Mitra sat rigidly in the sterile waiting room of the Silverwing College's medical facility, her knuckles white as she clenched her hands together in her lap.

Her gaze was locked on the speckled tile floor, but she saw nothing. Her entire world had narrowed to the set of double doors at the far end of the room, behind which a team of the college's most skilled healers and surgeons were performing a delicate procedure.

In the agonizing weeks since the confrontation with Scarlett, this room had become her purgatory. The memory was a raw, open wound: the chaotic rush to the hospital, the frantic attempts to save her disciples. Henry was gone, his life extinguished in a flash of merciless fire. The loss was a heavy, cold stone in her gut. But Fuse and Torran had survived the initial concussive blasts, their bodies battered but whole. Stabilized by emergency healing, they had begun the slow, arduous journey of physical recovery.

Then came the second, more insidious blow.

As the deep bruises faded and fractured bones knitted, they had discovered the true extent of Scarlett's vengeance. Whenever Fuse or Torran tried to channel even the faintest whisper of magic, a searing, white-hot agony would lance through their bodies, forcing them to immediately stop. It was a sign of aether vein damage.

As Mitra understood it, aether veins were the metaphysical conduits that allowed magical energy to flow from the soul, through the body, and into the world. They were not physical organs one could operate on; they existed in the liminal space between spirit and flesh, notoriously resilient and almost impossible to directly interact with.

Yet, Scarlett's attack had directly affected them. It was a surgical, malicious strike. The concussive energy had carried a parasitic, unraveling quality that had scorched and scarred their inner pathways. It was a punishment far crueler than death for a mage: to be rendered mundane, to have the very core of your identity and power locked away behind a wall of excruciating pain.

Mitra had clung to one desperate hope: the legendary expertise of the Silverwing College. For centuries, since the very discovery of aetheric veins with peoples bodies, their healers had been the leading pioneers in researching the delicate, metaphysical pathways that allowed magic to flow.

The proposed surgery was experimental, pushing the very boundaries of modern magical medicine, but the initial diagnostics had been cautiously optimistic. The lead physicians had assured her that while the damage was severe, Fuse and Torran's aether veins were not irreparably shredded. They were scarred, blocked, and inflamed, but the foundational structure was intact—the modern miracles of aether-weaving and soul-grafting could, in theory, restore them.

The only barrier was the astronomical cost, a sum that could bankrupt a noble house. But Mitra was not alone. The University, stung by the attack on its own and furious at the crippling of two of its promising battlemages, had thrown its full financial and political weight behind her. They would pay any price, fund any procedure, to make Fuse and Torran whole again. It was a matter of institutional pride.

The doors to the operating theater finally swung open. Out walked Dr. Lou, his ebony complexion looking ashen under the harsh fluorescent lights. His surgical mask was pulled down, revealing a face etched with a deep, professional exhaustion, and his hair was tucked neatly under a cap. His scrubs were immaculate, but his posture was heavy. His eyes scanned the waiting room before settling on Mitra with a look that made her blood run cold.

He didn't speak, merely gesturing with a slight tilt of his head for her to follow him. Wordlessly, she rose, her legs feeling like lead, and trailed him down a quiet corridor to a small, sterile office. It held only a simple desk and two chairs. He motioned for her to sit before taking the seat across from her, the desk an impersonal barrier between them.

He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the polished surface. His gaze was direct, devoid of any attempt to soften the blow. He knew Mitra Mayumi. He knew she valued brutal honesty over comforting lies.

Lou: "Ms. Mayumi," he began, his voice low and gravelly from hours of concentration. "I have bad news."

Mitra: “Did the surgery not take?” she asked, her voice a flat, deadpan monotone, bracing for the worst.

Lou: “No, the surgery itself was a resounding success,” the doctor stated, his words offering a fleeting moment of relief before his expression hardened. “From a purely anatomical perspective, their aether veins are repaired. The scar tissue has been cleared, the pathways are clean and open. They should be able to make a full recovery. But even so, I’m afraid that Fuse and Torran will never be able to cast magic again.”

Mitra stared, her mind struggling to reconcile the contradiction.

Mitra: “I don’t understand. How can you say their aether veins are repaired, but they still cannot use magic?”

Lou: “During the procedure, we discovered the true nature of the damage,” he explained, leaning forward. “It wasn't just scarring. There is a foreign aetheric mass jammed deep within their aetherial pathways. Think of it as a sophisticated, metaphysical clot. The veins themselves are now a clear pipe, but this blockage is like a valve that has been forcibly welded shut. Aether can gather behind it, but it cannot flow through for spellcrafting.”

Mitra: “Then just remove the blockage,” she said, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

Lou: “We were prepared to do exactly that. But you need to understand, Mitra. Having foreign aether integrated into one's own flow isn't just a physical obstruction; it behaves like a high-level curse, one of the few types of magic that can bind directly to a person's essence. According to the Avenry Principle, it—”

Mitra: “Please, just cut to the chase,” she interrupted, a flash of impatience breaking through her stoicism. “I don’t need a theoretical lecture on foreign aetheric contamination. I understand it’s anomalous. Just tell me what you found.”

