Best AI model for fantasy writing

The boy's breathing had gone wrong in a way Maren recognized. Shallow. Gapped. The fever had crossed into the chest. His mother stood at the door of the healing room with her hands pressed together like she was trying to keep herself from flying apart. A farmer's wife. Maren didn't know her name. They'd come from the eastern holdings, three hours by cart, and the boy had worsened on the road. Maren laid her palm on his sternum and felt the wet rattle of it. She had the spell. She'd carried it for six years, folded into her practice the way you fold a knife into a boot. She knew its cost too. The tax was proportional — a fever this deep, this settled, would take something substantial. Not a fact. Not a skill. Something lived-in. She stood and went to the window. The rule she'd made for herself: only trade your own. Never for a stranger's child what you wouldn't trade for your own blood. She had no children. …