Chapter 16: Waking in the Aftermath

  Darkness.

  Caelan stood alone, surrounded by a void so deep it felt like the world had been swallowed whole. There was no ground beneath his feet, yet he did not fall.

  A low growl echoed through the abyss.

  His fingers tightened around an invisible sword. His breath was heavy, his body tense. He knew this feeling.

  He was being hunted.

  Then—movement.

  From the shadows, eyes emerged—four glowing slits of predatory hunger. The beast from the Verdainne stalked toward him, its massive frame rippling like liquid darkness. Its mouth curled open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

  Caelan stepped back. But there was nowhere to run.

  The beast lunged.

  Pain exploded across his body—his shoulder ripped open, his side torn apart.

  A sharp whip cracked through the air—its tails.

  One struck his face, searing pain flashing across his cheek. The warmth of his own blood dripped down his skin.

  He gasped, trying to move, trying to fight—

  But his sword was gone.

  His strength was gone.

  The beast loomed over him, victorious.

  Then it spoke.

  A voice, deep and unnatural, slithered through the air.

  "You think you have won?"

  The creature’s jaws opened wide—

  And everything vanished.

  Caelan’s eyes snapped open.

  His chest heaved, breath ragged as he stared at the wooden ceiling above him.

  His body ached everywhere. His shoulder throbbed, his side burned, and his face…

  He blinked, disoriented. Where was he?

  Slowly, he turned his head, taking in his surroundings.

  A small, dimly lit room. The scent of herbs and clean linens filled the air. A cot beneath him, blankets covering his lower body.

  An infirmary.

  Not the battlefield. Not the village.

  His mind caught up with reality. He had survived.

  Assessing the Damage

  Gritting his teeth, he tried to move—a sharp pain lanced through his shoulder.

  "Tch."

  He hissed, forcing himself to lift his arm slightly. Bandages wrapped tightly around his wounds. His body felt weak, but he could still move. That was something.

  Reaching up, he touched his face—his fingers met a rough, bandaged wound.

  The beast’s final strike.

  A scar.

  His jaw clenched. Even in death, that monster had left its mark.

  He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling once more.

  He was alive.

  But something in his chest told him—this wasn’t over.

  Caelan lay still, staring at the wooden ceiling above him.

  His breathing had steadied, but his mind was restless.

  The battle replayed in his head—each movement, each mistake.

  He had let his guard down.

  He had assumed victory too soon, failed to anticipate the beast’s resilience.

  And because of that, he had nearly died.

  Caelan clenched his fist against the sheets. He had fought battles before.

  As Napoleon Bonaparte, he had led armies, crushed enemies with strategy and sheer will.

  Yet here, in this world… he had underestimated a single opponent.

  The beast was fast, far faster than he had expected. Strong. Unnaturally so. And worst of all, it was intelligent.

  Not a mindless monster, not a simple predator—it had fought with intent. With purpose.

  And he had barely survived.

  That wasn’t acceptable.

  He needed to be stronger.

  Not just as a leader—but as a fighter.

  His swordplay had been sufficient for dueling men, but against something like that beast? He had been lacking.

  He needed to train. To push himself harder, refine his technique, strengthen his body.

  The next time he faced something like that, he would not hesitate. He would not allow himself to be wounded so easily.

  Lost in thought, Caelan shifted his arm slightly—then paused.

  There was no fresh pain.

  He frowned.

  By all logic, his wounds should have still been bleeding.

  They had been deep—far too deep to be healing this quickly.

  Slowly, he lifted his arm, inspecting the bandages.

  No red. No fresh seepage of blood.

  It was as if his body had… accelerated its recovery.

  He narrowed his eyes. How?

  Had someone treated him while he was unconscious? A powerful physician? Or something else entirely?

  His mind raced through possibilities—none of them ordinary.

  And then, a quiet thought settled in his mind.

  Magic.

  Was that it? Had someone used healing magic on him?

  If so—who? And why?

  Caelan exhaled, feeling the weight of his unanswered questions.

  One thing was certain—when someone came to check on him, he would demand answers.

  But for now, he let himself process everything.

  His mistakes. His wounds. His survival.

  And the road ahead.

  Because this was only the beginning.

  Lying in bed, waiting in silence, was maddening.

  Caelan exhaled sharply, shifting his arms. His strength was slowly returning, but he needed to move.

