SERIS' POV;
They say magic reveals itself honestly.
No lies. No mercy.
When I was seven years old, my parents brought me to the Hall of Appraisal—a white-stone chamber filled with candles and whispers. Every child in Valcera stood there once, hands pressed to the Crystal Sphere, waiting to be told who they would become.
Fighters. Mages. Assassins. Tanks.
Heroes.
The crystal was bigger than me, smooth and cold, glowing faintly from within. I remember my fingers trembling as I touched it, heart racing with hope I didn't yet know how to restrain. Around me, parents held their breath. Some smiled already, certain greatness would answer.
The crystal brightened.
Light spilled across the floor, soft and warm, like sunrise through fog.
The elders leaned closer.
"Healing," one of them said at last.
The room fell silent.
Not the awe-filled silence I'd imagined. Not pride. Just… pause. Disappointment settling in like dust.
My mother's smile cracked.
My father exhaled sharply, as if someone had wasted his time.
"Support magic," the elder continued, voice flat. "Low combat potential. Rear-line role."
Rear-line.
Useless words, even then.
On the way home, my parents didn't speak to me. Not until the doors shut behind us, sealing the quiet into something sharp and heavy.
"Healing?" my father finally snapped. "That's it?"
My mother turned away, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Do you know how rare this opportunity is? And this is what you give us?"
I tried to explain. I didn't know what I was explaining—only that something inside me still glowed, warm and hopeful, refusing to believe it was wrong.
"I can help people," I said.
My father laughed.
"By standing aside?"
That was the first day I learned that healing wasn't considered magic.
It was maintenance.
From then on, disappointment lived in our house. It followed me into meals, into lessons, into every glance that slid past me toward children who could summon flame or harden skin into stone. My parents praised others freely—neighbors' sons who split targets in half, girls who bent lightning with a flick of their wrists.
And me?
I was told to be grateful.
I was told not to expect much.
I envied them—all of them. The children who burned bright and loud. The ones who were dangerous. The ones people watched. I watched them train from corners, hands tucked into my sleeves, memorizing movements I'd never be allowed to copy.
I had no talent for destruction.
No glory waited for healers.
So I learned to be quiet.
Books became my refuge. Old tomes with cracked spines and faded ink, filled with forgotten magic and half-erased histories. Stories where healers were more than background shadows. Where they decided the tide of wars, not just cleaned up after them.
The librarians didn't mind me. Books never told me to step aside.
I had no friends growing up. Children didn't know what to do with someone who couldn't fight back—or fight forward. I learned to sit still, to observe, to listen.
To survive by being useful without being seen.
By the time I was old enough to heal wounds instead of scraped knees, I already understood my place in the world.
Behind everyone else.
Where no one would notice if I broke.
I entered the Academy too early.
They said it was because I was "gifted," but I knew the truth. Healers were easier to place when they were young—before they learned to argue, before they realized they were allowed to say no. At twelve, I was already wearing the pale-gray robes of a novice healer, sleeves too long, cuffs always slipping over my hands.
The Academy was loud. Always loud.
Steel clashed in training yards. Magic burst and crackled in classrooms without walls. Students laughed easily, confidently, like the world had already agreed to love them. Fighters boasted. Mages argued about spell theory. Tanks stood tall and unafraid, armor clanking even when they walked slowly.
I kept my head down.
Then the war came.
No one called it a war at first. Just border unrest. Just a neighboring kingdom testing defenses. By the time the bells rang—deep and frantic—those words meant nothing anymore.
Smoke rose beyond the Academy walls.
I remember standing frozen in the courtyard, my heart pounding so loudly I thought others might hear it. Instructors shouted orders. Older students were handed weapons. Shields were dragged from armories. The air smelled like iron and ash and fear.
Everyone moved.
Except me.
I wasn't brave. I wanted to be, but bravery didn't come when called. It hid somewhere deep in my chest, curled tight and silent. My legs wouldn't move. My hands shook inside my sleeves.
I was still a child.
Someone grabbed my arm.
"Hey—healer!"
I looked up into the blood-smeared face of a tank, barely older than a student himself. His armor was cracked, dented inward near his shoulder. Blood soaked through the leather beneath.
"Fix it," he said, already turning away. "Now."
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"I— I've never—" I stammered.
He turned back sharply. "What do you mean, never?"
Another explosion shook the ground. Screams echoed from beyond the gate. The tank cursed under his breath.
