The withered fern in the corner of Margot’s medical bay had been dead for three days. Its fronds were brown, brittle, and curled inward, a casualty of the ozone-heavy air that always lingered after a high-yield genesis event.
Asher sat on the edge of the examination table, his legs dangling, staring at the dead plant.
I stood near the doorway, my left arm resting heavily in a specialized sling. The neuro-blockers had finally worn off, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache in my shoulder and a frustrating numbness in my fingers. Kade stood beside me, his right hand resting gently on the small of my back, his carbon-fiber cane resting against his hip.
"Asher," Margot said softly, her silver-streaked hair escaping its bun. "Focus on the plant. Don't force it. Just let the energy flow."
As