  He had spent enough time unconscious. Now, he needed to see how much of himself remained intact.

  Carefully, he pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

  The cool stone floor met his bare feet, sending a slight shock of sensation up his body. His muscles, though stiff, still responded. That was a good sign.

  Placing a hand on the cot for support, he took a deep breath.

  And stood.

  Pain flared through his shoulder and side, sharp but not unbearable. He clenched his jaw, steadying himself.

  His balance wasn’t perfect, but he could stand.

  Good.

  That meant he wasn’t useless.

  Then—

  "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

  The voice shot through the room like a gunshot.

  Caelan barely had time to react before Lucien stormed in, eyes wide with disbelief.

  Lucien was at his side in an instant, grabbing his uninjured arm to steady him.

  "You were literally half-dead hours ago, and now you think it’s a good idea to take a walk?!" Lucien’s voice was a mix of frustration and concern.

  Caelan smirked, though he didn’t resist. "I was getting bored."

  Lucien let out a long, exasperated breath. "Of course you were."

  Then—more footsteps.

  émeline entered the room, her face a mix of relief and irritation. Behind her, a middle-aged man in a garrison uniform followed—the physician.

  Seeing Caelan standing, émeline immediately frowned. "You’re supposed to be resting!"

  The physician sighed, rubbing his temple. "Noblemen. Always the difficult patients."

  Lucien helped ease Caelan back onto the cot, shaking his head. "Sit. Before you pass out again."

  Caelan rolled his eyes but complied.

  émeline stepped closer, her gaze softening slightly. "You shouldn’t push yourself too soon. The healing spell helped, but you still need time to recover."

  The physician crossed his arms. "I should check your wounds. And if you try to get up again, I’ll have the guards tie you to the bed."

  Lucien smirked. "I’d pay to see that."

  Caelan sighed. This was going to be a long morning.

  As the physician prepared to check his injuries, Caelan glanced at émeline.

  He had questions. And he wanted answers.

  But for now, he let them fuss over him.

  There would be time to talk soon enough.

  The physician motioned for Caelan to sit still as he began unwrapping the bandages around his shoulder.

  Caelan winced slightly as the fabric peeled away, sticking to dried blood. The injury should have been far worse. He had felt the beast’s claws tear into his flesh, had felt the heat of his own blood pouring down his arm.

  Yet now, as the bandages came off…

  The wound was nearly closed.

  There was still a faint scar, pink and fresh, but the deep, raw gash he remembered was gone.

  The physician narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath. "This should not have healed so fast."

  émeline, standing nearby, fidgeted slightly. She seemed nervous.

  Caelan glanced at her. "You did this, didn’t you?"

  Her lips pressed together. "I… helped."

  Lucien, arms crossed beside the cot, raised an eyebrow. "‘Helped’? He was half-dead, and now he looks like he’s been resting for a week. What exactly did you do?"

  émeline sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I used a healing spell. But… it wasn’t enough to completely fix the wounds. It only sped up the body’s natural recovery process."

  Caelan glanced at his partially healed side wound as the physician began changing the bandages. The pain was still there, still sore, but far from what it should have been.

  Magic.

  Even after all this time in this world, it was still something he was not entirely used to.

  "You were lucky," émeline continued. "If I had been any less skilled, the bleeding would have started again, and you wouldn’t be standing right now."

  Caelan studied her. She looked exhausted.

  "So, you’re a healer," he said, watching her reaction.

  émeline hesitated, then nodded. "A weak one. My magic is limited, and healing something this serious nearly drained me completely."

  Lucien scoffed. "Weak? You just saved his life."

  émeline looked away. "A real healer could have closed the wound completely. I only bought him time."

  Caelan hummed in thought. Even if she was downplaying it, what she had done was impressive. Healing magic was rare. And valuable.

  He glanced at the Duke’s crest on his coat, then back at émeline.

  If his father had any say in it, she wouldn’t be going back to her old life.

  Caelan sighed. "Well, whatever the case, I owe you my life." He smirked slightly. "So… thank you."

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  émeline blinked, caught off guard. She seemed like she wanted to say something, but in the end, she just nodded.

  The physician, finishing the last of the bandages, stepped back. "Try not to reopen these wounds. Your body is still healing. If you push too hard, even magic won’t be able to save you."

