I soon mentally lost track of the days, instead carving them into the wall with a fork I pilfered from dinner one night. I’m sure Brax knows about it, but he hasn’t told, and I’m not giving it up. It’s gotten easier to mask my magic, holding it in check and only healing enough to make it seem like I’m trying while keeping the other inmates alive.Sleep always comes in fitful, haunted snatches, always interrupted by the sound of someone else being dragged down the hall. I’ve tried to keep count of the other prisoners, by the screams or who I’ve healed, but it’s impossible. I never heal the same person twice, and if they’re screaming, they’re already dead.The only sleep that isn’t fitful comes after a hard healing, one that takes more magic than I’m willing to give. Often, I wake up with the smell of home in my nose and no knowledge of how I even made it into my cell.I can feel myself withering away, slowly breaking down like a plant dying from a lack of sun. While my healing magic is
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