"Sanare. Caro."
"Ow!... it hurts..."
"Reficere. Vitae."
My hand burned as if I had plunged it into boiling water. Goosebumps ran across my skin, my muscles twitching from a sharp flash of pain. My entire right arm glowed with a pale green light, especially where the deep cuts were.
"Stop whining. You shouldn't have tried to chop your own hand off," Zenith's voice sounded distant, but her lips were pressed tight.
She sat across from me, holding her palms over my arm with full concentration. Healing magic. Rare—and only used by people who were connected to the Church in one way or another. Even the language used for these spells was different.
Zenith herself had once trained to become a church priestess. And although I couldn't imagine her as a nun preaching sermons, she had been one, at least partly.
"I wasn't trying to chop anything off," I muttered, watching her fingers. "How was I supposed to know magic could hurt the caster?"
"Right... Who could've guessed that magic might be dangerous. You might as well try swallowing a sword and then wonder why your insides got turned into mush."
She pulled her hands back, but the pain was still pulsing under my skin, as if something was slowly eating through the muscles.
I clenched my teeth. Magic was supposed to be... convenient.
Back on Earth, I watched movies, read books, played games where magic always followed rules.
Sure, they said it was dangerous, but in reality it was pretty safe. When needed—it killed enemies. When not—it couldn't even singe a hair. It never went out of control. It never hurt its caster.
But now my arm was burning, and I was starting to doubt those rules.
"Is it just my bad luck? Or do other mages hurt themselves like this?"
"If you lived in Sharia for a while, you'd understand fast... Those lunatics have someone blowing up every day," Zenith leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.
"Blowing up?"
I froze. Blowing up? People? Every day? In my world that would've become a sensation, plastered all over the news. And here it was talked about like it was normal.
"Or dying," she shrugged. "Or turning into something that needs to be burned immediately."
A shadow crossed her face.
"Why do you think people don't like mages?"
"Because they're super cool?"
"Ha. Because nobody wants to live next to a bomb that can go off at any moment."
She stood up, grabbed a pitcher from the table, and poured a bit of thick, dark-blue liquid into a cup.
"Water."
After she spoke the word, water appeared in the cup as if from nowhere.
I sighed internally, already sensing I'd have to drink it.
A couple of days ago Paul went to the duchy's capital to find a magic teacher for me. When he came back, he said he couldn't promise anything, but someone would probably respond soon. A magic teacher... I had nearly died just trying to get one.
"Drink."
I sniffed it carefully. It smelled like herbs and something sharp, like vinegar.
"You're sure this isn't poison?"
"I'm sure," she crossed her arms. "But if you don't drink it, you'll be screaming in pain tomorrow."
I grimaced and took a sip. It tasted like I had just licked rotting wood. I swallowed, trying not to gag, but my throat tightened in disgust.
"That's disgusting..."
"Paul said the same," Zenith smirked. "You know what he said after the first sip?"
"...what?"
"'I'd rather die.'"
I exhaled heavily.
"What, you don't like it? Next time, don't aim your spell at yourself and you won't have to drink this again."
"I get it. I get it. You tell me that every time..."
"And I also told you magic is dangerous and not for children. Apparently not clearly enough."
She sighed, shook her head, and left the room, leaving me with the bitter taste in my mouth and a hand that was still throbbing.
A few minutes later, I felt weakness spreading through my body, and my eyes began closing on their own. I didn't want to fall asleep, but that blue concoction had done its job. If I fall asleep then... meet... and on the next...
***
The next morning.
"You want to study healing magic?" Zenith looked at me with narrowed eyes. There was a trace of doubt in her voice.
"Yes."
I kept my calm, but inside I was tense. This was an important moment. I had already understood that magic wasn't just flashy effects. It was alive, wild, and could kill if not controlled. And if I couldn't heal myself, I would simply bleed out before I even got up.
Zenith hesitated, glanced at my hand, and I noticed her lips press together slightly. That gesture said too much. She blamed herself. She was angry. At whom? At me? At herself? At magic?
"I've already told you…" she stopped herself, glancing at my fingers again.
I carefully unclenched my fist and looked at my hand. The scars were still there—proof of my mistake. A mistake I wasn't planning to repeat.
"Well, I realized magic can hurt," I shrugged. "So if I want to be a mage, I should know how to heal my own wounds."
Zenith smirked, but I saw something else in her eyes. She tried to hide her emotions, but it was clear my words had struck her.
"You don't want me to die, right?" I asked.
"Stupid question," she snorted.
"Then teach me to heal myself."
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers tapped on the table, her eyes narrow. I'd seen that look before. She was thinking, weighing everything. She knew I needed this, but she was afraid.
I decided to push a little more.
"And what if I accidentally get hurt again?.." I continued. "If I'm bleeding out… I'll need healing…"
A sigh.
She sighed. I knew I had almost broken through her resistance.
"It's harder than you think."
She hesitated, but quickly pulled herself together.
"That magic requires a different understanding… You need to know the structure, the principles. You have to know the church language… It can't be taught to the uninitiated…" she stopped.
I caught her doubt and immediately used it.
