Tyrus swallowed hard. “Is that normal?”

  The trainee’s lips thinned into a tight line. “No, not even close. Karmen, come look at this kid’s chest."

  She turned toward the young man who’d just finished treating Elias and tossing a bloody cloth into a basin. The wound on his shoulder was gone, as if it was never there in the first place. Not even a scar remained. Elias rotated his shoulder, his mouth agape as he lifted himself from his bed.

  Karmen glanced up from his station, his brows lifting at her tone. “What, is it serious?”

  "Just come over here already."

  The concern in her tone was enough to make him cross the room immediately. Karmen leaned over her shoulder, eyes scanning the projection. The moment he saw the red mass on the display, his easygoing expression vanished.

  "That’s… yeah, that’s bad." He scratched his jaw, squinting at the screen. "I’ve never seen a mana heart do that."

  “Me neither,” the other trainee muttered, tapping at the screen to highlight the wavering energy patterns. “The pathways around his heart are barely holding together. Mana pressure’s unstable—swinging fast. If this keeps up, the heart’s going to—”

  “Rupture,” Karmen finished grimly.

  Tyrus’s fingers dug into the bedsheets, cold sweat prickling along his brow. “What does that mean?” His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “Is… is my mana heart breaking?”

  Karmen gave him a sideways glance, hesitating. “Not yet. But it’s under too much strain.”

  The trainee folded her arms. “Have you been overexerting yourself? Pushing your output beyond safe limits?”

  Tyrus looked away, memories of desperate fights, lightning crackling from his fingers, and the gnawing hunger for more power flashing through his mind. “…Yeah,” he said softly. “A lot.”

  The trainees exchanged a look, unspoken understanding passing between them.

  “Well, that explains some of it,” Karmen said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mana heart strain isn’t uncommon—but usually we see it in older sorcerers who’ve been through years of heavy combat. For a first-year to have damage this severe… that’s unheard of.”

  The trainee glanced back at Tyrus, then back to Karmen. “I’ve heard from the faculty that this kid’s already on his fourth branch. Shouldn’t that be… impossible? Someone that young, with that many elements under control?”

  Karmen’s brow creased. “It’s not technically impossible, but it’s so rare most healers will go their whole careers without seeing it. Even prodigies only unlock their third branch after years of refinement.”

  “And even then, they do it gradually,” the trainee added. “One element at a time, giving their mana heart and pathways a chance to adapt.”

  Karmen motioned toward the flickering projection above Tyrus. “This? This is someone forcing their body to keep up with their ambition. His core’s developing too fast, branching out faster than his pathways can stabilize.”

  “Mana hearts are meant to grow with the body — synchronized, balanced.” The trainee’s voice softened slightly, her professional detachment cracking. “If your growth gets out of sync, even a little, it causes stress. But if you’re pushing four elements this early, that’s not stress, it’s trauma. Even with Beastfolk resilience, his heart’s basically being torn apart and rebuilt every time he forces a new branch to open. It’s no wonder his pathways are a mess now.”

  Tyrus’s hands clenched the bedsheets, guilt curling in his stomach. He knew he’d pushed himself, but hearing it laid out like this, as though his whole body was fighting to survive every day, made it all too real.

  Ever since he became a sorcerer, life that was already been a constant fight for survival only grew harsher. There was always something: another test, another fight, another person stronger than him that he had to surpass just to prove he belonged here. To prove that he was not as weak as they assumed or claimed. Each victory exacted a hidden cost, a debt accumulating until his body failed under the strain of his growing mana heart.

  It should surprise him that this had happened—that someone his age had broken through to his fourth branch—but it didn't. He was warned multiple times throughout the year. Fiona reminded him of mana deficiency many times whenever he pushed his limits, and Sir Geroth drilled into his students about the importance of protecting one's body.

  It should have scared him more. The idea that his mana heart, the very core of his existence as a sorcerer, was actively tearing itself apart just to sustain him. But all he felt was a hollow acceptance, like some part of him had known this was coming for a long time. Every crackling spell, every moment of pushing just a little further, a little faster, had all been leading here.

  Still, through all that, the culmination of his efforts resulted in this—a body teetering on the edge, no longer able to keep pace with the power it was supposed to contain. And because of his Beastfolk half, it only stalled what was inevitable through his actions.

  The young woman scrolled through her device again, flicking through diagnostic charts. "I don’t even know if normal treatments will work."

  They stood there, silent for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to admit they were out of their depth. That silence was broken by the sharp click of boots on the stone floor. The rhythmic, confident steps grew louder, and both trainees stiffened instinctively.

