"Sanare. Caro."
"Ow!... That hurts…"
"Reficere. Vitae."
It felt like I'd plunged my arm into boiling water. Goosebumps raced across my skin, muscles twitched from the sharp flash of pain. My entire right arm glowed with a pale green light, especially where the deeper cuts were.
"Stop whining. You're the one who tried to chop your own arm off," Zenith said, her voice distant, though her lips were tight.
She sat across from me, holding her hands steadily above mine. Healing magic. Rare stuff, mostly because the only people who learned it were tied to the Church somehow. Even the language the spells were written in was different.
Zenith had once trained to be a priestess. And even though I couldn't picture her giving sermons, part of her still was that person.
"I wasn't trying to chop anything off," I muttered, watching her fingers. "Who knew magic could hurt the caster."
"Oh really… who would've thought magic could be dangerous. Maybe swallow a sword next time and act surprised when it shreds your insides."
She pulled her hands back, but the pain still pulsed under the skin like something was slowly eating into the muscle.
I gritted my teeth. Magic was supposed to be… convenient.
Back on Earth, I watched movies, read books, played games—magic always had rules.
Sure, they said it was dangerous, but it was sanitized. When needed, it killed enemies. Otherwise, it couldn't even singe a hair. It never got out of control. Never hurt the caster.
Now my arm was on fire, and I wasn't so sure anymore.
"Is it just me? Or do other mages hurt themselves too?"
"Try living in Sharia for a week, you'd find out fast... those lunatics have someone exploding daily," Zenith leaned back in her chair, arms folded.
"Exploding?"
I froze. People exploding? Every day? Back on Earth, that'd be front-page news. Here, it's just small talk.
"Or dying," she shrugged. "Or turning into something that has to be burned on the spot."
A shadow crossed her face.
"Wonder why people don't like mages?"
"Because they're super cool?"
"Hah. Because no one wants to live next to a bomb that might go off any second."
She stood, grabbed a jug from the table and poured a bit of thick, dark-blue liquid into a mug.
"Water."
The moment she spoke, water materialized inside the mug as if from nowhere.
I sighed inwardly. I had a feeling I'd have to drink it.
A couple days ago, Paul had gone to the duchy's capital to find a magic tutor for me. When he came back, he said there were no promises, but someone would probably respond soon. A magic tutor... I'd nearly died trying to get one.
"Drink."
I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled like herbs and something sharp, like vinegar.
"You sure this isn't poison?"
"Positive," she crossed her arms. "But if you don't drink it, you'll be screaming tomorrow."
I grimaced and took a sip. It tasted like I'd just licked rotting wood. I swallowed, trying not to gag, but my throat clenched from the disgust.
"That's disgusting…"
"Paul said the same thing," Zenith smirked. "Know what he said after the first sip?"
"…What?"
'"I'd rather die."'
I let out a heavy breath.
"Don't like it? Then next time, don't cast spells on yourself, and you won't have to drink this again."
"Got it. Got it. You keep telling me that…"
"And I keep telling you magic is dangerous and not for children. Clearly I wasn't clear enough."
She sighed, shook her head, and left the room—leaving me with the bitter taste in my mouth and a hand still throbbing with pain.
A few minutes later, my body started to feel heavy, and my eyelids closed on their own. I didn't want to sleep, but that blue sludge did its job. If I fall asleep then... meet... and the next...
***
Next morning.
"You want to learn healing magic?" Zenith narrowed her eyes at me. There was a flicker of doubt in her voice.
"Yes."
I kept my tone steady, but tension twisted in my gut. This was important. I'd already realized magic wasn't just pretty effects—it was wild, alive, and it could kill if left unchecked. If I couldn't heal myself, I'd bleed out before I even got up.
Zenith looked at my hand. I saw her lips press into a thin line. That small motion said a lot. She blamed herself. She was angry. At me? At herself? At magic?
"I told you already…" she started, then fell silent, glancing at my fingers again.
I slowly opened my fist and looked down. The scars were still there—marks of a mistake I wasn't planning to repeat.
"Well, I get it now—magic can hurt," I shrugged. "If I want to be a mage, I'd better know how to patch myself up."
She gave a faint smile, but something shifted in her eyes. She tried to hide it, but the words hit a nerve.
"You don't want me to die, right?" I asked.
"Stupid question," she snorted.
"Then teach me how to heal."
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers tapped the table. Eyes narrowed. I'd seen that look before. She was weighing things. She knew I needed this. But she was afraid.
So I pushed harder.
"What if I get hurt again? Bleeding out? I'll need a way to stop it…"
Sigh.
She exhaled. I knew I was close.
"It's harder than you think."
She hesitated, then pulled herself together.
"This kind of magic needs a different kind of understanding. Structure, principles… You have to know the Church's language. And that's not something outsiders are supposed to learn…" she trailed off.
I heard the crack in her resolve—and moved in.
"But you know it. You can teach me. Who's going to find out?"
Zenith bit her lip. Something was tearing at her from inside. I could feel it—she was close to saying yes. She knew how. She could do it. But something held her back.