Lou: “Mitra, this is far more than anomalous. The foreign aether isn't just a curse. It’s an enchantment.”

Mitra: “An enchantment?” Mitra recoiled slightly. “But that’s impossible. Living tissue usually rejects permanent enchantments.”

Lou: “That is what makes this so terrifying. And it is not just any enchantment. It’s trap magic. We’ve sent readings to the universities top enchantment specialists for analysis, but its primary function is clear: its presence is deliberately and perfectly blocking their aether veins. And because it is a trap, any attempt to remove or dismantle it will almost certainly trigger its secondary effects. Given that your adversary was Scarlett… we have to assume the secondary effect is explosive. The placement of this enchantment puts it in direct proximity to their hearts and major organs. If we try to remove it and it detonates…”

Mitra: “It will kill them,” Mitra finished, the words leaving her lips in a hollow whisper. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Dr. Lou could only offer a solemn, grim nod. The surgery was a success, but the victory was utterly meaningless. Scarlett hadn’t just crippled her disciples; she had booby-trapped them and continues to hold them hostage even now.

Lou: “And Mitra, while I am not an expert on enchantment magic, the complexity of what we observed is… staggering. It is a work of terrible, malicious genius, which is, I suppose, unsurprising given that Scarlett was an Archmage of that very school. The fact that she was able to weave this during a combat engagement is terrifying in its own right.” He paused, letting the magnitude of that feat sink in. “But that complexity also means it cannot be safely dispelled by anyone else. The weave is too intricate, too personalized. The only person who can unravel this enchantment without triggering it is the one who placed it inside your disciples.”

Mitra’s hands, resting on her knees, clenched into white-knuckled fists.

The suggestion was a gut punch, a profound and bitter humiliation. To go to Scarlett, to ask the woman who had maimed her students, who she believed murdered her friend Chelsie, who represented everything Mitra saw as a scourge upon the world, for a favor?

The very idea was anathema. Her entire being screamed for a different solution—to hunt Scarlett down, to defeat her. But the cold, logical part of her mind, the part that understood the intricacies of high-level magic, knew that violence was not the answer here.

Killing Scarlett would be satisfying, but that would be it for Fuse and Torran. Most active spell effects dissipate when the caster dies, but not enchantments. They are self-sustaining constructs, woven into the very fabric of their target. They operate independently, like a clock set ticking long after its maker is gone.

And considering Scarlett’s legendary prowess, Mitra was certain this particular "clock" was built to last for centuries. Waiting for the enchantment to naturally degrade from entropy was not an option. Fuse and Torran would live out their entire natural lives, watching their peers advance and achieve greatness, while they remained permanently crippled, their magical potential locked away behind a wall of pain, a living monument to their mentor’s failure.

Lou: “Mitra, I am sorry. For their sake, and for yours, you should begin to prepare for the reality that your disciples will never be mages again.”

Mitra said nothing. No words could adequately contain the storm of fury, grief, and profound hatred that was coalescing within her.

She simply sat in stony silence, her gaze fixed on some distant, invisible point. The hatred for Scarlett, once a burning ember, was now a festering, cold fire in her heart.

♦♦♦♦♦

Alan sat on a weathered stone bench, the midday sun warm on his shoulders as he waited for Jafar and Sere. The familiar sounds of the city—distant chatter, the clatter of a car engine—seemed to buzz around him without truly penetrating the bubble of his thoughts. His mind was a tangled knot, relentlessly picking over the events of the past weeks.

His primary, driving fear had been for Johannes. The image of their senior, frozen in time like a statue, had been a constant weight on his soul. The man had saved both his and Jafar's lives; seeing him like that was a special kind of torment. That fear had been the fuel for his pursuit of Cid, a single-minded focus on freeing the man they owed everything to. And now, miraculously, Johannes was free, seemingly unharmed by his temporal imprisonment, thanks to whatever desperate, reality-bending magic Cid had unleashed.

With that central crisis resolved, Alan found himself adrift, his certainty crumbling. What was he supposed to feel about Cid now? The easy, righteous anger he'd carried was no longer so clear-cut. Yes, Cid had killed people, but it was in self-defense, a cornered animal lashing out at those who came to capture or kill him. And yes, Cid had turned his terrifying magic on them, but only after Jafar had broken their promise and brought the full force of the University down upon him. Alan’s own sense of honor chafed at that; a promise was a promise.

A part of him, a small, frustrated voice, wanted to direct his anger at Jafar. His friend's decision had set this entire catastrophic chain of events into motion. But getting mad at Jafar felt pointless, like shouting at the rain. The decision was made, the consequences were here, and Jafar had been acting out of his own rigid sense of duty. There was no villain in this story, just a series of terrible choices and conflicting loyalties.

He was still lost in this moral quagmire when a familiar voice cut through his reverie.

Sere: "Alan! Sorry we're late!"