  Caelan smirked. "No promises."

  Lucien sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You’re impossible."

  Caelan flexed his fingers, testing his movement. He still felt weak, but at least he wasn’t completely useless.

  He glanced at émeline one last time.

  He needed to speak with his father soon.

  Because something told him—this girl’s life was about to change.

  And she probably didn’t even realize it yet.

  The war room inside the Montrevelle garrison was filled with a low murmur of voices and the rustling of parchment.

  Duke Adrien Forneaux stood at the head of the strategy table, his sharp eyes scanning the reports laid before him. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the map of his lands, marking roads, rivers, and settlements—including the now-abandoned village of Beaucourt.

  Across from him stood Commander Reynard Montclair, the leader of Montrevelle’s garrison. A man of discipline and experience, Montclair was a soldier first and a politician second. His posture was rigid, his hands resting behind his back as he listened to the Duke’s orders.

  "The riders you sent reached us yesterday evening," Montclair began, his voice even. "Had we received them a day sooner, we might have been able to intercept the attack."

  Adrien’s expression remained cold. "The Verdainne creatures did not give us the luxury of time."

  Montclair exhaled through his nose. "Still, we mobilized as quickly as we could. Forty men rode through the night, but by the time they arrived, the village was already lost. They only found the remnants of the attack—blood, broken homes, and silence."

  Adrien nodded slowly. He had expected as much.

  The beasts had left nothing behind. No corpses to bury, no remains of the missing. Only emptiness.

  Montclair gestured toward another parchment. "You ordered us to prepare lodging for the Beaucourt refugees. They have been settled within the garrison walls, though some are reluctant to stay."

  Adrien arched an eyebrow. "Reluctant?"

  Montclair gave a tired nod. "Most are grateful, but some… they’re not soldiers, my lord. They don’t want to live under military rule. Some speak of leaving once they regain their strength."

  The Duke’s fingers tapped against the wooden table.

  They were his people. He was responsible for them. But he could not force them to stay if they refused.

  "Let them rest for now," Adrien said after a moment. "In time, we will find a more permanent solution for them. But if any wish to leave, they do so at their own risk. I will not send men to chase them if they walk willingly into danger."

  Montclair nodded. "Understood."

  Adrien turned his attention back to the map.

  "The capital is still our destination. We depart at first light," he stated.

  Montclair frowned slightly. "And your son?"

  The Duke’s expression hardened.

  "He will ride with us," Adrien said firmly. "He is strong enough to travel."

  Montclair gave a slow nod. "Then I will send twenty of my best men to reinforce your escort. They will be at your command."

  Adrien inclined his head slightly. "Good. Ensure they are ready by sunrise."

  Montclair saluted. "As you command, my lord."

  As Montclair turned to relay the orders, Duke Adrien remained by the map for a moment longer.

  The Verdainne Forest had shown him something deeply troubling.

  A new threat was rising—something that did not belong in the natural order. Something that could not be ignored.

  For now, his duty was clear: reach the capital.

  But once he was there, he would need to find answers.

  And if necessary—he would prepare for war.

  Montrevelle Garrison Infirmary

  Caelan lay on the infirmary bed, his body stiff from inactivity. The dull ache of his injuries had lessened, but the boredom gnawed at him more than the pain. He shifted slightly, staring at the ceiling, before exhaling in frustration. He had never been good at sitting still.

  With nothing better to do, his mind wandered to the lessons Margot had given him. Though he had only met her a handful of times, the principles she had taught him lingered in his memory. Resonance, Exchange, Balance. They were the foundations of magic, the flow that determined a spell’s strength and efficiency.

  He raised his hand, focusing on the sensation of mana within him. It was an odd feeling—like a current just beneath his skin, waiting to be shaped. He tried to mold it into something small, something simple, but as soon as he willed it forward, the energy slipped from his grasp, dispersing into the air.

  "Tch," he clicked his tongue in irritation. He had read about mana control in books, but actually applying it was another matter entirely. The amount of energy he wasted was embarrassing. Margot had warned him that without proper refinement, most of his attempts would be inefficient.

  Still, he wasn't about to give up. Closing his eyes, he tried again, this time focusing on Balance. If he could control the flow properly... maybe—

  A faint glow flickered between his fingers before sputtering out.

