Aiden let go, surrendering to the sensation that enveloped him as the dome of blue energy pulsed around him. The initial tingling had transformed into a deep, piercing warmth, as if a thousand ants of light were moving through his muscles, repairing the damage from within, untying the knots of pain that held him captive. The putrid stench of the sewer, a nauseating memory, was fading, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of dried herbs and damp earth.
The healer's tent was a microcosm of organized chaos. Small stone mortars with traces of dried pigments, leather pouches labeled with precise and neat script, and rows of dark clay jars sealed with wax were all arranged in a way that gave the healer an almost obsessive air. From the rods that held up the canvas hung bundles of dried plants and woven amulets, swaying gently.
As her energy worked, Aiden's mind drifted, not to the pain of his past, but to the half-forgotten knowledge from his lessons at the academy.
The Ysara clan.
Contrary to the popular belief that the great clans were forged through martial strength, their true mastery did not lie on the battlefield. Though they were undoubtedly formidable warriors, their legend had been built upon a much more subtle art: the manipulation of Terum for healing and regeneration, a level of control that any awakened would envy. And now, one of them was here, her hands suspended over him, mending his shattered body as if it were simple torn cloth.
The warmth of the Terum intensified at the critical points. Aiden felt an internal pull, a strange sensation of tissue rearranging itself under his skin. Looking down, he watched in astonishment as the open wound on his shoulder contracted, the edges of the skin stitching themselves together, leaving only a thin pink line—a fresh scar. His torso, however, remained a map of pain; the deep bruises had not disappeared, and he could still see the network of shallower cuts and scrapes. He understood Zen's logic: she had acted like a battlefield surgeon, staunching the hemorrhages that were killing him before dealing with the rest; however, her skills had their limits. She couldn't alleviate the aching pain from the beating, but she could redirect his blood and patch the open wounds.
At that moment, the dome of energy stabilized. Zen opened her eyes; the pearl color he remembered had been replaced by a shimmering emerald green, the same shade as her own aura, now reflected in her gaze as she used her Terum. Her face, once playful, now held an air of professional seriousness.
"Let's talk about your reserves," she said. "The major bleeding is under control, but to regenerate the rest, I'll need to know what kind of fuel you're running on. What's your Terum percentage?"
The question was a dagger to his pride. It was time to face the harsh reality.
"Not much..." he admitted with a bitter grimace. "My connection is... crippled."
His mind traveled to his animic core, the well of power he hadn't been able to truly visit in fifteen years. In his prime, before the prison, he needed ten percent of his energy to empower his body and five percent for his aura to even become visible. He remembered the frustration in the cellar, his Terum refusing to obey. Based on the superhuman effort the minimal manifestation in the tavern had cost him, his estimation was bleak. He figured he had, at best, access to twenty or twenty-five percent of his total capacity.
"Right now..." he said finally, shame coloring his voice. "I think I have about five percent left..."
He expected a wince of disappointment, a sigh of annoyance, or a look of pity—the kind he hated most. But Zen simply nodded, a spark of understanding in her eyes.
"I see. Don't worry, even the best of us run out of fuel. Besides, Terum regenerates," she said. "We'll rest for a bit."
Aiden looked at her, surprised by her acceptance. There was no pity, no disdain—a rarity among the awakened, who were so often consumed by their own ego. He nodded, and a comfortable silence settled between them as Zen leaned back against a pile of furs, closing her eyes to focus on her own recovery.
In that stillness, Aiden's mind reviewed the hard truths of Terum. The power of an awakened was intrinsically linked to the percentage of energy their body could access, with one hundred percent being the theoretical limit few ever reached. He had never been a prodigy by birth; his was the case of someone with low initial potential, but through immense effort, he had managed to raise his access to forty-three percent. The Hollow Bastion had stolen that from him. The fifteen years of forced disconnection in that dead zone had cost him about twenty percent of that potential. It was not a wound Zen could heal; it was a piece of his soul, of his power, that was lost forever, irretrievable unless he trained for years to recover what was lost or resorted to the blood rituals he'd heard whispered about in the darkest corners of the academy—an idea he found repugnant.
Every ability, moreover, had a cost. True mastery lay not just in total percentage, but in efficiency. A novice might spend ten percent on a task that a consummate master could perform with half that. The connection to the Terum, practice, and discipline—all of it reduced the cost. He wondered then, what percentage did Zen command? What she had done was a true feat. He was sure she was younger than him, yet she was already a master. He had to admit, he felt a pang of envy.
Aiden took advantage of the silence, while Zen recovered her strength, to attempt something he hadn't been able to do in over a decade: to look inward, to seek out his animic core. Meditation was a familiar path, though now overgrown with the thorns of disuse and trauma. He sat up straight on the cot, closed his eyes, and tried to silence the world. The distant crackle of the campfire, the whisper of the wind against the canvas, Zen's own steady breathing... all of it had to disappear. He focused on the rise and fall of his own chest, on the beat of his own heart, a slow and steady drum in the darkness of his mind. He forced his consciousness to sink, down through the layers of physical exhaustion and despair, searching for that inner door that led to the source of his power.
