The first thing Kael felt was silence—dense, ringing silence. It wasn't merely the absence of sound, but a profound, resonant lack, as though the inner workings of the universe had momentarily ceased their grinding.
Then breath. Cold and sharp, as though his lungs were tasting air for the very first time—a foreign, vital element.
He lay still. Vision swam, the world resolving through slow layers of clarity. The ceiling above him shimmered—silver, alive, traced with faintly pulsing sigils. They beat with the indifference of machinery, a steady, hypnotic pattern of energy containment. Kael found himself tracking them unconsciously, counting the cycles of luminescence, charting the efficiency of the mana-to-light conversion.
He remembered those lights. They had burned through him moments ago—or was it hours? The memory of the stone's invasion was visceral, a sensation of ancient data flooding his consciousness, overriding the core of his being.
He blinked hard, the afterimage of golden threads still woven across his sight. His body felt the same. Not healed, not broken. But his mind—that was wrong. It buzzed. Hummed. Every heartbeat seemed to echo with faint, invisible numbers, as if the world were whispering in equations he couldn't yet solve. The constant, quiet static was the Compendium, always calculating, always organizing.
He turned his head with a groan that felt loud and abrasive in the sterile room. Lilian stood near the far table, hands folded, her posture radiating controlled impatience. Her workspace was scattered with crystalline instruments and cooling runes, the lingering smell of ozone and burnt quartz heavy in the air. Kellan leaned against the wall, that same half-smile carved across his face—equal parts interest in the anomaly that was Kael, and political restraint regarding the volatile situation.
Kael swallowed dryly, his throat rough.
"What happened?" His voice rasped, the sound thin and weak. "Was that real?"
Kellan stepped closer, his polished boots silent on the stone floor, his voice pitched low and carrying a hint of dark amusement.
"You tell us. You were under for two hours. Not even the Healer could wake you." He paused, nodding toward the empty containment tray. "The stone—a crystalline memory block worth a city's ransom—your Compendium devoured it. Not a lattice left. We just learned what your Aspect runs on."
Kael's brow furrowed, confusion overriding the lingering pain. "Runs on?"
"Fuel," Kellan said, his voice dropping in severity. "Every Aspect feeds on something. Fire draws heat from the immediate environment, water drains ambient moisture, gravity burns caloric energy. Yours burns memory."
He gestured again at the tray, a cold reminder of the vanished artifact.
Kael's stomach clenched. Fuel… memory?
He looked inward. A tiny blue box flickered to life before his eyes—the Compendium's core interface. He needed data, a confirmation of Kellan's claim. He focused on the shimmering ceiling sigils he had just been observing, and attempted a quick, intricate analysis: Calculate the harmonic resonance needed to stabilize the primary containment field's fluctuation within the tertiary runic array.
The complexity of the task was immense, yet the Aspect performed it instantly. The answer—a series of impossible, multi-dimensional geometric figures—came to him as clear as daylight. But with the knowledge came a sudden, sharp, mental pinch—like a candle wick being physically snuffed out deep in his mind.
Instantly, a sensation was gone: the unique, pervasive odor of the stale porridge of the orphanage, a smell Kael had learned to associate with hunger and security, the constant backdrop of his entire childhood. It wasn't that he forgot the orphanage, or that he ate porridge. It was the specific, visceral scent memory of that single, grinding reality, gone from his mind's palate.
Cold sweat slid down his neck. The Compendium pulsed once, faintly content, its energy reserves slightly topped up.
He understood then. The memory wasn't destroyed; it was consumed. It was stored—permanently—but now only within the Compendium's matrix, an archived data point inaccessible to Kael's organic mind. Without the Compendium, he would never reach it again. Every new thought logged there made the artifact stronger while hollowing him out piece by piece.
He whispered the chilling truth he had just quantified. "If I use it too much, it eats my memories?"
A whisper of fear coiled in his chest, tighter than any physical chain. If I let the Compendium devour my whole life, I'll be nothing but a hollow man wearing a mind that isn't mine.
The thought chilled him to the core. And yet, beneath the fear, something darker, something forged in seven hours of agony, stirred—a predator's calculus, cold and simple. If power demands that cost… then I'll pay it. If I must trade everything to win, then everything will burn.
Lilian's voice cut through the silence, crisp as steel and laced with proprietary anger.
"And when those memories are gone, you'll need more stones—or risk hollowing yourself out entirely. Don't start browsing your own past like a library, boy. The core memories go first."