  "Dammit."

  Before he could make another attempt, the infirmary door creaked open. Lucien stepped inside, immediately narrowing his eyes when he saw Caelan sitting up, hand still faintly raised from his failed spellcasting.

  "What exactly do you think you're doing?" Lucien asked, voice laced with disapproval as he strode over.

  Caught in the act, Caelan sighed. "Trying to keep myself from dying of boredom."

  Lucien folded his arms. "By wasting your already limited energy on magic you barely know how to use?"

  Before Caelan could retort, the door opened again. émeline entered, followed closely by the garrison physician. She held a tray with fresh bandages and a small vial of medicine, her eyes flicking between the two young men with mild exasperation.

  "You're not causing more trouble for yourself, are you?" she asked.

  Caelan huffed, but he obediently lowered his hand as émeline approached.

  "Good. Now let’s check your wounds properly," she said, placing the tray down.

  Lucien smirked. "See? Even the healer agrees with me."

  Caelan rolled his eyes but said nothing as they began unwrapping his bandages.

  émeline worked efficiently, her hands steady as she carefully unraveled the old bandages from Caelan’s shoulder and side. The stained wrappings came away with little resistance, revealing the fresh, semi-scarred wounds beneath. Though the injuries were still tender to the touch, they had closed far more than they should have in such a short span of time.

  Caelan observed the results with mild fascination. In his past life, wounds like these would have taken weeks, even months, to heal properly—if they didn’t get infected first. He had always been wary of infections back on Earth, knowing that even the smallest cut could be fatal without proper treatment. But here? Healing magic was a game-changer.

  He winced slightly as émeline dabbed a cool salve onto the marks, the faint sting fading almost immediately. Lucien, standing close by, watched the process with his usual intensity, making sure everything was done properly.

  “You’re healing faster than expected,” émeline noted, her voice thoughtful. “Even with magic, the wounds should be a bit more tender than this.”

  “I suppose I should thank you for that,” Caelan replied, giving her a small smirk. “Your magic’s the only reason I’m not writhing in agony right now.”

  émeline’s cheeks tinted slightly, but she shook her head. “I only did what I could. It’s not a perfect spell. The scars will remain, and if you push yourself too soon, you could reopen the wounds.”

  Caelan hummed in response, barely listening as his thoughts wandered. If healing magic could accelerate recovery this much… could it do more?

  He had read bits and pieces about stronger healing spells—ones rumored to restore even lost limbs. If such a thing existed, then injuries that would have been death sentences in his previous life could be undone in mere moments. He briefly imagined what it would be like to regenerate an arm or a leg in real time.

  “…Are you even listening?” Lucien’s voice cut into his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

  “Hmm? Of course,” Caelan said, though Lucien’s raised brow told him he wasn’t convinced.

  Shaking his head, Lucien leaned against the nearby table. “I swear, you were more restless as a patient than you ever were on the battlefield.”

  Caelan let out a chuckle. “Can you blame me? I’ve been stuck here all day. It’s either think about magic or die of boredom.”

  émeline let out a soft sigh as she finished tying off the new bandages. “Well, at least try not to overthink it too much. You’re still recovering, and magic or not, your body needs rest.”

  Lucien nodded in agreement. “You heard her. No more messing around with spells until you can stand properly without wobbling.”

  Caelan grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t argue. As much as he hated feeling weak, he knew pushing himself too soon wouldn’t help anyone. For now, all he could do was wait.

  Lucien stepped out of the infirmary, quietly closing the door behind him. He let out a small breath, running a hand through his hair as he made his way through the stone halls of the garrison. The faint scent of dried blood and herbs still lingered in his nose from the infirmary, but the fresh morning air filtering in through the open corridors helped clear his mind.

  Caelan was recovering well—far faster than expected. It was a relief, but it also left Lucien feeling uneasy. The wounds Caelan had sustained should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet here he was, already restless and thinking about training again. Was it simply the effect of émeline’s healing magic, or was there something else at play? Lucien made a mental note to discuss it with the Duke.

  Upon reaching the command room, Lucien straightened his posture before knocking firmly on the door.

  "Enter," came the Duke's deep voice from inside.

