Rhyka woke slowly, like a man clawing his way out of deep mud. His mind rose from a thick haze, dragging reluctant consciousness behind it. For a few seconds, all he knew was discomfort a fuzzy, unfocused ache that buzzed under his skin. Then it began to sharpen.
His skull pulsed with a heavy, throbbing pain, like something dull and metal was being driven slowly through the base of his neck and up into his temples. Even before his eyes opened, he knew it would be bad. The kind of pain that made his vision swim before he even tried to sit up. He sucked in a sharp breath, but it only made things worse. The act of breathing sent a lancing bolt of fire across his chest and down his ribs, like his lungs had been lined with barbed wire.
He groaned. The sound scraped out of him weak and dry.
He tried to shift his head slightly to the side, and even that was enough to make the ceiling twist out of shape above him. Spots crawled along the edges of his vision. His stomach turned.
Then the full pain hit hot, immediate, cruel.
It tore through him like a slow explosion. Not just one wound, not just one source. It was everywhere His arms. His side His neck. His back. Everything ached with a level of intensity that went beyond pain and into something feral like his body was warning him you should be unconscious. You should not be moving. You should not be awake.
His first instinct was panic. His breath hitched in his throat, too shallow to be useful. He wanted to sit up, to brace himself, but his arms betrayed him, trembling under the strain of just trying to lift his torso. Sweat broke along his back and chest, cold and immediate.
But then, something in the air shifted. A smell.
He recognized it.
Wet stone Iron Something earthy and sharp. It sat low in the room like a fog clinging to the corners of the floor. A smell that clung to the back of the throat.
Karmic flower.
Realization hit, and it didn't come with relief.
The karmic flower was a known remedy but it was infamous for its price. A plant used to accelerate healing by forcing the body into overdrive. It twisted nerves and flooded muscles with unnatural energy, demanding they repair themselves faster than they were meant to. The more you asked of it, the more you paid in pain. The results could be miraculous. But so could the suffering.
Rhyka's jaw tightened.
Another spasm lanced through his ribs. He could almost feel the way his body was knitting back together, cell by cell, like each thread of muscle was being stitched by needles dipped in fire.
A soft rustle pulled his attention.
With effort, he turned his head toward the movement.
Emmet sat beside him. Calm. Composed. He sat on a plain wooden stool legs crossed, arms resting casually in his lap He looked like someone waiting for tea, not watching a student recover from near collapse.
Rhyka's vision swam as he met the man's gaze.
"You're awake so quickly?" Emmet said, his voice smooth and oddly neutral, like he'd just been thinking aloud. "I'm surprised. You've used the flowers before?"
Rhyka groaned again, forcing himself to push upright just enough to prop on one elbow. His glare cut through the haze.
"Somebody's curious today," he muttered. His voice was cracked, harsh. "What are you, a monkey?"
Emmet blinked once, unfazed. "That's… a rather offensive thing to say."
"Whatever."
Rhyka turned his face away. He had no energy for debate.
But his voice sharpened again. "What are you even doing here?"
His words were bitter, but low. Slurred around the pain. "You can't punish them. They won't tell the truth, and you know it. And even if they did you couldn't do anything anyway."
His eyes slid back toward Emmet, tired but pointed.
"Not for someone like me."
There was a pause.
"Yes," Emmet said flatly. "That's true."
Rhyka blinked. The speed of the answer caught him off guard.
Emmet sat forward slightly.
"And that," he continued, his voice finally gaining weight, "is exactly why I have to say this."
His eyes met Rhyka's without flinching.
"Quit."
The word dropped like a hammer.
"Leave the school. I spoke with the blacksmith in the north quarter. He'll take you on. He's ready whenever you are. You could start this week."
Silence.
Rhyka stared at him, blank.
Emmet went on, his voice measured.
"You've spent the last year pushing harder than anyone here. Every assignment. Every drill. Every damn morning run. You've thrown yourself at the wall over and over. And, as I expected, you've hit your limit."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"And what did that effort get you? Mediocre results. Barely above failure. And now, this."
He gestured toward Rhyka's chest, the bandages, the trembling limbs.
"You're magicless, Rhyka. In a world built on magic. You're chasing something that will never chase you back. You're a bum here A liability."
Rhyka's hands clenched, veins standing out along his arms.
"Most kids would've figured that out by now," Emmet said, his voice growing firm. "Most would've chosen another path. Another future. But you you keep pushing. You keep grinding yourself into dust."
He shook his head.
"You're going to break something that won't heal if you keep this up. And I won't be there to carry you next time."
Rhyka's chest heaved, ragged.
His mouth opened, then closed. His face twisted into a sneer.
"Shut the fuck up."
Emmet's eyes narrowed.
"What do you know?" Rhyka growled. "What do you actually know about me?"
He forced himself upright fully now, arms trembling under the strain. Every breath was agony, but he kept moving.
"You don't know what it's like to wake up every day being less. Not being chosen. Not being wanted. You don't know what it's like to try harder than everyone and still come up short. Every single time."
His voice cracked with the weight behind it.
"Who the hell are you to stomp on my hopes? My dreams? My life?"
He staggered to his feet, wobbling but upright. His feet hit the floor hard, unsteady, but determined.
"You call me magicless. Talentless. A bum?" His eyes flashed. "Then what the fuck are you doing hovering over my bedside, huh? Checking a box? Clearing your conscience?"
He pointed a shaking finger at Emmet.
"Don't pretend to care now. You don't get to. You never did."
His chest heaved again.
"Don't pry into my life."
His knuckles were bone-white.
"You shitbug."
The word hit the air like a slap.
Emmet didn't flinch.
But the silence that followed was deafening.
Rhyka's breathing was ragged, shallow. Sweat dripped from his chin. His legs trembled under his weight.
He turned.
Step by step, he limped toward the door. Every movement was raw. His back was hunched. His side burned with every step. His vision was narrowing.
But he didn't stop.
Every step was defiance. Every step was a scream he didn't have the strength to say out loud.
He walked.
Out of the bed.
Out of the room.
Past Emmet.
And he didn't look back.