Eight years have passed since that first Dra'kor. Eight long years marked by training, study and wounds, some visible... others not so much. I'm fourteen now, and according to the laws of the Oni tribe, that makes me of legal age. There is no ceremony, no celebrations. Here, maturity is demonstrated by surviving.
But not everything has been learning and strength.
Asha fell ill a few days ago. At first it was just dizziness, tiredness and a dry cough. Everyone said it was a common thing among our people, a disease as old as the mountains that we Oni carry in our blood. They call it "Kuratsai", and although it is not usually deadly, it can land you in the grave if not treated in time. But of course... We don't have access to the right medicines.
The tribe considers that if you cannot overcome the disease with your natural strength, you are not worthy to follow the clan's path.
A complete stupidity.
My father doesn't show it, but I know he's devastated. He has barely left the hut in days. I... I try to stand my ground. For her.
Tonight, however, there is no room for weakness.
Today I participate for the first time in the "Tsukigaen", the Full Moon Fight. An ancestral tradition where young people who have reached the age of majority measure their power in a night combat in front of the entire tribe. A duel without weapons, without magic, only hand-to-hand... to show that you are ready to protect, kill or die for your people.
The combat field is located in the highest area of the central ravine. Torches surround the area with flashing orange light, and the drums sound like a steady tribal heartbeat.
I'm barefoot, bare-chested. The rune on my skin glows a faint hue, as if I sense what's to come.
My opponent is already on the other side of the circle. I don't know him well. He's bigger than me, stockier... but his eyes are full of uncontrolled rage. The kind of fury that looks stunning... but that makes you lose as soon as you face someone who knows how to stay calm.
I had to admit it: the fear was still there, running through every corner of my body like a sticky shadow that refused to go away. I had not yet overcome that moment... And to be honest, I didn't know if I ever would.
However, over the years, he had learned to tolerate certain things. Fights within the tribe, for example. As long as no one ended up seriously injured, he could endure them. It was part of our culture, of our blood. A way of venting, of showing strength... or resolving disputes without words.
But inside me, a voice kept repeating that awkward whisper:
"What if someone doesn't get up from the ground this time?"
The chants echoed in my chest as if the drums of war had melted with the beating of my heart. All around us, a crowd of oni roared with excitement, crowding the edges of the stone circle lit by tall, trembling torches.
The air was thick, heavy with smoke, sweat, and tribal pride. Voices shouted my name, others my opponent's, and many only wanted blood.
Oni came in all shapes and colors: deep red skin, deep blue, moss green, or even ash gray. Some wore ritual markings, others sported sacred tattoos or bone pendants. Among them, the most powerful stood out: tall, imposing, watching from a raised platform covered with dark fabrics. Some wore high-ranking masks such as Akakure or Kurogane, making it clear that this bout was not a simple youth fight.
"Come on, mama's and daddy's boy!" Show that you are a man and not a whiner! My opponent, Gahiro, shouted as he raised his arms toward the crowd, fueling his cheers with his empty arrogance.
Gahiro was a regular in these night fights, known as the Ukarai, an ancestral tradition where young people proved their worth when they turned fourteen, the age of majority in the tribe. I had never won anything important. No respect, no reputation. Only scars and the tired look of those who no longer expected anything from him.
I, on the other hand, remained silent. He knew that falling for his pun would not bring anything good for either of them.
I took a deep breath. The stone under my feet was hot from the friction of previous fighting. I could feel the weight of all eyes on me, judging, waiting. But I wasn't here for glory. I was here for her. For my mother, who lay sick at home, fighting a disease that many considered "common", but which took the strongest without remedy.
Suddenly a drum resounded from outside the ring.
The combat had begun.
Gahiro took the first step, confident, with that crooked half-smile that only mediocre people know how to maintain.
"Come on, Nakhúr!" Make us laugh for a while! An oni shouted from the crowd, his voice hoarse and choked with laughter. That kid doesn't even bleed well! Mocked another, with a dry laugh that was accompanied by a couple of mocking claps.
The ground trembled beneath our feet. The torches crackled as if the fire was also waiting for the first blow. And then, without warning, Gahiro lunged at me.
With a guttural roar, his fist lunged into my face. I dodged him by millimeters, feeling the air cut my cheek. I spun around on my heel and countered with an elbow to his ribs, but he blocked it with my forearm. He was fast. More than I expected.