"Don't tell me they sent a useless one."
The word hit harder than any blow.
My hands were trembling so badly I had to clench them together. I'd healed bruises. Cuts. Scrapes from training accidents. Never this. Never blood that poured so fast. Never someone who looked at me like their life was already mine to carry.
"Hurry up!" someone shouted behind him. "We're losing the line!"
I dropped to my knees in the dirt.
My fingers barely obeyed me as I pressed my palms to the broken armor. Light flickered—weak at first, unstable. Panic clawed up my throat.
Breathe, I told myself. You know this. You've read this.
But books never screamed at you while you worked.
"Stop shaking," the tank snapped. "What are you, scared?"
"Yes.
I was.
"I'm trying," I whispered.
"Trying won't keep me alive!"
My vision blurred. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, and I hated myself for it. I hated that my fear was visible, that everyone could see how small I was, how unfit I was to be here.
Someone laughed nearby. "Great. We got a scaredy-cat healer."
The word stuck.
Scaredy-cat.
Something inside me broke—not loudly, not dramatically. It was quiet, like a thread snapping. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the magic flow, unrestrained and clumsy and desperate.
The light flared.
The tank gasped as his wound sealed, flesh knitting together unevenly but whole. The bleeding stopped. His breath steadied.
He stared at me for a second—surprised.
Then he stood.
"About time," he muttered, already turning back toward the fight.
No thanks.
No relief.
Just expectation.
I stayed kneeling in the dirt long after he was gone, my hands burning, my chest aching like I'd been holding my breath for years. Around me, the war roared on, and I realized something then—something terrifying and permanent.
They didn't need me to be brave.
They just needed me to work.
They didn't stop calling for me after that.
Once they learned I could heal, fear turned into demand. Every time someone fell, someone shouted my name. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs shook beneath me, until the world narrowed into wounds and blood and light.
I healed cuts. I healed broken bones. I sealed burns that should have scarred for life.
I didn't know how to pace myself.
No one told me to.
Each spell pulled harder than the last, draining something warm and vital from my chest. My hands grew numb. The golden light dulled, flickering instead of flowing. I could feel the emptiness spreading inside me, like a well scraped too deep.
Still, I kept going.
Because every time I slowed, someone yelled.
"Move, healer!"
"Over here!"
"Do your job!"
By the time the sun dipped low and the screams finally thinned, I could barely stand. My knees buckled as I finished sealing the last wound, my vision going dark at the edges.
I tried to take a step.
I collapsed instead.
Cold stone pressed against my cheek. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't feel the magic anymore—no warmth, no glow. Just hollow exhaustion.
"Get up."
I forced my eyes open. A fellow student stood over me, arms crossed.
"What are you doing lying there?"
"I— I need to rest," I whispered. "I can't— I don't have any mana left."
He scoffed. "Already? We're still cleaning up out there."
Another voice joined in. "He's always like this. Healed a bit and now he thinks he deserves a break."
Lazy.
The word spread fast.
Someone fetched a teacher.
Master Rellion arrived with his staff clicking sharply against the ground, robes pristine despite the chaos. His eyes flicked to the wounded still being carried past—and then to me on the floor.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"I'm empty," I said softly. "I can't cast anymore."
He didn't lower his voice.
"You healers always say that," he snapped. "As if exhaustion excuses abandonment."
"I didn't abandon anyone," I said. My throat tightened. "I healed until I couldn't."
"Then you should have managed yourself better," he replied coldly. "Real healers don't collapse in the middle of crisis."
The words struck deeper than any insult that day.
Real healers.
"So what are you, then?" he continued. "A burden? A child playing at magic while others bleed?"
The courtyard had gone quiet. Students watched. Fighters. Mages. Tanks.
No one spoke for me.
Something burned in my chest—not magic. Not fear.
Anger.
It surprised me with its heat.
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to scream that they had dragged me into a war before I was ready. That they had used me until there was nothing left. That mana was not endless, and neither was I.
But I said nothing.
I swallowed it all.
Still, the anger stayed.
It settled deep inside me, steady and patient, like an ember waiting for air.
That was the first time I realized something important.
I wasn't angry because they were wrong.
I was angry because they would never listen—even if they were.
When the fighting finally stopped, everyone was given rest.
Fighters sat with their backs against stone walls, laughing softly as they cleaned blood from their blades. Mages lay on the grass, drained but smiling, comparing scorch marks like trophies. Tanks were escorted away first, armor unfastened by careful hands, wounds inspected with urgency and respect.