  Lucien stepped in, immediately taking in the scene before him. The Duke of Forneaux sat at a large wooden table, a map of the region sprawled before him, weighed down by a few metal markers. Opposite him was the garrison commander, a seasoned man with sharp eyes and a graying beard. Several knights stood at attention, awaiting further orders.

  The Duke looked up from his work, his piercing gaze settling on Lucien. "How is my son?"

  Lucien bowed his head slightly before responding. "Recovering at an alarming pace, my Lord. The healer’s magic has done wonders. His wounds have closed far more than expected, though he’s still sore. Knowing him, he'll try to push himself sooner than he should."

  The Duke sighed, rubbing his temples. "That boy… he never does know when to stay still." Despite the exasperation in his tone, there was a hint of relief in his expression. "Still, it is good news. At least we won't have to worry about him being completely incapacitated."

  Lucien nodded before shifting the topic. "Now that Caelan is on the mend, what are our next steps, my Lord? The villagers have been relocated here, but they can't stay forever. And the matter of those creatures still lingers."

  The Duke's expression hardened at that. "I've already begun making preparations," he said, gesturing to the map. "The garrison will be put on high alert. We cannot allow those beasts to roam unchecked, nor can we afford to risk another village being attacked. I plan to send word to Valmont, requesting additional forces and scholars from the Mage’s Academy to investigate this matter further."

  Lucien folded his arms. "And Caelan? What will you have him do?"

  The Duke exhaled through his nose, considering his answer. "For now, he stays here. As much as I know he’ll hate being left behind, I need him to recover fully before he does anything reckless. But when the time comes…" His gaze darkened. "He will need to be prepared. Those creatures will not be the last threat he faces."

  Lucien nodded in understanding. "Then I’ll make sure he doesn't do anything foolish until then."

  The Duke allowed a small, weary smile. "I trust you will."

  With that, Lucien gave a final bow and took his leave, already thinking about how best to keep Caelan from sneaking off and doing something reckless.

  Montclair furrowed his brows as he listened to the Duke’s decision. He had expected the man to insist on bringing his son back to Valmont, even if it meant enduring hardships along the way. The change in plans puzzled him.

  "My Lord," Montclair began, keeping his tone respectful, "earlier today, you were adamant about bringing your son to the capital. What changed your mind?"

  The Duke of Forneaux exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing against the edge of the map before him. "I was too hasty," he admitted, his voice heavy with self-reflection. "I saw Caelan’s wounds closing, saw him conscious and speaking, and I let myself believe that he was already past the worst of it. But the truth is, I do not know how deep the damage runs. Magic can seal wounds, but it does not replace what was lost."

  Montclair nodded, beginning to understand. "You’re concerned about his blood loss."

  The Duke’s gaze darkened. "More than that. Caelan was on the brink of death. A night of rest and some magic may have saved him, but that does not mean he is ready to endure days of travel. If I force him onto the road now, exhaustion could take him before we ever reach Valmont. I will not gamble with my son’s life."

  Montclair considered this for a moment before speaking again. "So you will go ahead to Valmont alone?"

  "Yes," the Duke confirmed. "I will send for more experienced healers and physicians. If there is even a chance that something was overlooked in his treatment, I will see that it is corrected." He looked down at the map of his lands, his fingers tightening into a fist. "Besides, the capital must be informed of what happened. The beasts we faced were unlike anything we've encountered before. I need to ensure that preparations are made to prevent another attack like this."

  Montclair nodded in understanding. "Then we will keep watch over your son and the villagers until your return, my Lord."

  The Duke’s expression softened slightly. "I trust that you will. Keep him from doing anything reckless. Knowing Caelan, he will not be content to lie in bed for long."

  Montclair let out a small chuckle. "I’ve noticed. I’ll have my men keep an eye on him."

  Satisfied, the Duke straightened his posture. "Then it’s decided. I leave for Lumere at first light."

  Lucien stepped into the infirmary, his boots tapping lightly against the wooden floor. Caelan, still seated on the infirmary bed, looked up at his friend and bodyguard with a raised brow, sensing that Lucien had something important to say. The knight’s usual confident expression was mixed with hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure how his lord would react to the news.

  Caelan stretched his arms slightly, feeling the stiffness in his muscles. “You’re looking awfully serious, Lucien. What’s going on?”

  Lucien exhaled before stepping closer. “Your father has decided to leave for the capital alone. You’ll be staying here in Montrevelle to recover.”