"That's it, Gahiro!" Break it! Let him feel what it's like to really fight! roared a gray-skinned woman with split horns and a pendant of human claws around her neck.
Gahiro stepped back and spat on the ground.
"Was that all, Nakhúr?" Are you so afraid of me? Or are you still crying for your mom?
That phrase hit me more than any punch. I felt rage burn my chest, right over the rune that slept under my skin.
I didn't answer. I threw myself at him.
Our exchange of blows was fierce. My fist slammed into his jaw, he returned me with a roundhouse kick to the stomach. I fell backwards, breath escaping from my body as if it had been ripped from me.
"Come on, get up!" Prove that you're not a rune bug! someone in the crowd shouted, almost salivating with excitement.
I heard a whisper in the distance:
"The boy is not normal... that energy...
And I felt it too. The rune on my chest was beginning to throbb. As if it responded to my anger, to my will to protect, to that silent desire not to lose anyone again.
I stood up. Not out of pride. By conviction.
Gahiro lunged once more, but this time I saw him coming as if he was moving slower. I bent down, turned on myself and my elbow hit directly into his abdomen. I saw him spit saliva, bend over, and then I kneeled him in the jaw that dropped him on his back.
Silence. Only the crackling of the fire.
"Gahiro has fallen!" An old man roared from the raised steps. "Nakhúr beats his first Ukarai!"
An outburst of shouts and cheers shook the place. Some applauded, others simply watched seriously.
"Nakhúr!" roared a familiar voice in the crowd.
I knew it. He was my father.
"Nakhúr!" he exclaimed again.
His figure appeared among all the people who, until recently, watched my victory with determination. He pushed his way through unceremoniously, pushing one or another with his shoulder, his gaze fixed on me as if I were an enemy and not his son.
My body, still shaken by the fight, tensed more than ever.
Toran stopped in front of me. His expression was not one of pride, nor of common disappointment... it was pure contained anger.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He blurted out, bluntly, in a deep voice, trying not to shout at all but unable to hide his anger. Did you forget what I asked of you?
"I just..." I tried to answer, but he raised his hand.
"Don't give me excuses!" Your mother is in bed. Sick! And you, you decide to go out and fight in an Ukarai as if you had nothing better to do. Do you think this makes you strong?
The crowd began to disperse little by little, in silence. Some onis looked at us out of the corner of their eyes, others vanished into the shadows with uncomfortable gestures. The torches were still crackling, as if burning with tension.
"You asked me not to come, I know," I admitted, lowering my gaze. But I needed to prove that I can...
"Prove what?" Who? He interrupted me. Those idiots who only know how to howl? Do you think the real force is here, in the middle of an honor fight? Real strength is what you need to take care of your loved ones! To stay by your mother's side when she needs it most. That's being a damn grown-up, Nakhúr!
His words hurt me more than Gahiro's blows.
He answered nothing more. He just stared at me with icy fury for a few more seconds, then turned sharply and started walking back towards the village.
I didn't try to stop him.
Because I knew he was right.
Yes, the Ukarai were mandatory to prove your worth as soon as you reached the age of majority. It was a sacred tradition, a custom that officially placed you as an adult among your own. But to me... My father had explicitly asked me not to participate.
"Not now, Nakhúr. Stay close in case something happens to your mother," he had told me, his look serious, exhausted.
And yet, here it was. In the stone circle, with the cries of the tribe ringing in my ears, with everyone's eyes riveted on me. And in front of me, Gahiro, drenched in Dōketsu, the thick, reddish blood of the angry onis.
"Yes, that, go with your daddy," he said sarcastically, spitting on the ground as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"Your father isn't who he used to be, he's just a gutless overprotectant now," said another in the crowd, not thinking too much.
And then, the air stopped.
Toran stopped immediately, nailed to the ground like an ancestral stone. He stepped forward.
Silence.
The murmurs died down. The laughter died in its tracks. Even the one who dared to utter such words covered his mouth with one hand, as if he could remove them from the air.
Toran looked up. His eyes shone with that dark spark that had not been seen for years. He didn't need to scream, or move anymore. His mere presence extinguished the square.
Like a magician, he disappeared, leaving behind him a trail of thick black smoke, almost like a snake slithering through the air. My eyes widened. I had never seen Toran use his magic in front of me. In fact, I hadn't even tried to imitate her out of respect... or fear.
