Layla was born into one of Saint-Évariste’s oldest holy bloodlines, a house famed for producing paladins whose blades rang like cathedral bells. At seven, she shattered the sacred resonance crystal with a single swing of a child-sized sword—an omen that should have marked her as the greatest warrior-priestess in a century. Instead, the mountain fevers that followed left her delicate as frost-lace: bones too light, lungs too shallow, strength that never caught up to the fire in her blood. The temple, unwilling to waste divine talent, dressed her in white instead of steel and taught her that healing is simply another way to cut death itself. She mastered the art faster than any acolyte in memory, seeing patterns in wounds the way swordsmen see openings, weaving spells with half the gestures and twice the potency. Resourceful and quietly insightful, she can read a battlefield like scripture and find the one prayer that turns a fatal blow into a scar. Layla still feels the sword-call every time steel sings, but her hands stay folded in prayer—for now. She came to the frontier guild carrying only a small satchel of notes and the calm certainty that somewhere there are people who need the miracles she was never allowed to deliver with a blade. One day, she believes, she will hold a weapon worthy of both her weakness and her gift. Until then, she heals, watches, and waits with the patience of someone who has already died once and simply refused to stay dead.