For an instant, memory came to his aid, showing him an image of what once was. He remembered a landscape of absolute serenity: a vast glacial lake, its surface a mirror of perfect black ice, reflecting a night sky choked with sharp, white stars. Around the lake, a forest of snow-covered pines stood in solemn silence; the air was pure. That was his sanctuary, the representation of his Svalthren soul.
But the memory shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer. The peaceful vision fractured with a silent crash, replaced by the crude reality of his current state. What he found left him breathless. The landscape was devastated.
The lake was no longer a smooth mirror, but a chaotic mosaic of fractured ice floes with edges as sharp as obsidian blades. Between them was not water, but deep, dark crevasses that pulsed with an unnatural void, an emptiness that seemed to drink the light and hope. He looked up, and the starry sky was gone. In its place, a ceiling of opaque, swirling clouds, the color of lead, formed a perpetual blizzard. But it wasn't snow that fell, it was the ash of painful memories: the choked cry of his classmate at the academy, the screech of his cell door, the rumbling of ice, the contempt in the guards' eyes. The forest surrounding the lake was now a graveyard of skeletal trees, their black branches twisted like accusing fingers, charred by a frost that burned everything instead of adorning it.
Despite the terror he felt, he tried to walk forward, towards the center of the frozen lake where his nexus of power should reside. Every mental step was an agonizing effort. He felt the fractured ice creak and sink under his will, the dark crevasses spreading like a spiderweb with each attempted step. He searched for his nexus, once a pure and steady light in the heart of the lake, but now he could only glimpse a faint ember, a sickly spark that trembled in the depths of the largest fissure, threatening to be extinguished forever.
With a surge of desperation, he extended his consciousness, trying to touch that light, to reach it through the crack. The moment his will brushed against the dark void of the fissure, a wave of absolute nothingness struck him. It wasn't pain; it was the absence of everything: of warmth, of energy, of hope. He felt that void trying to drain him, to pull him down. The entire landscape trembled violently, the ice groaned like a dying beast, and the main fissure began to widen, threatening to devour his consciousness completely. A deafening crack echoed, and the sound of a thousand birds taking flight from the withered trees around him filled the air in unison.
A primal panic seized him. With a scream that only resounded in his mind, he retreated, ripping his consciousness from that personal hell.
"Aiden."
Zen's voice, soft but firm, anchored him back to reality. Aiden's eyes shot open, his own breath a choked gasp in his ears. The healer's face was close, and her emerald eyes, now stripped of all playfulness, were scrutinizing him with an expression of genuine alarm.
"Your aura was flickering, Aiden. It was... tearing apart," she said, her voice lower and more serious than before. "You're terribly pale. Are you alright?"
Aiden could only nod, unable to articulate the desolation he felt. The terror of his broken soulscape still clung to him like frost. Zen hesitated for an instant before extending a hand and placing it carefully on his uninjured forearm. The touch was light, but it conveyed a warmth that contrasted violently with the dying ambiance of his vision.
"Whatever you saw in there," she continued, choosing her words carefully, "you're not there anymore. You're here. Breathe with me."
Aiden swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost as painful as his wounds. He followed her instruction, forcing a slow, deep breath that ached in his bruised ribs. The gesture of concern from Zen was so unexpected, so sincere, that for a moment it disoriented him more than the vision itself.
"Half an hour has passed," she said softly, withdrawing her hand once she saw his trembling subside. "Time in the animic core is five times faster than in the physical world. Those few minutes you spent in there were actually longer. If you need more time..."
He shook his head, a sharp jerk. He had to recover. What happened in the past was past. He was broken, yes, but he couldn't let it end like this; he had to move forward. The abyss in his soul was a wound he couldn't afford the luxury of contemplating right now.
"No. Let's finish this," he managed to say, his voice firm.
Zen observed him for another second, as if weighing his words against the fragile evidence of his state. She saw in his eyes not the absence of pain, but a new and steely determination to ignore it. Finally, she nodded.
"Alright. Prepare yourself."
Zen placed her hands on him again. Her aura, now a lighter green, met the weak blue wisp that Aiden manifested. At the moment of contact, the two energies intertwined, merging into a vibrant cyan vortex. Aiden felt the strain, felt his meager energy being guided by Zen's expert hands. The principle of channeling was simple: use another as an external reserve. But in practice, it was dangerous. Draining the donor's reserves could range from damaging their animic core to killing them. He trusted that Zen knew what she was doing.
Sweat beaded on the young woman's brow. Aiden remained silent, concentrating on the flow of energy between them, feeling it being guided with a mastery that left him stunned. The tension in the tent was palpable, a silence broken only by the contained breaths of both. After a few minutes, he felt a final pull in his head, as if an invisible, painful thread that had kept him tethered to the brink of death had been stretched taut and, at last, snapped. And then, the sharp pain ceased, replaced by a heavy exhaustion. Zen lowered her hands, and the energy of both vanished with a sigh.