The crowd shuddered, but no one shouted. Only the whispers swept away by tension could be heard. Some already knew what would happen. Not me. Neither did Gahiro.
Suddenly, Toran appeared right in front of Gahiro, shrouded in shadows that were slowly falling away from his shoulders as if they were silently devouring him.
"What did you say about me...?" whispered Toran, his voice charged with a distorted, almost inhuman echo.
Gahiro staggered a step back, feeling the ground crack subtly beneath Toran's feet, as if his very presence was a curse.
Toran didn't let it end.—A "gutless overprotective"? He repeated with a crooked smile, although his eyes said something else: pure fury. You who sweat Dōketsu from a practice match and dare to mock the commander of the Oni army?
An invisible pressure fell on the entire audience. Some took several steps back, others avoided his gaze. Dark magic oozed from his shoulders, causing a high-pitched hiss in the air.
"You... you are not even good enough to clean the bones of the battlefield. With that, Toran snapped his fingers. A dark gust swept across Gahiro's feet, knocking him down like a sack of stones.
"Don't kill him!" someone in the crowd shouted.
Toran did not respond. He just looked at him disdainfully, turned on his heel, and disappeared again in a black cloud, this time toward me.
The pressure in the air had not yet dissipated. Gahiro was still on the ground, his face pale and his pupils trembling.
Toran, still surrounded by that halo of blackish smoke, turned to the audience with a serious expression.
"I don't mind you talking to each other. I am not interested in what seems weak or strong or worthy to you. But if you're going to laugh at the son of a man you dare not face even in your dreams..." He paused briefly, looking up, fixing his eyes on everyone. at least have the balls to say it to your face.
No one answered.
Toran looked down at Gahiro. "You haven't said anything about me directly, I know. But it is not necessary. The laughter, the comments... We all know how to read between the lines.
Gahiro gritted his teeth and nodded his head, trembling.
"Stay between us," Toran added. Then, without another word, he turned and walked towards me, as if all of the above had not happened.
The murmurs slowly returned. The tension, however, did not go away so quickly.
Toran watched me up and down.
"I told you plainly, Nakhúr. What part did you not understand?
"I'm sorry," I replied, lowering my gaze.
"Let's go.
And so, in a makeshift corridor of oni that avoided looking at us, my father and I walked away from the battlefield. The Ukarai would follow, yes... But I had had enough for today.
It took us a long time to get home, because the ring where we fought was too far from the village. Toran did not say a word to me, but it was not necessary; his face spoke for him. He wasn't disappointed, just upset and uncomfortable about the situation that had just occurred in that place.
I didn't dare look at him. He walked half a step behind, his hands clenched in fists and his throat dry.
When he arrived, he gently pushed the blanket that served as a door and entered without saying anything. I followed him, and as usual, the interior was in semi-darkness, only illuminated by the faint light of a candle in the corner.
There she was.
Asha.
Lying on the makeshift straw bed, her thin, fur-covered body trembled slightly with each breath. His face, normally radiant, looked dull, pale. One of his hands rested on his chest, while the other hung at his side.
I approached silently, on tiptoe, as if any sound could disturb her.
"Is she still asleep?" I whispered, not looking at Toran.
"It's been like this all day. She only woke up once to have a drink," he replied, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry all his worry with him.
I noticed the mark on his forehead, a small grayish spot that, I had heard in whispers, was one of the first symptoms of yura fever, a common disease among the Onis because of the constant humidity and lack of effective remedies.
"Is there nothing that can be done...?"
Toran did not respond. He sat on the floor near the entrance, staring at the floor. For the first time, I saw him defeated. Not as a warrior. As a husband. As a father.
"I wanted you to stay here," he said after a while, without raising his voice. Not to punish your desire to fight, but because I feared that when I returned, she wouldn't—" He interrupted himself. But it doesn't matter. Here you are.
I didn't know what to say. My stomach knotted, and all the pride I had felt after winning the fight dissolved into guilt.
I sat down next to my mother and held her hand. It was lukewarm, too lukewarm.
"I'm here, Mom."
Only one question came to mind, one that I shouldn't be thinking about, but that, no matter how much I avoided it, was starting to become too obvious:
How much will he have left?
Toran appeared on the scene again, this time with a bucket in his hands. Its contents... I couldn't tell what it was. At first glance it looked like water, but its texture was denser, almost as if the liquid resisted moving. It had a faint dark glow, somewhat murky, as if it were hiding secrets in every drop.