Everyone was tired.
Everyone deserved it.
Except me.
I was told to remain standing.
"Punishment," Master Rellion said, voice flat. "For abandoning your post."
I didn't argue. I wasn't sure I had the strength left to form the words.
So I stood there, swaying slightly, watching as the world slowed down around me. My hands still ached, empty and useless. No warmth answered when I tried to summon the light—only a dull echo, like knocking on a door no one would open.
I wondered if this was what it felt like to be broken.
They ate while I stood there.
Bread was passed around. Meat, warm and steaming, torn apart with grateful hands. Water skins moved from person to person. Laughter drifted easily through the air, light and relieved.
No one looked at me.
When the food ran low, someone finally remembered I existed.
A plate was set down near my feet—scraps of bread hardened at the edges, meat gone cold and stripped to bone. Leftovers.
"Don't waste it," someone said. Not unkindly. Not kindly either.
I crouched and ate slowly, forcing my shaking hands to cooperate. Each bite tasted like ash. My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from something heavier.
I kept thinking:
Without me, they would be dead.
Without me, they would be limping. Scarred. Broken forever.
But the thought felt wrong. Arrogant. Ugly.
No one said thank you.
Not once.
Later, I caught sight of the other healers—older ones, properly trained. They sat together beneath a tree, robes clean, faces calm. They laughed softly, sharing water, adjusting bandages on each other's wrists.
They looked… fine.
Whole.
Untouched.
I stared too long.
A terrible thought crept in, quiet and cruel:
Maybe I am the problem.
Maybe I drained too fast. Maybe I was too weak. Maybe a better healer wouldn't have collapsed. Maybe real healers didn't need rest, didn't need praise, didn't need acknowledgment.
Maybe I deserved this.
I hugged my arms around myself as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the ground. The world felt colder then, heavier.
That night, as everyone slept, I lay awake and stared at the ceiling, replaying every mistake, every hesitation, every tremble of my hands.
I promised myself something in the dark.
I would never collapse again.
Even if it killed me.
Punishment eventually becomes boring.
Standing still, being ignored, swallowing shame—it all loses its sting when it happens long enough. By the third day, I stopped counting the hours and started counting the cracks in the stone walls.
That was when I went to the library.
No one stopped me. No one ever did. The library was considered harmless—a place for theory, not power. Fighters didn't like it. Tanks had no patience for it. Even most mages preferred practice yards to pages.
For me, it was the only place that felt alive.
The doors creaked open, and the familiar scent of old parchment and dust wrapped around me like something kind. Shelves stretched endlessly upward, packed tight with books of every size and age. Some were bound in leather, others in cracked wood or metal etched with runes long faded.
I breathed easier here.
Darkness didn't bother me. It never had. Even as the sun dipped and candles burned low, the words on the pages remained clear—as if the shadows simply stepped aside for me. I never questioned it. There were many strange things about magic. This seemed small in comparison.
I read.
I always read.
Time slipped past unnoticed. Page after page, shelf after shelf. Histories of forgotten wars. Theories of mana flow. Failed spellwork. Broken doctrines. I moved through the aisles instinctively, pulling books free, stacking them, devouring their contents without effort.
At some point, I looked up.
And froze.
Half the shelves were empty.
Books lay open around me, stacked haphazardly, spines cracked, pages fluttering faintly in a breeze that didn't exist. My heart skipped.
That wasn't possible.
I'd only been here a few hours.
I counted in my head. Recounted. Tried to feel tired.
I wasn't.
My eyes didn't ache. My mind didn't blur. If anything, I felt… clear. Focused. Like something had finally aligned.
Confusion prickled, but I didn't dwell on it. I'd learned early that questions rarely earned answers—only suspicion. So I did what I always did.
I kept reading.
It was near the back of the library, behind a row of medical records no one ever touched, that I noticed it.
A book that glowed.
Not brightly. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice—a faint, steady light leaking from between its covers like a held breath. Dust coated it thickly, untouched, as if the shelves themselves had forgotten it existed.
My pulse quickened.
I reached out before I could stop myself.
The moment my fingers brushed the cover, warmth spread up my arm—gentle, familiar. Like healing magic, but deeper. Older.
I opened it.
The pages were filled with diagrams and annotations, written in precise, elegant script. Not battlefield patchwork. Not emergency sealing.
True healing.