  Caelan blinked, his mind processing the unexpected change in plans. “...I see.” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he mulled over the decision.

  “He wants to send better physicians and healers from the capital to check up on you,” Lucien added, watching Caelan carefully for any signs of protest. “He believes the journey would be too harsh on you right now, given the blood you lost.”

  Caelan remained silent for a moment. It wasn’t as if he had a pressing need to rush to the capital, but a part of him disliked the idea of being left behind. It had been a long time since he had felt weak, and he wasn’t fond of the sensation. However, he understood the logic behind his father’s decision. Even if the wounds had closed, his body still needed time to recover.

  “Hah... It seems I don’t have much of a say in this,” Caelan finally muttered with a wry smile. “And I suppose you’ll be staying here with me?”

  Lucien smirked. “Of course. Someone has to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t do anything reckless.”

  Caelan huffed in amusement. “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

  Lucien pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Since you’ll be here for a while, you might as well take this time to train yourself properly. I noticed you were fiddling with magic earlier.”

  Caelan raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?”

  Lucien chuckled. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

  Caelan leaned back against the pillow, exhaling. “Well, I guess I’ll have some time to kill.” He glanced at his hands, flexing his fingers as he considered his next steps. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well make the most of it.

  Caelan sighed, running a hand through his hair as he settled back against the pillow. The reality of his situation was setting in—he was stuck here in Montrevelle for the foreseeable future, and there was little he could do about it. But that didn’t mean he had to waste his time.

  “Lucien,” he said, glancing at his friend. “Can you bring me my luggage bag?”

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Why? Do you need a change of clothes?”

  Caelan smirked. “Not quite. I brought something with me that I’d like to go over while I recover.”

  Lucien gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press further. “Alright, I’ll go get it. Stay put and don’t try anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  Caelan waved him off as Lucien exited the infirmary. The moment he was alone, he let out a small chuckle. He had secretly packed the book on magic that his sister, Juliette, had recommended to him when they first met the mage, Lady Margot. Back then, he had only skimmed through it, but now he had the time to properly study it.

  A few minutes later, Lucien returned, carrying the luggage bag and setting it down beside the bed. “Here. Now, what exactly are you up to?”

  Caelan unlatched the bag and rummaged through it until his fingers found the familiar leather-bound cover. He pulled out the book and placed it on his lap. The golden lettering on the front read: Fundamentals of Mana and Arcane Principles.

  Lucien let out a short laugh. “You really are determined, aren’t you?”

  Caelan grinned. “Well, I can’t exactly swing a sword right now. Might as well make use of my time in another way.”

  Lucien shook his head with a smirk. “Just don’t go blowing up the infirmary.”

  “No promises,” Caelan said, flipping open the book.

  Caelan ran his fingers over the aged pages of Fundamentals of Mana and Arcane Principles, flipping past the more advanced sections on elemental manipulation and offensive magic. He wasn’t looking for anything that would drain his already weakened body—just something small and practical.

  As his eyes scanned through the text, a particular section caught his interest:

  "Basic Utility Spells for Everyday Use"

  His lips curled into a small smirk. Now this is more like it.

  He read through the descriptions, mentally weighing his options. Some spells were too complex for him to attempt right now, like Minor Transmutation, which required precise mana control to change the physical properties of objects. Others, like Ignite, which conjured a small flame, were too impractical for him in his current state—he didn’t need to accidentally set his bed on fire.

  Then he found something simple: Lumen.

  "Lumen: A spell designed to produce a small, steady orb of light. Highly effective in dark environments and requires minimal mana to sustain. A good starting exercise for novice mages to develop control over their output."

  Caelan traced the rune illustration beside the description. It was a straightforward design, just a simple flow of mana concentrated in one spot. It wouldn’t strain him too much.

  Alright, let’s give this a try.

  He rested his left hand on his lap and slowly reached for the mana within him. The sensation was strange—like dipping into an invisible well inside his chest. He had played around with magic a few times before but had never properly practiced outside of those brief sessions with Margot.

  Closing his eyes, he visualized the rune in his mind, guiding the mana through his fingertips as he muttered, “Lumen.”

  At first, nothing happened. Then, after a moment of struggle, a faint golden orb flickered into existence just above his palm, its glow no brighter than a candle’s flame. It wavered slightly, unstable, before suddenly vanishing.