  From down the hall, a woman appeared. Like the young trainee, her silver hair was put into a tight bun, yet the lines on her face were as deep as a chasm. She wore a coat that stretched to her knees, lined with the colors of the academy and its emblem on her chest. The sleeves were folded up, and Tyrus could make out thin arms wreathed with blue vessels.

  A single glance from the healer was enough for the two trainees to take a step back, allowing her ample space to approach the bed. She eyed the diagnostic charts displayed on the trainee’s device. Her gaze flicked to Tyrus, and for a moment, there was something in her eyes. Not pity, not scorn, but interest.

  “Well, well…” she said in a gravelly voice. She leaned over him, her presence like a weight pressing down on the room itself, and placed her hand just above his chest. “I couldn’t help but overhear your little diagnosis party. Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve made of yourself, boy.”

  Tyrus swallowed hard, his throat dry, but he didn’t pull away. The warmth of her mana seeped into his skin, spreading through him like liquid sunlight. It was steady and certain, like the touch of someone who had rebuilt shattered bones and stitched together ruined hearts more times than she could count.

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  With the fading light, a frown creased her brow, and she retracted her hand. “Tsk. Were it not for your Beastfolk lineage, your pathways would have burst considerably earlier.

  Straightening up, she glanced back at the two trainees. "Cases this bad are rare. I’ve only seen it two times in over thirty years. One of them recovered, yet the other died because he was too foolish to follow my advice. Bad news is, you’re gonna have to learn what limits are because if you pull whatever stunt you did again, your pathways will close from the stress, or an exploding heart."

  For a moment, Tyrus thought she might be exaggerating. Some old healer’s trick to scare reckless students into compliance. But the hard glint in her eye, the way her fingers twitched slightly at her side as if recalling past failures, told him she meant every word.

  An exploding heart? That was bad. In actuality, worse than bad, even if people always told him how tough his body was. Beastfolk resilience meant little if his own heart was trying to tear him apart from the inside. Just thinking about it made his chest ache, and for a split second, he could almost feel it: the cracks spider webbing through his mana heart, fragile and strained under the weight of every reckless choice he’d made.

  Limits. The word felt like an insult, like shackles being snapped around his wrists. Limits were for people who had the luxury of slowing down, who didn’t have to fight for every inch of ground just to be seen, to be worth something. Without his sorcery, what was he? Just a Demi-human with no special qualities? If he weren't a sorcerer, no one would dare give him a second glance.

  He'd still be roaming Lethos, scrounging for food and hunting, afraid of what tomorrow may bring. Or, a rather horrifying alternative that almost happened, captured by the hands of Scourge and forced into a fate he'd wish on no one. At that point, he'd rather die than end up being regarded the same as garbage by anyone.

  But those nagging thoughts led him, almost inevitably, toward harm. Because of his stubbornness, because of his pride, his mana heart was the first thing that fell under the strain. It couldn’t keep up with his hunger for strength, for recognition, for something that couldn’t be taken away. Every step forward came at a cost, and now his own body was the one tallying the debt.

  Tyrus lifted himself off the bed, allowing his legs to dangle off the sides. He clutched his chest, frowning. The searing pain that embodied him was nothing compared to the disappointment and regret churning in his stomach.

  "Does that mean I can't use sorcery from now on?" Tyrus said, his voice as soft as a whisper. "That... I’m finished?"

  The healer arched an eyebrow. "Child, have you been listening to a word I've said? Your mana heart isn’t broken yet. Its reached its utmost limit in that tiny body of yours. But with proper treatment, rest, and discipline, you’ll recover."

  A glimmer of hope rose in Tyrus's chest. "Really? What do I have to do?"

  The old lady snapped her fingers. "Arumn, Karmen, watch closely. This will serve as an educational lesson for you both."

  The healer stepped closer, her worn hands radiating a soft glow as threads of water-like mana wove between her fingers. "The pathways in his body are constricted, almost like a river strangled by too many stones. The water element is ideal for easing that blockage. It flows, seeps into the smallest cracks, and gradually coaxes the pathways open again."

  She hovered her hand above Tyrus’s chest, the cool touch of her mana seeping into him like mist curling over the skin. The tendrils of mana sank deeper, threading through Tyrus’s inner channels. He felt them probing, unwinding the tightness in his chest, gradually loosening what felt like invisible chains wrapped around his core. It wasn’t pain, more like the soreness after a hard fight, a reminder of how much he’d demanded from himself.