Kael looked up, the adrenaline already sharpening his thoughts. "So that stone—"
"Wasn't yours," she interrupted sharply, folding her arms. "That was a research crystal, a stabilized sample containing a decade of advanced biomancy practice. You devoured a memory crystal worth a city's ransom and ten years of work. You owe me for that."
Kellan's mouth twitched, but he didn't interfere, seemingly enjoying the conflict between the two volatile forces.
Kael sat up slowly, testing the newfound tension in his muscles. "Then I suppose I should repay the debt. But, Healer, what you do is astonishing. The precision, the control—you're clearly a master of your craft." He wasn't flattering her; he was stating a fact the Aspect had verified.
The frost in her posture softened, if only slightly, in response to the genuine, analytical praise. "It takes decades of grueling, focused work," she said, though her tone held its usual professional formality.
Her gaze lingered on the faint, ethereal glow around his temples—the residual mana signature of the Compendium. "With that Aspect, you could contribute more than you realize. Your mind isn't just fast; it's an absolute knowledge engine. Have you ever considered learning biomancy?"
Kael blinked. "Me? I thought aspects defined what we couldn't learn."
"They help," Lilian said, stepping away from the table. "But anyone can channel any mana. Magic isn't bound by nature, only by discipline. Your Aspect would simply make it… easier. You could master in months what takes others years."
Kael's eyes sharpened, a cold detachment entering his voice. "That's the problem, then. You've grown too reliant on your Aspect. Your technique, while brilliant, has deficiencies—subtle, but consistent—that the Compendium was quick to log."
She froze, the compliment wiped clean by the critique. "Excuse me?" The question was quiet, but dangerously loaded.
"Your process is inefficient," Kael stated, his voice calm, detached, and utterly analytical, as if discussing the trajectory of a falling stone.
Lilian straightened, the air around her suddenly charged. Mana flared faintly around her fingers—a warning shot of raw power. "Inefficient? I am Healer Lilian Vance. I rebuilt a prince's heart while he held a conversation. Explain yourself before I decide you need immediate sedation."
Kael didn't flinch. He gestured toward the empty tray where the crystal had been, recalling the precise surgical sequence he'd witnessed and absorbed through her recorded memory.
"When you aligned the major organs in the procedure, you overused your Aspect to compensate for subtle instability in your raw mana channels. If you had relied more on pure, focused mana modulation—internal rhythm and not external Aspect pressure—the synchronization would've stabilized faster, and the tissue bond would've been cleaner."
He continued, calm as a physician dictating notes, forcing Lilian to follow the clinical logic. "Specifically, during the fusion of the radius and ulna, your Aspect initiated the mineral bond first, then the tissue. Bone and organ alignment should have been simultaneous. This requires a slight pulse increase—twelve percent—once the first dermal layer stabilizes. Bone accepts the mineral faster than you're allowing. Less time under reconstruction. You could save two full seconds per bone."
Lilian stared, her face a mask of outrage slowly cracking into disbelief. Her Aspect was an extension of herself; Kael was calling her very skill flawed.
"You're quoting my own method back to me," she managed, her voice strained.
"Your method," Kael said softly, a spark of pride flashing through the detachment, "refined."
The room held its breath. Kellan shifted his weight against the wall, his smirk finally gone, replaced by focused concentration.
Lilian broke the silence. She closed her eyes for a single heartbeat, then opened them, her gaze cold and challenging. "Prove it. The method for fusing the clavicle required a four-step gradient, correct? Show me the refined sequence now. Show me the modulation pattern that saves two seconds, or you're just parroting my memory back like a talking bird."
Kael didn't argue. He knew that Lilian, seeing his hesitation, was testing the limits of the Aspect. He looked inward, calling up the Compendium. Refine Biomancy Sequence: Clavicle Fusion, -2 Seconds.
The Compendium hummed, accepting the query. The cost was immediate and sharp. Kael felt a deep, wrenching loss—the memory of his name written in the official kingdom ledger for the first time, the single moment of pride he'd ever felt in his life. It was gone, a silent sacrifice to the calculation.
He opened his eyes. "The gradient is unnecessary, Healer. The four steps can be condensed to two: an immediate 40% density infusion, held for 0.4 seconds, followed by a 60% density pulse modulation at a 1.2-second rhythm to initiate cellular acceptance. The initial infusion bypasses the need for the stabilization step entirely."
Lilian truly looked at him—not as a patient, not as a subject, but as a peer. A flicker of awe, raw and unguarded, crossed her features before she hid it behind professional restraint.
A boy who can dissect and rewrite my process after one viewing… she thought, the realization stunning her. If I teach him, if I guide that mind, what could I learn in return? His existence alone could revolutionize our understanding of biomancy.