"Yes, but…" her voice dropped. "It's a different language. A different system. It's not like the magic you know. It works differently. And… it might be hard for you to handle."
I frowned.
"Why?"
She paused. Regret flickered in her eyes.
"Because you're built differently, Rudeus."
I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but she was already looking away, like she wished she hadn't said it. Her fingers tapped the table. Once. Twice. Then silence.
"I need to think," she said finally.
Not a "no." But not a "yes."
I looked at her back. I wanted to say something—not angry, just... confused. And I knew she had the answer. But not today.
***
Zenith sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, replaying her conversation with Rudeus for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
"You don't want me to die, right?"
A stupid question. Of course she didn't.
But could she really just give him what he was asking for?
Her fingers found the rim of her cup. The tea had long gone cold—she hadn't even noticed. Her thoughts drifted back to the days when she first heard the Church's incantations.
She was twelve when they brought her to the seminary. That very first morning, the instructor made them stand up without delay and began reciting words that had seemed strange and foreign to her.
Sanatio per cruorem fiat. Caro in statum pristinum redigatur. Texturae reconsitutae sint. Flumen animae, iterum fluat.
She repeated them over and over until her tongue tangled and her head throbbed from the strain.
"These aren't just words," they told her. "They are a gift, passed down through the Church. A power granted only to the chosen."
The sacred tongue. Holy words. A secret meant for the initiated alone.
"You mustn't teach it to others. You mustn't share it with those not blessed. This is forbidden knowledge for ordinary mortals."
They drilled that into her day after day until it became part of her. She was never zealous. But back then—she believed.
And now… now she looked at her son. A boy who, on his own, without a mentor or guide, had grasped magic in ways no child ever should. He'd already crossed that threshold where magic became something more than a tool.
Laplace Factor.
She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath.
If she started teaching him, she'd break every rule that had been hammered into her. The Church would never approve. But was this about the Church? Or about her? Why was she clinging to these dogmas?
Wasn't it her duty to protect him?
But what if someone found out? What if he spoke the words to the wrong person? What if someone saw him using that magic? The Church didn't tolerate those who crossed the line. And Asura was full of zealots who would sink their teeth into that and never let go.
A boy using the sacred tongue without initiation? Heresy!
She'd be signing his death sentence herself.
Too dangerous.
But if she didn't teach him… who would? Would that person be worthy of her trust? And if Rudeus kept learning on his own, without guidance...
A heavy sigh slipped from her lips.
Rudeus didn't act like a child. Sometimes, when he spoke, she felt like he was older than she was. There was something in his eyes—too aware. It scared her. He didn't even realize how others saw him.
And if someone began to see him as a threat… if they understood what he could become…
Her fingers tapped the table.
Teach him? Or forbid it? Give him the knowledge to protect himself? Or leave him in the dark, hoping he wouldn't screw up again?
He was too smart to stop. If she didn't do it, he'd find someone else. He'd dig through books, try to decipher the texts on his own, study magic the way he already had. But how many more times would he cut himself open before he understood how it worked?
She felt cornered. Whatever she decided—there'd be no going back.
Soft footsteps echoed in the quiet. Zenith looked up—Lilia had entered the kitchen. Her face, as always, was calm and unreadable. She didn't seem the least bit surprised to find the lady of the house sitting alone in the dark, staring into a cold cup.
"You're not in bed," she said—not a question, just a statement.
"No," Zenith replied curtly.
Lilia gave her a brief, measuring look, then moved smoothly to the cupboard, pulled out a fresh cup, and poured herself some tea. Every motion was practiced, precise—like she knew exactly what to do, even in a moment like this.
"You're thinking about him," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Zenith closed her eyes.
"He wants me to teach him Church magic," she said at last.
"He does," Lilia sat across from her. "And you're deciding whether you should."
Zenith didn't answer. Lilia waited without a word.
"It's…" Zenith rubbed her temples, then covered her face with both hands. "It's forbidden, Lilia. That language is meant for the initiated only. I may have left the Church, but those rules…"
"Do they still matter?" Lilia tilted her head slightly.
Zenith opened her eyes and stared down at the table.
"I don't know…" There was something in her voice—even she didn't recognize it. "I don't know what's right. If I say no, he'll find a way anyway. He won't stop. He's too stubborn."
Lilia sipped her tea, her gaze steady.
"I don't see the problem. If he wants to learn, he should learn properly."
"It's not just magic," Zenith snapped. "It's… it's the sacred language. It's—"
"It's a tool," Lilia said calmly. "In your hands. In his. What it becomes depends on who's using it."
Zenith rubbed her face again, sighed, and raised her head.
"What if someone finds out…"
"No one will," Lilia said sharply. "You said it yourself—he's too smart to stop. So better he has someone to guide him the right way."
Zenith drew in one last, heavy breath.
Silence.
"…Alright," she murmured. "I'll teach him."
Lilia gave a small nod, drained her cup, and stood up.
"It's the right call."
And she left, leaving Zenith alone with the weight of her decision.
There was no going back now.