  “The real healing,” she continued, sparing a glance at the wide-eyed trainees, “comes from time and moderation. His body’s still growing, and so is his mana heart. That’s the problem. His power’s outpacing the vessel meant to hold it. If he were older, his pathways would be wider, more durable. But since he’s young, they’re fragile, prone to cracking under pressure.”

  She eased her hand away, leaving a faint shimmer of lingering mana in his chest. Tyrus’s breathing felt easier, like he could finally take a full breath without his chest or head catching fire. The thrumming in his head disappeared, and the room grew clearer, as if a fog had lifted.

  Karmen shifted nervously. “Ma’am, why did you use water? Wouldn’t earth be better for structural reinforcement, or light for healing?”

  The old healer snorted. “That’s beginner thinking. Earth is excellent for bones and physical trauma; breaks and fractures. But the pathways aren’t bones, they’re channels for mana flow and blood. Earth would just dam them up, patching them with grit instead of helping them flow. As for light, it’s too superficial. Light works on skin, tissue, surface wounds. It’s good at sealing and cleansing, but it lacks the finesse needed for something as complex as mana pathways.”

  Arumn and Karmen exchanged a glance, probably filing the information away for future use.

  The healer turned toward the path she came from and said, “Arumn, head into the storage room with a satchel and fill it with four bottles of Ka-Roh. Bring it here immediately.

  "Yes, ma'am," Arumn said, hurrying down the hall.

  The healer faced Tyrus again, her expression softening just slightly. “Those potions will help if you feel that tightness again."

  Tyrus gave a small nod, absorbing every word like his life depended on it, because it sure as heck did. It was a miracle that he had gotten off light when comparing it to certain death. Though it did suck that he'd have to limit himself tremendously. As long as he could still use sorcery, he would accept anything.

  The soft patter of footsteps announced Arumn’s return before she reappeared at the doorway, a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She carefully handed it off to the healer, who took it without ceremony and offered it to Tyrus.

  “Pay attention, boy.” Her voice, though still gravelly, softened around the edges. “These aren’t your run-of-the-mill recovery potions. They’re tailored specifically for sorcerers whose pathways have suffered stress fractures. They won’t refill your mana, and they won’t numb the pain completely. What they will do is keep your channels from locking up and cutting off your flow entirely.”

  She unclasped the satchel, pulling out three slender glass vials, each filled with a pale silver liquid.

  “Three sips,” she said, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “No more. If the tightness creeps back, if your chest starts to seize or your head starts pounding like a war drum, you drink. Slowly. Let it settle before you try anything else. If you take more than a sip, you risk thinning your pathways too much, and that opens up an entirely different nightmare."

  “Since I’m not in the habit of losing patients or else Freschlain will have my head, you’ll report to me for follow-ups whenever you feel off. Don’t wait until you’re ready to collapse again.”

  "Thank you," Tyrus said. "And how much sil do I give you for the bottles?"

  She chuckled. "The fees paid for by your silver pin status. And don't worry about it. Healing isn't free. We have our costs, same as you."

  "Thank you," he said again, "er...."

  “Vaerlyn.” She said it like it wasn’t important, like it was just a sound people called her. “Head Healer Vaerlyn, if you want to be proper. But none of you brats use our titles anyway, so forget about it."

  Tyrus gave her a short, respectful nod, tucking the vials into the bag and wrapping the harness around his chest. He leaped off the bed and strutted toward the exit before the head healer called out once more.

  "Before you leave, let me ask you something, child. Does the name Talia ring any bells, perhaps?"

  Tyrus shook his head. "Should it?"

  The old healer gave him a smile, though there was no humor in it. "Forget I asked. I’ve never had a Demi-human patient before, so I figure it’s worth keeping an eye on you — for curiosity’s sake, if nothing else.”

  Her gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes, but she turned away before Tyrus could press her on it, already moving on to whatever crisis waited for her down the hall. Arumn and Karmen lingered briefly, unsure if they should say something, but in the end, they too returned to their duties. Tyrus shrugged and left the infirmary, left to his thoughts.

  How was he supposed to move forward when every step could break him? How was he supposed to explain this to the others that he was left with no choice but to restrict his sorcery? Would they look at him differently now that he could no longer fight like they could? Would the others stop considering him their equal, or would they keep pushing him, not caring about his health and well-being at all.

  Stop it, Tyrus. Why are you thinking bad thoughts about them? They're not those kinds of people. This is just my brain always having negative thoughts. They'll understand, right?

  The hallway stretched out before him, quiet and empty. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his choices settling onto his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, Tyrus didn’t know if moving forward was even the right thing to do. But standing still wasn’t an option, either.

  Now he must think of other ways to be useful to Blue Dawn.