Chapter 23: Fractured Mana, Burning Rage
Magic's a gift—not everyone's got it.
The guild checks kids young with a magic orb: it glows green for earth, sparkling silver for lightning, twirling white for wind, cool blue for water, bright red for fire.
If the orb lights up for you, that's your best magic—you can learn the rest, but they'll never hit as hard.
Some folks' orbs don't glow at all—no magic, just steel and guts to fight with.
And then there's golden—the glow of irregular magic, a gift only noble families bear.
Every noble line has their own golden specialty, a magic untamed by the common hues, powerful and unique to their blood.
Hannah's orb blazed golden the day she was tested—no guild master could name her family's specialty.
Her magic's wild, untethered, bends every spell to its own will and hits harder than it should… but it drains her dry when she pushes it too far.
She'd pushed it way too far.
The golden mana that had roared through her veins moments before was a faint, dying flicker in her chest, a candle snuffed by a storm.
Her head throbbed, her limbs heavy, her fingers tingling with the raw burn of overchanneled magic—
every spell she'd cast, every amplified Spark, every healing touch, every fireball that had turned goblins to ash, had been magic far beyond her untrained capacity, beyond even the third ring Mimi taught.
She was empty.
Weak.
A fighter with a dagger but no strength to swing it, a mage with a spark but no mana to light it.
And the dark answered with teeth.
The growl swelled, deep and guttural, shaking the stone walls so hard pebbles rained down.
The smoke cleared just enough to reveal them: a horde of goblins, twice the number they'd cut down, their eyes red and feral, and at their head—a troll.
It stood twice as tall as Bart, its skin a sickly green, matted with blood and grime, its arms thick as tree trunks, its hands curled around a club hewn from a stone-laden log, the wood splintered, the stone jagged and sharp.
Its eyes were molten red, its mouth full of yellowed fangs, and it let out a roar that split the air, the sound of it making the women whimper, making Mike's bowstring vibrate, making Hannah's already fragile mana flinch.
The goblins charged first, a tidal wave of claws and spears, but Bart and Mike moved faster—protect.
Bart raised his axe, his roar matching the troll's, and charged the front line, cleaving goblins in two, his armor taking the brunt of their strikes, his scarred jaw set in a grim line.
Mike loosed arrow after arrow, his hands steady despite the tremor in his arms, picking off goblins that slipped past Bart, his eyes never leaving the troll, the real threat.
"Hannah, back!" Bart shouted, his axe sinking into a goblin's skull, blood spraying his face. "We've got the front—you're no good to anyone if you're dead!"
Mimi stepped in beside her, her staff glowing with a faint, sputtering blue, her face pale with exhaustion, her own mana all but gone.
"Your mana's depleted. You pushed it too hard—those amplified golden spells drain even seasoned noble mages. You need to rest, to conserve what little you have left."
Hannah nodded, her grip on her dagger loose, her legs shaking.
She tried to reach for the golden flicker in her chest, to summon even a tiny Spark—nothing. Just a cold, empty ache, a burn that traveled from her chest to her fingertips.
She was useless. A dead weight.
The troll broke through the goblin horde then, its club swinging in a wide arc, sending Bart stumbling back, his axe flying from his hand, a cry of pain torn from his throat as the club grazed his shoulder, the stone splitting his armor, sinking into his flesh.
The troll roared in triumph, and the goblins cackled, their attacks growing fiercer, emboldened by their leader's strength.
"Bart!" Mike shouted, loosing an arrow at the troll's eye—it bounced off its thick skull, useless.
The troll turned, its red eyes locking on Mike, and took a step forward, the ground shaking under its weight.
Hannah moved.
She didn't think—she just moved, the last of her physical strength propelling her forward, her dagger raised.
She lunged for the troll's leg, aiming for the soft flesh behind its knee, but it swatted her away like a fly, its massive hand slamming into her chest.
The air was driven from her lungs in a gasp.
Pain exploded through her ribs, sharp and blinding, and she flew backward, her body slamming into the stone cave wall with a sickening crack.
Her dagger clattered to the floor, out of reach. Her vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges, and she coughed—hot, coppery blood filled her mouth, and she spat it out, the red splattering the cold stone at her feet.
Weak. So weak.
"Weak human!"
Ren's voice was a snarl in her skull, loud and sharp, a cry of frustration and rage—grief. And then he attacked.
No one saw him. No one could.
But the air around the troll twisted, as if something invisible was tearing at it.
The troll roared, swatting at the empty air, its club swinging wildly, its eyes wide with confusion and pain.
It clutched at its throat, its massive hands scrabbling, as if an invisible fist was squeezing it, and it stumbled back, a gurgle torn from its mouth.
