Abigail stirred from unconsciousness, her mind shrouded in a fog of disorientation, a dull migraine throbbing at her temples like the echo of a distant war drum. As her eyelids fluttered open, she found herself staring into the wide, curious crimson eyes of a young boy, no older than five, his short, curly black hair framing a face of smooth, pale skin that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. His gaze held an innocent wonder, as if she were a puzzle he was eager to unravel.

"You're awake!" the child exclaimed, his voice bright with unguarded delight, a sweet smile spreading across his features, radiating warmth that pierced the haze of Abigail's pain.

"Mum, she's awake!" he called out, his small voice ringing with excitement, bouncing off the walls of the modest room—a cozy space adorned with simple wooden furnishings and soft tapestries woven with motifs of starlit skies. Abigail attempted to rise, her muscles trembling with the effort, but her body betrayed her, feeling alien and unresponsive, as if it belonged to another soul entirely. Each movement sent a jolt of weakness through her limbs, a stark reminder of the toll her past had exacted.

"You've finally come around," a woman's voice cut through the quiet, gentle yet resonant with an undercurrent of strength. She appeared at Abigail's bedside, the boy trailing close behind, his tiny hand clutching the hem of her flowing robe. "I was starting to wonder when you'd stir." The woman's presence was commanding yet comforting, her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders like a midnight waterfall, her pale skin luminous against the room's warm glow. "I'm Velira. What's your name?" she asked, her smile a beacon of kindness that melted the icy tendrils of fear and insecurity coiling in Abigail's chest, soothing her frayed nerves like a balm.

"Mum, can't she talk?" the boy asked, his brow furrowing with concern, his crimson eyes searching Abigail's face for answers, his innocence a stark contrast to the weight of her suffering.

"Aa… Abigail," she managed to whisper, her voice frail, barely a thread of sound as her weakened state sapped her strength. The effort of speaking felt like lifting a boulder, her throat dry and raw, each syllable a battle against the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.

"Abigail, huh?" Velira said, her tone warm but tinged with a knowing sympathy. "They did quite a number on you. When I found you, your blood flow was erratic, pulsing chaotically as if your body was at war with itself. You're lucky to be alive. It took considerable effort to stabilize your circulation and mend the wreckage they left behind. I must say, they worked you over thoroughly." Her smile remained, but her eyes held a flicker of indignation, as if she could see the scars of Abigail's torment etched into her very essence.

"Thank you," Abigail murmured, summoning what little strength she had to attempt rising, a gesture of respect for her savior. But Velira gently pressed her back down, her touch firm yet kind, grounding Abigail in the softness of the bed.

"You need to rest," Velira insisted, her voice a blend of authority and care. "Your body requires time to gather its strength and heal. Liam here will keep you company." She gave Abigail a reassuring pat, her fingers lingering briefly, imparting a warmth that seemed to seep into Abigail's weary bones. The boy, Liam, beamed up at her, his presence a small but radiant light in the dim room.

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A week had passed, each day a slow step toward recovery, and Abigail found herself able to leave the confines of the bed, her body gradually reclaiming its strength. She spent her time on light tasks, primarily entertaining Liam, whose boundless energy and infectious laughter breathed life into her healing spirit. The boy clung to her like a shadow, his playful antics—chasing imaginary beasts through the house or weaving tales of heroic adventures—rubbing off on her, coaxing smiles from a heart long accustomed to pain. The cozy home, with its crackling hearth and shelves lined with ancient tomes, became a haven, its walls echoing with the warmth of newfound companionship.

"You two are getting along splendidly," Velira observed one afternoon, her voice rich with gratitude as she watched Liam and Abigail engaged in a mock battle with wooden swords, their laughter filling the air like music. "Liam looks happier than I've ever seen him, having someone to share his adventures with. Thank you for looking after him." Her eyes sparkled with appreciation, the firelight casting soft shadows across her serene features.

"I should be the one thanking you," Abigail replied, shaking her head with earnest sincerity. "You saved my life, Velira. I owe you everything." Her words carried the weight of her gratitude, her voice steady now, bolstered by days of rest and care, though the scars of her past lingered beneath the surface, a quiet ache in her soul.

"Speaking of which," Velira said, her tone shifting to one of cautious curiosity, "what's your ability?" Her question hung in the air, gentle but probing, as if she sensed the secrets Abigail guarded.

"Ability? What do you mean?" Abigail responded, her voice laced with feigned ignorance, her heart quickening as she averted her gaze, focusing on the intricate patterns of a nearby rug to mask her unease. The instinct to protect her secrets was ingrained, a reflex born from years of betrayal and pain.

"I'm not here to harm you," Velira assured, her voice softening to dispel any lingering doubt. "You can trust me, Abigail. Whatever power you possess, I'd advise against using it—for now." Her warning was firm, not a threat but a plea, her eyes searching Abigail's for understanding, choosing not to press further when she sensed resistance.

"What? Why?" Abigail blurted out, her pretense crumbling as her curiosity and fear overrode her caution. The idea of concealing her abilities—the one shield she had against a merciless world—felt like surrendering her only defense.

"Because it's killing you," Velira explained, her voice steady but grave, each word measured to convey the severity of the truth. "The source of your power is a foreign energy, a dungeon core that's incompatible with your body's genetics. I discovered it while stabilizing your blood flow. The more you draw on that power, the more the core corrupts your genetic structure, mutating it beyond repair." Her explanation was clinical yet tinged with empathy, her gaze unwavering as she laid bare the perilous truth.

"Then why should that stop me?" Abigail protested, her voice rising with a mix of defiance and desperation. "Without power, I'm nothing in this world. It's a jungle out there—only the strong survive. I've seen it, lived it. I refuse to be at the bottom of the food chain again." Her words trembled with the weight of her past, memories of torment flashing like lightning in her mind—the cold steel of the lab, the sting of needles, the screams of those who didn't survive.

"It's okay, Abigail," Liam piped up, his small voice brimming with unwavering faith. "Mummy will protect you! My mum's the strongest!" His earnest declaration, coupled with his wide, trusting eyes, broke the tension, drawing laughter from both women—a bright, fleeting peal that echoed through the room like a cleansing breeze.

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