  Caelan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Damn. Harder than I thought.”

  Still, he had felt the spell working, even if just for a second. With more practice, he could refine it. And who knew? Maybe learning control over something as simple as this would help him in the long run.

  Smirking to himself, he readjusted his posture and tried again.

  Caelan exhaled slowly and focused again, channeling his mana into his palm. The faint glow returned, flickering uncertainly like a candle in the wind. He furrowed his brow, adjusting the flow of energy, but the orb sputtered out again after a few seconds.

  Lucien, who had been watching from the other side of the room with his arms crossed, let out a sigh. “You look ridiculous, you know that?”

  Caelan shot him a glare. “And you look useless just standing there.”

  Lucien raised an eyebrow but smirked. “I’m not the one playing with glowing dust instead of resting like I should be.”

  Caelan ignored the jab and tried again. This time, he adjusted his breathing, trying to steady the wavering light. The orb formed again, more stable than before, and held for nearly five seconds before fading out.

  Lucien hummed in mild surprise. “Alright, that was better.” He stepped closer, leaning against the infirmary bed. “You’re wasting too much mana in the initial output. If you can control how much you release at once, it’ll probably last longer.”

  Caelan blinked. “You know magic theory?”

  Lucien scoffed. “No, but I’ve seen mages train before. They don’t just throw everything out at once—they pace themselves.”

  Caelan frowned, considering the advice. It made sense. He had been dumping too much mana into the spell instead of regulating it. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, this time focusing on releasing only a trickle of energy.

  The orb appeared again, steadier this time, and lasted for nearly ten seconds before it finally winked out.

  Lucien nodded in approval. “Not bad. If you can hold that for a full minute, maybe I’ll start calling you a proper mage.”

  Caelan smirked. “If that’s your way of giving encouragement, I’ll take it.”

  Lucien shook his head, his smirk softening. “Just don’t push yourself too hard. You’re still recovering.”

  Caelan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he sat back against the bed, letting out a small breath. He had a long way to go, but at least he was making progress.

  As the evening deepened, the warm glow of lanterns flickered in the infirmary, casting long shadows on the walls. Caelan leaned back against his pillow, rolling his shoulders slightly to test his range of motion. The bandages still felt tight, but at least the pain had dulled to something tolerable.

  Lucien, seated in a chair beside the bed, rested one ankle over his knee, idly spinning a dagger between his fingers. "You know," he mused, watching Caelan’s repeated attempts at minor magic, "for someone who supposedly doesn’t care much for magic, you sure look invested."

  Caelan scoffed, flipping a page in his book. "It’s called making use of available resources. If I’m going to be stuck in bed, I might as well learn something useful."

  "Right, useful." Lucien smirked. "Like when you nearly set your own sleeve on fire earlier? Very useful."

  Caelan shot him a flat look. "That was a minor miscalculation."

  "A miscalculation that would’ve left you one step closer to becoming a roasted noble," Lucien said, barely suppressing a chuckle.

  Their banter continued, drifting between old memories, recent battles, and Lucien’s exaggerated retellings of their travels so far. The mood was light, a rare moment of peace after the chaos of the past few days.

  A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. "Lord Caelan, Sir Lucien," came a voice from outside, "your supper has been brought to your room."

  "Come in," Caelan called.

  The door creaked open, and two attendants entered, placing trays of steaming food on the nearby table. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filled the room, a welcome change from the medicinal smell of the infirmary.

  "Finally," Lucien muttered as he stood to grab his plate. "I was starting to think they forgot about us."

  As they began eating, Caelan took a bite of his meal before glancing toward Lucien. "Tomorrow," he said, between bites, "I want to check out the town."

  Lucien raised a brow. "You sure about that? You’ve barely been out of bed for a day."

  "I need to get moving. Staying cooped up here isn’t going to do me any good." Caelan’s expression was firm, his decision made.

  Lucien exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. But don’t blame me when you realize you’re still too sore to walk straight."

  Caelan smirked. "Then I’ll just have to lean on you, won’t I?"

  Lucien groaned. "Great. Just what I needed—an injured noble using me as a walking stick."

  Their laughter echoed softly in the room as they continued their meal, the warm light of the lanterns casting a peaceful glow over the quiet evening.

  End of Chapter.