"But you know it yourself. You can teach me. How would the Church find out?"
Zenith bit her lip. Something inside her was fighting. I felt the answer was close. She knew how. She could. But she wasn't rushing.
"Yes, but…" her voice softened. "It's a different language. A different system. It's not like yours. It works differently. And… it might be hard for you to accept it."
I frowned.
"Why?"
She hesitated. Something like regret flashed in her eyes.
"Because you're made differently, Rudy."
I wanted to ask what exactly she meant, but she was already looking away, as if regretting what she'd said. Her fingers tapped the table.
"I need to think," she finally said.
Not "no." But not "yes," either.
She left. I watched her back as she walked away.
***
Zenith sat in the kitchen, leaning her elbows on the table, replaying her conversation with Rudy for what felt like the tenth time that day.
"You don't want me to die, right?"
A stupid question. Of course she didn't.
But could she really allow herself to just give him what he was asking for?
Her fingers brushed the rim of her cup. The tea had long grown cold, but she hadn't noticed. Her thoughts drifted back, to the days when she herself first heard the church's incantations.
She had been twelve when they brought her to the seminary. On the very first morning, the instructor made everyone stand and, without wasting a moment, began reciting words that had sounded foreign and mysterious to her back then.
"Sanatio per cruorem fiat. Caro in statum pristinum redigatur. Texturae reconsitutae sint. Flumen animae, iterum fluat."
She repeated them again and again, until her tongue tangled and her head ached from the strain.
These aren't just words, they told her. — This is a gift that descends to us through the Church. A power meant only for the chosen.
The church language. Sacred words. A secret reserved only for the initiated.
You cannot teach this to others. You cannot pass this knowledge to those who have not been blessed. This is forbidden to ordinary mortals.
They hammered that into her every day until it became part of her. She hadn't been fanatical. But back then, she believed.
And now… now she looked at her son, who, without a teacher or guidance, had grasped magic in a way no child ever should. He had already crossed a line.
The Laplace Factor.
She closed her eyes and took a slow breath.
If she started teaching him, she would break every rule she had been taught. The Church would never approve. But was this really about the Church? Or about her? Why was she holding onto those dogmas so tightly?
Wasn't it her duty to protect him?
But what if someone found out? What if he said something to the wrong person? What if someone saw him use that magic? The Church didn't tolerate those who crossed boundaries. And Asura was full of zealots who would latch onto that like a pack of wolves.
A boy wielding the sacred language without initiation? Heresy!
She would be signing his death sentence.
Too dangerous.
But if she didn't teach him… who would? Would that person be worthy of her trust? And if Rudeus kept studying magic on his own, without guidance…
A heavy sigh escaped her lips.
He didn't act like a child. There was something… too aware in his eyes. And that terrified her. He didn't understand what he looked like to others.
If someone saw him as a threat… if they realized what he could become…
A tap of her fingers on the table.
Teach him? Or forbid him? Give him knowledge that could save his life? Or leave him ignorant, hoping he wouldn't do anything reckless again?
Rudeus was too smart to stop. If not her, he'd find someone else. He'd dive into books, try to decipher texts on his own, learn magic the way he already had. But how many hands would he injure before understanding how things worked?
She felt cornered. Whatever she chose would change a lot.
Soft footsteps sounded. Zenith looked up. Lilia entered the kitchen. As always, with her usual composed expression, calm, as if it didn't surprise her at all to find the lady of the house sitting in the dark, staring into a cold cup.
"You're not in bed."
"Yes," Zenith replied.
Lilia looked at her appraisingly, then moved to the cupboard, took a new cup, and poured herself tea. Her movements were as always—precise, practiced, as if she knew what to do in any situation. Even this one.
"You're thinking about him," she said.
Zenith closed her eyes.
"He wants me to teach him church magic," she finally said.
"He does." Lilia sat down across from her. "And you're wondering if you should agree."
Zenith didn't reply. Lilia waited patiently.
"It's…" Zenith rubbed her temples, then covered her face with her hands. "It's forbidden, Lilia. This language is meant only for the initiated. I left the Church, but these rules…"
"Are they really that important?" Lilia tilted her head slightly.
Zenith opened her eyes and stared at the table.
"I don't know…" something unfamiliar slipped into her voice. "I don't know what's right. If I refuse, he'll find a way anyway. He won't stop. He's too stubborn."
Lilia took a sip of her tea but didn't look away.
"I don't see the problem. If he wants to learn, he should learn properly."
"It's not just magic," Zenith replied sharply. "It's… it's a sacred language. It's—"
"It's a tool," Lilia said calmly. "In your hands. In his. What it becomes depends on the one who uses it."
Zenith rubbed her face again, sighed, and lifted her head.
"If someone finds out…"
"No one will," Lilia said firmly. "You said it yourself—he's too smart to stop. Then better he has someone who can guide him."
Zenith drew in a slow, heavy breath.
Silence.
"…Fine…" she muttered. "I'll teach him."
Lilia gave a slight nod, finished her tea, and stood.
"That is the right choice."
She left, leaving Zenith alone with her decision.
There was no turning back now.