Chapter 137
Ellie POV
I wake up choking on thirst.
My throat feels scraped raw, like I've spent hours breathing dust instead of air. My tongue feels heavy and useless as I blink at the darkness above me, confused for one terrifying moment.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Then everything comes rushing back.
The pain.
The exhaustion.
The endless days of feeling like my own body is fighting against me.
A dull ache pulses behind my eyes, and when I shift, I realize something worse.
I'm drenched.
My sheets are soaked.
My pajamas cling uncomfortably to my skin, and sweat chills against me as I lie there.
Great.
Just great.
I push myself upright slowly, immediately regretting it.
The room tilts.
Violently.
The walls stretch and blur, shadows moving like they're alive.
"Okay," I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice.
"Okay. You're fine."
A lie.
A very convincing lie.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, needing only one thing.
Water.
That's it.
A glass of water.
Simple.
Easy.
Except for the moment my feet touch the floor, pain flashes through me.
Hot.
Sharp.
Instant.
I grip the mattress, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
My breathing turns shallow.
But eventually, the room settles.
A little.
Enough.
I stand.
The hallway feels impossibly long.
I press my hand against the wall as I walk, fingers tracing familiar grooves and picture frames.
Anything to remind myself where I am.
Anything to keep myself upright.
Every step sends a shock through my body.
My vision narrows.
Darkness creeps in around the edges.
I swallow hard against the nausea twisting in my stomach.
Just make it downstairs.
Just get water.
Halfway down the stairs...
Everything changes.
The pain doesn't build.
It doesn't warn me.
It simply explodes.
A blinding spike tears through my head, stealing my breath.
My legs give out.
My hand slips from the railing.
For one impossible second, I'm weightless.
Then the world moves.
The stairs rush toward me.
The shadows fracture.
My ears fill with a terrible ringing.
I try to grab something.
Anything.
But my body doesn't listen.
And then—
Cold.
Silence.
Nothing.
I wake up to voices.
Loud ones.
Angry ones.
For a moment, I think I'm trapped somewhere between sleep and reality.
Then my body reminds me.
Pain.
Everywhere.
The bright lights.
The sterile smell.
The heaviness in my limbs.
The infirmary.
My head throbs in slow, brutal waves.
My chest feels tight.
When I try to move, pain erupts from my ankle so sharply that a gasp escapes me.
"Ellie?"
No.
Not me.
They're talking about me.
"I'm telling you, she was fine last week," my stepfather snaps.
His voice is impossible to mistake.
"Perfectly fine. She walked. She ate. She went to school. This doesn't just happen."
A pause.
"We need her healthy. This is the worst possible time for this."
My stomach twists.
My mother answers, her voice breaking.
"I don't care if it's rare."
She's crying.
"You are healers. That's your job. Please. Help my baby."
I force my eyes open.
The ceiling is white.
Too white.
My body feels wrapped in weight.
Bandages cover my arms.
My ribs.
One leg is elevated.
And then I see my ankle.
Swollen.
Wrapped.
Angry.
A hollow feeling opens in my chest.
Of course.
Of course, that injury had to come back.
The one from the mountain.
The one that never healed properly.
I make a small sound before I can stop myself.
A tiny breath.
A weak whimper.
My mother's instantly beside me.
"Oh, Ellie."
Her hand grabs mine.
Hard.
Like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"Sweetheart, don't move. Please don't move. Just wait. We're getting you help."
I want to ask what happened.
If they found anything.
If someone finally knows what's wrong.
But my throat feels too dry.
My thoughts too slow.
A healer steps closer.
"We ran every scan."
Her voice is careful.
Blood.
Nerve pathways.
Pain responses.
Everything.
"Nothing explains this progression."
My stepfather's voice cuts through immediately.
"That's not an answer."
The anger returns.
"That's an excuse."
Another wave of pain rolls through me.
Deeper.
Heavier.
My fingers tighten around my mother's hand without thinking.
The room fills with voices again.
Arguments.
Fear.
Frustration.
Then—
Something changes.
The air shifts.
Not dramatically.
Not enough that anyone else would notice.
But I do.
The room grows quieter.
Footsteps approach.
Slow.
Measured.
The healers straighten.
Everyone moves aside.
An older man steps forward.
The chief healer.
Doctor Armstrong.
He looks older than anyone else in the room.
His face is lined deeply, his white hair thin beneath his cap.
But his eyes...
His eyes are sharp.
Focused.
He doesn't look at the chaos around him.
He only looks at me.
Like he's not searching for what's wrong.
He's searching for what doesn't belong.
"Hello, love."
His voice is gentle.
Almost comforting.
"Let's get you settled."
He checks everything.
My pulse.
My eyes.
My ankle.
My reactions.
His fingers are cool against my skin, a faint healing energy humming beneath them.
He hasn't spoken for a long time.
Minutes pass.
Or seconds.
I can't tell anymore.
Finally, he straightens.
His expression changes.
Not fear.
No confusion.
Recognition.
Then he asks:
"So..."
A pause.
"Do you have a fated mate?"
The question hits harder than it should.
My mother stiffens immediately.
"Why does that matter right now?"
Doctor Armstrong doesn't look at her.
His eyes stay on me.
"Call him."
Silence fills the room.
Then he says quietly:
"And you'll see."