It slammed its club into the ground, the stone cracking, but the invisible attack only grew fiercer—its arm twisted, a sickening pop echoing through the cave, and it howled, blood streaming from its nose and mouth.
The group froze.
Bart, mid-swing at a goblin, stopped, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
Mike's arrow hung loose in his fingers, his gaze fixed on the troll, which was fighting thin air.
Mimi's staff dimmed, her brow furrowed in shock.
The goblins faltered, their cackles dying, their attacks slowing, as they stared at their leader, who was being torn apart by nothing.
No one looked at Hannah.
No one connected the troll's agony to the girl crumpled against the wall, bleeding, broken, a dragon's rage burning in her skull—and noble golden magic thrumming faint in her veins.
"Hannah." Mimi's voice was sharp, urgent, and she stumbled to her side, dropping to her knees, her fingers pressing to Hannah's chest, her staff glowing with the last of her blue light.
"Mana depletion—severe. Your golden core's fractured from overchanneling. You need a mana potion, now."
Hannah tried to speak, but another cough wracked her body, more blood spilling from her lips. She shook her head, her vision swimming.
No potions.
They'd used the last of theirs on the road to the dungeon, on Bart's alpha orc wound, on Mike's spear graze. Mimi's bag was empty. Bart's pouch was bare. Mike had none.
"Here."
A soft voice, trembling but steady.
The blonde girl—the youngest one Hannah had saved—stepped forward, her hands outstretched, a small glass vial clutched in her fingers, the liquid inside a glowing blue, thick and syrupy.
She'd pulled it from a small pouch at her hip, hidden under her tattered tunic, a pouch the goblins had missed, too busy with their whips and knives to frisk her properly.
"I… I have one. Only one. The goblins took the rest, but I hid this. Thank god you found me before they checked again."
Mimi grabbed the vial, her fingers shaking, and pried open Hannah's mouth.
"Drink it. All of it. It's bitter, it's thick, but it'll refill your golden core—enough to get you on your feet, at least."
Hannah fought it, her jaw tight, but Mimi pressed the vial to her lips, and the blue liquid poured down her throat.
It was awful.
Bitter as gall, syrupy as mud, burning as fire, the taste of it making her gag, her eyes water, her nose wrinkle. It seared her throat, her tongue, her stomach, and she coughed, spitting out a little, but Mimi held her jaw closed, forcing her to swallow the rest.
When the vial was empty, Mimi pulled it away, and Hannah gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her tongue burning.
"Ewww. I don't like it," she grumbled, her voice hoarse, thick with blood and the taste of the potion.
The blue liquid hit her golden mana core like a lightning strike.
A warm, thrumming golden energy spread through her chest, seeping into her veins, her bones, her fingertips.
The cold emptiness faded, the burn of overchanneling dulled, the golden flicker in her chest flaring back to life—a small flame, but a flame nonetheless.
Her vision cleared, the black spots fading, the pain in her ribs dulling to a throb. She pushed herself up from the wall, her legs still shaky, but steady.
She reached for her dagger, and her fingers closed around the hilt, cold and familiar.
She was not full. Not even close. But she was awake. Alive.
And she saw him.
Ren.
No longer just a voice in her skull.
A small, shimmering shape, barely the size of her hand, floating in the air before the troll, his scales a brilliant gold and red—matching her noble magic—his wings beating fast, his small jaws clamped around the troll's twisted arm, his red eyes blazing with rage.
He was camouflaged—faint, almost transparent, like heat haze on stone—so no one else could see him, but Hannah could.
She saw every bite, every claw strike, every blast of golden lightning he summoned, searing the troll's skin, lightning that mirrored her own irregular noble magic but burned twice as bright, hit twice as hard.
He was fighting for her, fighting for the group, fighting with every ounce of his dragon strength, and he was winning.
"Weak human! You're still alive!" Ren's voice was a cheer in her skull, bright and proud, even as he sank his fangs into the troll's neck and let loose another crackle of golden lightning.
Hannah smiled, a cold, sharp smile, wiping blood from her chin. She gripped her dagger tight, the golden mana in her chest thrumming, small but fierce.
"I'm not going down. Not today."
Bart and Mike were still fighting the goblins, their strength fading, their weapons slick with blood, the horde pressing in, emboldened by the troll's brief recovery (it had shaken off Ren's initial attack, its arm hanging limp, but it was still standing).
Mimi was on her knees, her staff dim, her mana gone, unable to cast even a Light Weave.
The three women huddled behind them, trembling, helpless.
The troll was regaining its footing, its red eyes locking on Hannah once more, its good hand curling around its club, ready to strike.
.
.
.
To be continue...