've practiced for a month. You know these songs by heart. And even if something goes wrong, these people love you. They'll forgive any imperfection."
"Ren's right," Kaito added. "I can feel the audience's emotions. They're excited, hopeful. They want you to succeed."
"That makes it worse! What if I disappoint them?"
"Then you'll have disappointed them while trying to bring beauty into the world," Yuki said. "That's still more noble than playing it safe."
The curtain call came too soon.
Himari walked on stage, her heart pounding. The audience's applause was overwhelming. She stood at the microphone, looking out at hundreds of faces lit by magical light.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't remember a single word of the first song.
Then she saw them—her four friends in the front row. Daichi giving her a thumbs up. Yuki with an encouraging nod. Ren with a confident smile. Kaito mouthing "you've got this."
She remembered why she was doing this.
Not to be perfect. Not to meet expectations. Just to share something beautiful with people who needed beauty.
She began to sing.
The first song was a lullaby her mother had taught her—soft, gentle, nostalgic. She sang it for every parent who'd rocked a crying child. For every person who'd lost someone they loved. For everyone who carried memories of better times.
The second song was about resilience—about standing up after falling, about continuing despite pain. She sang it for the plague survivors. For the war veterans. For everyone who'd been broken and rebuilt themselves.
The third song was about hope—not naive optimism, but earned hope. The kind that persists despite evidence it shouldn't. She sang it for herself. For the heroes. For everyone fighting for a better world.
By the fourth song, she'd forgotten her nervousness. Forgotten the audience. She was just singing—pouring her heart into music, sharing the gift her mother had given her.
When she finished the final note, silence filled the hall.
For a moment, Himari panicked. Had she done something wrong? Had it been terrible?
Then the applause started. Not polite applause—thunderous, sustained, genuine. People standing, cheering, some crying openly.
She'd done it. Not perfectly—she'd missed a note in the second song, rushed the tempo in the third. But she'd done it. She'd shared beauty with the world.
And that was enough.
---
After the performance, as the crowd dispersed and the hall emptied, Himari found a quiet corner backstage. She was exhausted but in a different way than usual—satisfied exhaustion, the kind that came from accomplishment rather than depletion.
"That was incredible," Celestia said, appearing with the other heroes. "Truly. You moved people tonight. I saw hardened soldiers crying."
"Did I really?" Himari asked.
"I felt it," Kaito confirmed. "The emotional impact rippling through the crowd. You reminded them what they're living for. What peace makes possible."
"Art and beauty," Yuki added. "The things civilization is supposed to protect. You embodied that tonight."
"I just sang some songs."
"You did more than that," Ren said. "You showed people that heroes are more than weapons. That we're human. That we create beauty, not just prevent death."
Himari thought about that. About the difference between healing to prevent death and singing to celebrate life. Both mattered. Both were necessary.
She'd been so focused on her duty—on saving people, preventing suffering, carrying the weight of every person she couldn't help—that she'd forgotten there was more to life than duty.
There was also joy. Art. Connection. Love.
"Thank you," she said. "All of you. For supporting me. For reminding me I'm more than just a healer."
"You're our friend," Daichi said. "That's always been more important than you being a hero."
"Besides," Yuki added with a slight smile. "Your healing work saves lives. Your singing makes those lives worth living. Both matter."
They left the Academy together, walking through streets where citizens were still talking about the performance. Where people smiled at Himari with genuine warmth, not just desperate need.
She was still the Angel of Lumina. Still the healer who'd saved thousands during the plague. But now she was also the girl who sang, who brought beauty into the world, who reminded people that life was more than just survival.
Both identities could coexist.
Both were necessary.
Both were her.
---
That night, alone in her room, Himari wrote a letter to her mother. She knew her mother would never read it—she was in another world, another life, gone forever.
But writing it helped.
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry those two years of singing couldn't wake you. I'm sorry I gave up at the end.
But I want you to know: your gift didn't die with you. The voice you trained, the songs you taught me, the love you poured into every lesson—they're still here. Still helping people. Still bringing beauty into darkness.
Tonight I performed for a thousand people. I sang the lullaby you used to sing to me. I sang the resilience song you sang during hard times. I sang hope because you taught me how.
And people cried, Mom. They cried because your songs—our songs—touched them. Because beauty matters. Because art heals in ways medicine can't.
I'm not the daughter you raised. That girl died. But I'm someone new now. Someone who uses your gift to make a world where children don't die from hate. Where people can gather to hear music instead of fighting wars. Where art matters more than power.
I hope you'd be proud of who I've become.
I hope you know your death wasn't meaningless. Because the strength you gave me—the voice, the songs, the love—is saving people every day.
Thank you for everything.
I love you.
I miss you.
But I'm okay now.
—Himari
She folded the letter carefully and placed it in a drawer with other precious things. It would never be sent. But it had been written.
And that was enough.
Outside her window, the city slept peacefully.
Protected by barriers powered by demon and human magic working together. Ruled by a queen committed to justice. Defended by heroes who were learning, slowly, painfully, to be human.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was beautiful.
And beauty, Himari had learned, was worth fighting for.