Bone reconstruction. Nerve restoration. Mana circulation. Soul-binding cautions written in red ink. Entire sections devoted to restraint—to knowing when not to heal.
I swallowed.
This wasn't novice material.
This wasn't even Academy material.
It was… complete.
Every application of healing magic laid bare. Every consequence carefully documented. Margins filled with warnings, failures, revisions. Dust clung to the pages like proof it hadn't been opened in years—maybe decades.
Maybe longer.
I didn't understand how I could read it.
I only knew that I could.
As the candlelight flickered, the glow from the book strengthened slightly, responding—not to my mana—but to me.
For the first time since the crystal told me who I was, I felt something unfamiliar settle into my chest.
Not shame.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Like the book had been waiting.
And somehow—
So had I.
I turned the page carefully, as if the book might vanish if I moved too quickly.
The next section wasn't written like a manual.
It was written like a record.
Illustrations filled the margins—figures cloaked in light, standing not behind armies but within them. Healers at the center of battle, hands raised not in panic, but in command. Their magic didn't just close wounds.
It shaped the war.
I leaned closer, breath shallow.
They were called Heroes of Restoration.
Each name was written in gold ink, faded but proud.
One healer wielded Temporal Mending, restoring bodies to a moment before damage existed at all. Another practiced Shared Burden, drawing wounds into themselves and surviving what should have killed armies. There were healers who redirected pain, healers who rewrote scars, healers who could deny death outright—but only once.
Different healing.
Different rules.
Each description was meticulous, detailing not just what they could do, but how they chose to do it. Restraint. Judgment. Cost. Always cost.
These healers weren't praised because they stood behind heroes.
They were praised because they were heroes.
My hands trembled—not with fear this time, but with something close to longing.
I'd never heard these names before.
They weren't taught in the Academy. They weren't sung about. Their stories had been buried beneath centuries of simpler truths—safer truths.
That healers were weak.
That healers followed.
That healers obeyed.
I kept reading.
And then—
The pages changed.
The ink grew denser, tighter, less instructional and more… alive. The headings disappeared, replaced by flowing script. Paragraphs stretched longer. Dialogue appeared.
This wasn't a record anymore.
It was a story.
A healer traveling with heroes who feared their power more than the enemy. A healer forced to choose who deserved saving when resources ran thin. A healer who learned that healing without judgment could doom entire kingdoms.
My heart pounded as I read.
The story wasn't neat. It wasn't triumphant. It was heavy, full of regret and consequence. People died—not because the healer was weak, but because they chose not to intervene.
Because sometimes, healing everyone was the greatest cruelty of all.
I forgot where I was.
The library faded. The candle burned low. The world narrowed into words and meaning and terrible understanding. This story wasn't just history.
It was a warning.
At the end of the chapter, a single line was written larger than the rest, pressed so deeply into the page the parchment had nearly torn:
Healing is not mercy.
It is authority.
I stared at the words until my vision blurred.
All my life, I had been told to step aside. To mend quietly. To never decide anything that mattered.
But this book—
This book said I could.
I closed it slowly, my pulse loud in my ears.
For the first time, I didn't feel like a mistake.
I felt like something unfinished.
I didn't sleep.
The book stayed hidden beneath my mattress, wrapped in cloth, its presence heavier than its weight should have been. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the words again—diagrams of flowing light, annotations warning of imbalance, reminders written by someone who had known exactly what it meant to give too much.
By dawn, I made my decision.
The Academy was still asleep when I slipped outside. The halls were dark and echoing, candles burned low, their flames barely stirring as I passed. No guards stopped me. No teachers questioned me. Healers were invisible when they weren't needed.
The backyard lay beyond the training grounds—a quiet stretch of earth bordered by old trees and broken stone markers from battles long forgotten. Dew clung to the grass, cold against my bare ankles. The sky was pale, the sun not yet brave enough to rise.
It was perfect.
My hands shook as I pulled the book free and opened it to the page I'd marked.
Mana Restoration.
Not potions.
Not rest.
Reclamation.
The script was careful here, almost gentle.
Mana is not empty, the author had written.
It is displaced.
I swallowed.
All my training had taught me the opposite—that mana was a reservoir, once drained, useless until refilled through sleep or artificial aid. This page suggested something else entirely.
I sat cross-legged on the damp ground and closed my eyes.
The instructions were precise.
Do not pull.
Do not force.
Listen.
I did.