Alan turned at the sound of his name.

He saw Sere first, her posture straight and efficient in the crisp blue and silver uniform of the Silverwing College. Then his gaze dropped, and his breath caught. In front of her, being steadily pushed along the path, was Jafar. His friend was slumped in a wheelchair, his vibrant orange Ember Gear College robes looking strangely muted and out of place against the clinical chrome and leather of the chair.

As they drew closer, any lingering thought of rebuke died in Alan's throat. How could he be angry about a broken promise when the consequence for Jafar was so brutally visible? The theoretical betrayal was eclipsed by the tangible reality of the wheelchair.

The bullet that had torn through Jafar's side had done more than break bone and tear muscle; it had shattered his spinal cord. The most advanced healing magic available at the University had sealed the wound and saved his life, but it could not bridge that delicate network of nerves. He was left with a constant, low-grade discomfort—a phantom echo of the bullet's path—and the irrevocable certainty that he would never walk again.

There was one hope, a sliver of a chance that existed only in the realm of the miraculous: limb regeneration magic, powerful enough to coax the spinal cord to regrow itself.

But the practitioners of such profound healing were not mages of the university; they were the Saints of the Church of Light. And in the entire continent, there are only three right now. With the Church in turmoil, fractured by internal schisms and purges, its gates had effectively closed. Not even the considerable influence and wealth of the Graheel University could secure an audience with a Saint. The door had been slammed shut, leaving Jafar in this state.

Alan: “Are you ready to go?” he asked, his voice harsher than he intended.

Jafar didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance.

Jafar: “There are some papers I need to submit. I have to do it first,” he said, his tone flat and final. Without another word, he placed his hands on the wheels and pushed himself forward, the quiet whir and crunch of the wheels on the gravel path a sound that was becoming tragically familiar. “You two go on without me.”

Alan and Sere stood in silence, watching their friend navigate the path toward the administration building alone. There was a stubborn, almost painful determination in the set of his shoulders, a proud refusal of help that spoke volumes about the turmoil inside.

Once Jafar was a sufficient distance away, the spell broke. Alan let out a weary breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Alan: “Is he mad at me?” The question was out before he could stop it, voiced with a vulnerability he usually kept hidden.

Sere shook her head, her expression pained.

Sere: “No, it’s not that. It’s just that… with him being crippled now, he’s lost so much of his autonomy. Everything is a struggle, everything requires assistance. He insists on doing certain things himself, no matter how long it takes, because it’s the only way he can reclaim a shred of the normalcy he lost.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze following Jafar’s receding form. “If Jafar is mad at anyone, Alan, I think it’s himself. No matter how suspicious Cid was, he knows that telling Mitra was a catastrophic mistake. He’s living with the consequences of that choice every single day.”

Alan: “I see,” he murmured, the pieces clicking into a heartbreaking picture. “I thought he was avoiding me. He pulled out of the Arcane Eye, went back to Ember Gear, and resigned from being Mitra’s disciple.”

Sere: “Like I said, he’s chasing normality. Going back to being a simple Ember Gear student is a part of that. And maybe he feels he failed Mitra, that he doesn’t deserve to be her disciple after what happened. But that's just my guess. He doesn't really talk to me much either.” She hesitated, then added the most painful truth of all. “I think it bothers him… the way we look at him now. With pity.”

Alan: “Yeah…”

They lapsed into a contemplative silence, both staring down the empty path, lost in their own thoughts about their broken friend. It was Sere who finally broke the quiet, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, laced with a rare and profound vulnerability.

Sere: “Alan,” she began, “I wanted to be a healing mage because I always looked up to the Saints from the Church. Their compassion seemed… divine. It was my dream to be like them, to maybe even become a Saint one day.” She swallowed hard, her composure cracking. “But now… now I want that power for a different reason. I want to be a Saint specifically to help Jafar walk again. But Saints are supposed to be impartial, to give care to the whole of humanity without favor. To pursue this path for the sake of one friend… does that make me a selfish person?”

Alan turned to her, his expression firm and unwavering.

Alan: “No,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Sere, that just makes you human.”

Sere: “But—” she started to protest, the doctrine of the Church warring with her heart.

Alan: “Sere,” he interrupted gently, “there is a saying in Gix that my grandfather would always tell me. He said: ‘that to choose between what you can do and what you should do is a false choice. Because when you have the power to do something good in this world, you should always do it.’ At least, that is what my grandpa believed.” He gave her a small, encouraging smile. “So if you can become a Saint one day and help our friend Jafar walk again, then you absolutely should. Isn’t he a part of humanity, worthy of care under the teachings of the Light?”

At his words, the tension in Sere’s shoulders melted away. A warm, genuine smile spread across her face, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. It was a smile of relief, of being truly seen and understood.

Sere: “Thanks, Alan,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “For always seeing me as human.” The words carried a bittersweet weight, a quiet acknowledgment of the past when her overwhelming magical talent had made others view her as a prodigy, a weapon, or a monster—but rarely as just a person.