Her voice was quieter when she spoke, the tone now one of a master scientist proposing a dangerous experiment. "If you truly master this, you could rewrite the Royal Biomancy archives. Train others. Cut suffering by years. Maybe even let our bodies rival the elves' symmetry." A fleeting, painful bitterness crept into her tone at that word. "Those perfect beings are born for mana. We spend lifetimes just catching up."
Her eyes lifted, hard again, the pragmatist returning. "Is that what you want—to be a healer? Because if so, I'll erase your debt for the crystal, even pay you a stipend. I'll teach you, one class each week. You'll refine my craft, and I'll refine you."
Before Kael could answer, Kellan's tone sliced through the air, sharp and absolute.
"No."
He stepped forward, the smooth authority radiating off him condensing into hard reality. "Healer Lilian, remember who stands before you. You were chosen for this task by the Crown, and I personally vouched for you. To offer this boy instruction—this is an asset of the Crown—is not your right to barter."
Lilian's chin lifted, defiance quiet but sharp, meeting his stare. "And I remember who gave that order, Kellan. But I also remember the oath I took. If the Crown values this boy, then it must value what I can make of him. If you prefer, I can take this request to the Queen—she can ask the King directly on my behalf. Will that be acceptable to you?"
The air in the room seemed to tighten. She had played the political card perfectly, challenging his delegated authority with the highest possible human power structure.
"This is privileged information," Kellan said, his voice lowering into iron. "If anyone outside the King or the Council learns of this, you endanger us all. How would you explain to others that a newly awakened boy is being taught by none other than Lilian Vance herself?"
Lilian didn't flinch. "He has already absorbed my research. Do you want the boy to conduct his own experimentation? Because you know he will—and he could endanger himself or anyone nearby. His Aspect demands knowledge. If I don't guide that hunger, it will guide itself, and we'll all pay the price of his mistakes."
Kellan's jaw clenched, fury flashing in his eyes before hardening into resignation. Two forces of equal standing locked in silence—the Crown's will and the Healer's authority, neither yielding ground in the face of logic.
At last, he exhaled through his nose, a sound of profound frustration. "You realize what you're asking for. Weekly contact. Royal clearance. Private instruction with a classified Aspect. You'll be under scrutiny, Lilian. Every move you make will be documented."
She met his gaze head-on, her commitment absolute. "Then let them watch. I've worked under sharper eyes than theirs."
Kellan hesitated, then gave a single, reluctant nod. "One class. Weekly. In the infirmary wing. Every session logged, every moment observed. He does not leave your supervision, and you do not discuss his Aspect outside your ward, understood?"
"Done." Lilian extended her gloved hand—a gesture of finality.
He stared at it for a long, heavy heartbeat before taking it—not out of deference, but bitter necessity. The alliance was formed.
Kael watched the handshake in silence. The faint shimmer of their mana met like two currents, steady and restrained, acknowledging the other's force. To anyone else, it would have looked like a partnership. To Kael, it looked like ownership.
No one had asked him anything.
He was still the subject. The equation. The anomaly being passed between hands.
Kael clenched his fists beneath the thin sheet. I am just an asset to these people.
Inside, something hot coiled tight in his chest—a low, wordless anger that was far more potent than any fear. They spoke of him like a thing. A function.
Lilian and Kellan were still exchanging words, professional, cordial, already moving past him, discussing logistical details.
You all think I'm a tool to be studied, he thought. Fine. But even tools remember the hands that wield them, and eventually, tools get to choose what they cut.
He forced his expression calm, even respectfully attentive. But behind his eyes, the Compendium pulsed with faint, hungry light—listening, cataloging, and waiting.
For a brief, dangerous impulse, Kael reached inward and gave it a command. Evaluate outcomes: compliance versus resistance.
The Compendium obeyed instantly. A web of calculations unfolded across his vision—probability strings, projected trajectories of future conversations, resource allocations, and risk matrices blooming like geometric constellations. The Compendium's hum grew sharp, crystalline.
Then came the price.
A sudden hollowness opened in his mind, delicate and precise. Something familiar slipped away before he could grasp it—the smell of his first candle flame back at the orphanage, the one that had kept him company through long nights of study. He remembered the light, but not its warmth. The Compendium had taken it, fed on it, stored it as energy for the analysis.
The results appeared cold and complete: Compliance ensures survival. Resistance breeds strength. Both paths lead to control—eventually.
Kael exhaled, the decision tightening like a wire across his chest. So even the act of thinking costs me. Even understanding devours me.
He let the numbers fade, his gaze steady once more. Outwardly calm. Inwardly burning.