In the doorway to the small, dilapidated hut, Rhea hesitated. Her hand shook over the latch, her knuckles pressed white.
"Luenor," she said in a whisper, her voice cracking. "You… you don't have to see this. You're just a child—"
But Luenor met her eyes, calm and determined. "I'm not a child, Mother. Let me see him."
Rhea swallowed and stepped aside.
The air in the hut felt heavy with the bitter scent of herbs and old sweat. Hunter Garlan was on a narrow pallet, a filthy blanket pulled up to his waist. He looked like a ghost of a man—hollow cheeks, skin stretched tight. He was breathing in labored gasps, in halting bursts. The bandages on his arms were yellow with age.
Dark veins snaked over his skin, pulsing with faint blue mana light like broken stars. His torso and neck were crisscrossed with wounds, some of which were still oozing blood, while others seemed mostly healed but still were exuding faint wisps of mana mist.
His hair stuck to his forehead, and he had yet to move it. His lips were cracked, and there was a slight parting between them revealing broken teeth. Every breath of his was a ratting rasp that echoed in his chest.
Hera was the first to turn and react, fleeing from the room with a strangled sound. Luenor felt his own stomach twist, bile rising as he slowly began to understand the horror of the scene. He had seen this in his dreams, but this was worse.
The elven healer stepped forward, brow knitted. "I... I have never seen anything like this. The mana is... it's bursting free from his veins. It's... consuming him from the inside out."
Rhea lowered herself to the ground beside Hunter, no longer moving, her hand wrapping with his. "He's sleeping... it's the only time he hasn't screamed," she said, whispering now.
The healer gulped, finding his focus again. "This... this is mana implosion. He body is tearing itself apart. If I can realign the channels, I might be able to stop it—"
He pressed his strong hands against Hunter's chest, calmly funneling his mana. Almost immediately, Hunter's body stiffened, a sudden violent spasm arched his back. The healer leaning back, awkwardly, as his face turned white.
"He is rejecting me," the healer said, awed. "His body wouldn't allow an outsider to fix it."
Luenor stepped forward, voice soft but firm. "I… I can take some of it. Just like I did with the beast core."
The healer's eyes widened. "You… can absorb it?"
"I think so," Luenor said. "But only for a moment."
Rhea stared at Luenor, incredulous. "Luenor… you have no-You can't do this. How—"
Arwin stepped in closer. "He knows he doesn't have a mana heart. He doesn't need one. He's… he's like a vessel. He can hold it, at least for a while."
The healer looked between the two of them, and then he nodded. "Then we'll take every moment you can give us."
The healer turned to Rhea and Arwin. "Hold him down. Keep his heart beating. I'll realign what I can."
Rhea's hands quivered as she felt her hands on Hunter's chest. Arwin held Hunter's shoulders tight, jaw clenched into a line of determination.
The healer took a deep breath, collected his supplies - salves, runes, a thin needle that shined with a faint glow of forest magic.
Luenor placed his hands on Hunter's chest. Mana pulsed beneath his palms, wild and fierce, hot like wildfire. He felt it surge into him, filling his hollow core, distorting it until he feared he would burst.
His body shook, sweat rising on his forehead, and his muscles were tightening. He could feel his skin twitching faintly with blue light.
The healer was beginning his work, spinning his fingers over Hunter's veins. "Keep with me boy," he said, "I need you to keep pulling it out."
"I'm... trying..." Luenor gasped, his voice cracking.
Rhea watched, with widened eyes filled with tears, "My son… my son…"
___
In the dark forest beyond the village, the vice leader of the bandits—Burizan—broke through the surrounding trees and fell to the rough camp. He had been knocked around, and was bruised and breathing heavily.
The bandits had stopped and were gathered, playing dice games, eating, cleaning their weapons—then frozen, and stared at him.
"What happened?" one snarled.
Burizan wiped the blood from his mouth. "The cornermost village…taken by elves. And a white tiger… it… it killed everyone in the square—"
There was laughter at first. Bandits were clapping him on the back, thinking it was a joke.
But then he told them more. About the arrows that came like ghosts, the humans fighting alongside elves, the white tiger's golden eyes.
The laughter turned to silence. Greedy eyes narrowed with dangerous hunger.
"Elves," one said, licking cracked lips. "Pretty elf women… they'll fetch a fine price."
"And beautiful human women with them," another said, voice low. "They're all ours to take."
Burizan hesitated, then fell silent as a cold aura rippled across the camp.
From the largest tent stepped a woman clad in black leathers, her eyes like shards of ice. The bandit queen—Mira.
She looked at them all with disdain, her long dark hair trailing like a curtain. "You fools," she said, her voice soft and deadly. "You think this is simple prey?"
She released her aura, a four-star mage's weight that pressed them all to their knees.
Burizan's teeth were chittering in his jaw. He coughed out a wheezy, "The tiger... the tiger... it's real—"
Mira looked at him, then she drew her dagger slowly away from him. "Send scouts," she said. "I want to look at this village myself."
Outside of Eclion, in the wood, Luenor finally came to the point of no return. Mana pulsed at his fingertips, too much to be held even in his empty channels.
Arwin read the pain in his eyes. "Go," he said. "Find a place in the woods. Release it. Come back to us."
Luenor nodded breathlessly and turned to disappear into the wood—mana flaring in his veins like a wildfire, and little time to even watch his step.