At first, there was nothing—only the familiar hollow ache in my chest, the echo left behind after too much healing. Panic stirred instinctively. This was the feeling I hated most. This was weakness.
I almost stopped.
Then I remembered the tank's voice.
What are you, scared?
I inhaled slowly.
Instead of reaching outward, I turned inward.
I listened.
Something stirred.
Not bright. Not loud. A faint current beneath the emptiness, like warmth buried under snow. My breath caught. Carefully—so carefully—I followed it, guiding it back the way the book described.
The sensation was… strange.
Mana didn't flood in.
It returned.
A gentle pulse spread through my chest, soft and steady, like a heartbeat I hadn't realized was missing. My fingers tingled. The ache eased—not vanished, but soothed.
Light flickered around my hands.
I opened my eyes.
Golden threads coiled lazily around my palms, stable and calm—not the frantic glow I was used to during battle. Tears welled before I could stop them.
It worked.
Not completely. I could feel the limit—clear and honest. I wasn't full. I wasn't invincible.
But I wasn't empty anymore.
I laughed softly, clapping a hand over my mouth as if the sound itself might give me away. My chest felt lighter, my thoughts clearer.
So this was what they never taught us.
So this was what they hid.
I looked down at my hands, still glowing faintly in the early morning light, and something settled into place inside me.
If I could restore my mana—
Then collapsing wasn't inevitable.
Then exhaustion wasn't a failure.
Then maybe…
I wasn't weak.
The sun began to rise, spilling gold across the grass. I closed the book quickly and stood, brushing dirt from my robes.
By the time the Academy woke, I would be standing behind everyone again.
But now—
I had a secret.
And for the first time, I knew exactly what to do when my mana ran dry.
I was still staring at my hands when I heard footsteps.
I froze.
Panic shot through me as I snapped the book shut and shoved it beneath my robes. The glow around my fingers faded quickly, but not quickly enough. I turned just as a shadow stretched across the grass.
"I knew it."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He stood a few steps away, tall even without armor, hair tied back messily. The same tank. The one from the war. The one who'd called me a scaredy-cat while bleeding all over the courtyard.
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but curiosity. "You're practicing before dawn?"
"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard. "I wasn't— I mean— I was just—"
He raised a hand. "Relax. I'm not here to report you."
That didn't help. My shoulders were stiff, my hands clenched so tightly my nails bit into my skin. I wasn't used to being confronted—not like this. Not one-on-one. Usually, attention meant blame.
He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against the grass.
"That spell just now," he said. "That wasn't standard Academy healing."
I felt heat rush to my face. "You shouldn't have seen it."
He laughed—quiet, surprised. "You healed yourself, didn't you?"
I nodded, barely.
For a moment, he just stared at me. Then he did something unexpected.
He held out his hand.
"I'm Toren," he said. "Toren Hale."
I blinked at it.
A handshake.
I'd seen others do it a thousand times. Fighters. Friends. Teammates. But no one had ever offered me one. I hesitated too long, staring at his hand like it might disappear.
He didn't pull it back.
So I reached out.
My grip was weak. Awkward. I wasn't sure how long I was supposed to hold on. Toren didn't seem to mind. He smiled—a little crooked, a little embarrassed.
"Seris," I said quietly. "My name is Seris."
"Seris," he repeated, like he was testing how it sounded. "You know… back then, during the war—"
My stomach dropped.
"I shouldn't have said that," he continued. "The scaredy-cat thing. I was bleeding and angry and honestly terrified. You were just… there."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"I didn't thank you," he added. "For healing me."
The words hit harder than any insult had.
"Oh," I said stupidly.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "So. Thanks."
Silence settled between us—not heavy this time. Just unfamiliar.
"I didn't know healers could do that," Toren said, glancing at where the glow had been. "Restore mana like that."
"They can't," I replied before I could stop myself.
He looked back at me, brows lifting.
"I mean—" I corrected quickly. "They're not supposed to."
Toren grinned. "Figures."
We stood there as the sun crept higher, painting the yard gold. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't feel like shrinking away.
"I should go," I said eventually. "Before someone else wakes up."
"Yeah," he said. Then, after a beat, "Hey, Seris?"
I looked back.
"You're not weak," he said simply. "You were just scared. Everyone was."
I nodded, throat tight.
As I walked away, the book pressed warm against my side, and something unfamiliar followed me back into the Academy halls.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But the fragile, dangerous feeling that maybe—
I didn't have to be alone anymore.
TO BE CONTINUED.