The healer slumped back against a pile of furs, her own body trembling from the effort.
"Another break," she decreed, her voice laced with a fatigue she didn't try to hide. "Forty minutes."
Aiden watched her in silence for a moment. Despite his own weariness, it was impossible not to notice the color had drained from her face, leaving her with a waxy pallor.
"You look... exhausted," he said, his voice hoarse. It was a simple observation, but from him, it sounded almost like a question, a show of concern he wasn't used to expressing.
Zen let out a breathless chuckle without opening her eyes. "Only 'look'? You're a pretty demanding patient, you know? You used up almost my entire reserve in one go."
That comment piqued Aiden's tactical curiosity. Knowing the capabilities and limitations of the people around him was vital information. "And how long does it take you to... recover it?" he asked.
She opened one eye, and a spark of amusement shined in it. "Well, in half an hour I get back a pittance. Twenty percent, more or less."
Aiden stared at her, his eyes wide. "Twenty percent? Are you joking?"
A playful smile finally broke through on Zen's face. "Of course, I'm joking. It's only fifteen percent."
"That's still an insane amount."
"Well, what can I say," she replied, puffing out her chest with mock pride. "I'm just that good. But you... by the gods, do you ever smile? You look like a statue."
An awkward smile tugged at Aiden's lips. It felt strange. "There hasn't been much to smile about lately."
"I can imagine. What did you do to end up like this, anyway? Annoy a summit bear?"
"Something like that. A beast known as Angellon."
Zen let out a genuine laugh. "Ah, Angellon. Yes, that's worse than a bear. So how did you end up with her?"
"I was just in trouble, and she showed up."
Zen studied him with her sharp gaze, knowing there was more to it, but she didn't press. "Well, at least you're still in one piece. More or less. By the way, I don't know your name. I'm Zen. Zen Ysara."
"Aiden," he replied, offering nothing more.
"Aiden... what?"
The name of his clan got stuck in his throat. Svalthren. His surname was a sentence, a mark of dishonor in the eyes of the kingdom. He didn't know if she would take it well or badly, if the respect she had shown him would turn into the same contempt he had seen in the guards' eyes. The silence stretched on, and Aiden lowered his gaze, unable to answer.
Zen, realizing his internal conflict, was quick to add, her tone now understanding and kind. "Hey," she said softly. "If you don't want to say, it's alright. I'm not going to press you."
Aiden exhaled, an invisible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Thanks," he murmured, truly grateful.
They continued to chat about trivial things until the forty minutes were up. This time, the combined energy flowed more easily, and Zen finished closing the wound on his leg, leaving him with only the deep bruises and the pain of his more superficial injuries. When they were done, Zen fell back, visibly exhausted.
"There. So you know, in everything we did, breaks included, I used about one hundred and fifteen percent of my energy. And the most I can store is seventy-two. You should be flattered I used so much energy to heal you."
"That's an incredible amount."
"I'm incredible," she replied, emphasizing the first word heavily.
Aiden laughed at the comment. His mind was clearer now, and he felt a distinct energy in his body. "Where are we, exactly?" he finally asked.
"You don't know? We're in a makeshift camp outside of Xhandor. We're a small special squadron, about eight people, in service to the army. And Angellon... she's in command of all of us."
"That must be terrible," Aiden blurted out.
Zen lowered her voice, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "I can't stand her. Neither can most of the people here. She's distant and very aggressive... she just shows up, gives orders, and leaves. But we can't do anything. Hmm, maybe I shouldn't be talking about her..."
Aiden caught the hint and decided to change the subject. "How did you end up here?"
"Ugh, it was a whole journey. In short, it was King Veilon who found me. He must have seen something in me," she said with a flash of pride.
Just then, the tent flap opened. Angellon entered silently, as if she had calculated the exact time it would take Zen to heal Aiden. The purple irises of her eyes scanned Aiden from head to toe, assessing the work, before turning to Zen.
"Good work. You can go to sleep now." Then, her gaze fixed on Aiden. "Follow me. I'll take you to your quarters."
Aiden stood up, his body still sore but whole. "Thanks, Zen. It was a pleasure to meet you."
She just smiled. "Good luck in a couple of hours."
"A couple of hours?"
He followed Angellon out into the cold camp night and saw that the moon was about to set, a sign that it wasn't long until dawn. His new leader guided him without a word to a nearby tent with a light burning inside.
"Settle in here," Angellon said, and without another word, she turned and disappeared into the darkness.
"Quite the conversationalist," he thought to himself.
Finally alone. Aiden entered the small tent. From now on, this was his new life. In a few hours, he would see King Veilon and would have to start thinking about his revenge. Zen seemed like a good person, an unexpected point of light.
Later, he told himself, I'll take the time to face my devastated animic core again and see how truly broken my Terum is. But for now, exhaustion won.
He pushed everything aside and collapsed onto the cot to sleep.