"You'd better go to bed," he said dryly, not quite looking at me. I'll stay with your mother.
I stared at Asha's pale face for a few seconds. His breathing was slow, almost imperceptible, and his lips were no longer colorful. I nodded without objecting, as if handing over a responsibility that hurts more than comforts.
I walked to the door, but before I got out, I stopped.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the bucket.
Toran carefully set it down. Then he sat down in a small wooden chair, wedged in the corner of the room, as if he had been there for centuries.
"Aethel's essence ," he replied without hesitation.
The name was familiar, and it didn't take long for me to remember why.
I had read about her in one of the few books we had at home. It said that Aethel's Essence was a dense, rare, and dangerous liquid, used by ancient mages to power their spells. They dipped their hands in it, and by conjuring, the spell gained devastating power... but in return, it drained some of the user's life energy. It was not gratuitous magic. None of them are.
"Will you use it on mom?"
There was no immediate response. Only the silence and tension accumulated on Toran's face.
"Not to cure her. His voice was low, harsh. But maybe he will be able to calm his fever... maybe give him one more night.
I knew it wasn't just because of her. It was because of him. Because he doesn't feel useless. For not having to see someone he couldn't protect slip through his fingers.
"Don't tell anyone," he added, his eyes fixed on the bucket. Not the wise, nor the elderly. This... This is no longer allowed.
I nodded. Speechless. The ban spoke for itself.
The room was still dimly lit, lit only by the dim moonlight that filtered through the cracks of the hut. Aethel's Essence cube rested at Toran's feet as a symbol of his desperation. Asha was breathing heavily; each exhalation was a fragile, barely audible sigh.
Toran held his hands on his lap, still wet from the thick liquid. He had tried to conjure, he had whispered ancient spells... but nothing had changed.
"This isn't working," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
I was still in the doorway, not daring to cross the threshold of my room.
"And now what...?" I asked cautiously.
Toran closed his eyes tightly. His breathing became erratic for a moment, as if fighting with himself.
"No... I don't need help," he said, raising his voice. I can take care of this. I can do it!
But his words broke instantly, like a badly forged sword that breaks at the first blow. Asha coughed heavily, and for the first time, I noticed a faint trace of blood on the corner of her mouth.
Then it happened. Toran's pride fell to the ground, as did his determination.
"Damn!" He slammed his fist on the ground, shaking the wood. "Go find Lyvanna! Now!"
I was startled. He had said it. He had spoken the name of the only person he swore never to see again for a long time.
"Lyvanna?" The healer?
"Yes. He lives near the river altar, next to the west side of the village," he growled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Tell her that Asha has fallen ill. Tell him it's urgent. What... that I ask for it.
He was silent for a few more seconds, swallowing his pride as if it were poison.
"Tell him that—" that I need it.
I nodded and ran off without asking any more questions. The night wind hit my face as soon as I set foot outside. The village still had a few torches burning, and the stone path creaked beneath my feet as I ran.
I knew very little about Lyvanna. Only she was a powerful, respected healer, and in her youth she had fought alongside Toran. Some whispered that they were inseparable. Other... that there was something else.
But that didn't matter now.
I ran out of the hut, not looking back, following Toran's directions to the letter. The night air, unusually warm, caressed my face as if it were the middle of summer. It brought back memories of my previous life, when long nights were the only refuge from the unbearable heat... and the bustle of life.
The village at that hour seemed asleep, but not completely. A few lights flickered faintly behind the thick-clothed windows, and the occasional distant murmur broke the stillness of the atmosphere. Even so, the most difficult thing was not the darkness, but the terrain.
The streets of the village were a veritable labyrinth of loose earth, protruding roots and huge stones that forced you to keep your eyes fixed on the ground if you didn't want to twist your ankle. It was as if the village had been built without any planning, pure tribal instinct.
As I made my way through wooden and straw huts, some with amulets hanging at their entrances and others decorated with animal skulls, I couldn't help but notice how everything seemed to be watching me. Or maybe it was just the pressure. The urgency. The fear of being late.
"Rio, west zone, altar...", he repeated mentally over and over again.
The hut was not much different from the others in its structure: walls of old wood, a roof of braided dry leaves, and a stone frame barely supported by columns of carved bone. But there was something about her... something that stopped me.
As soon as I approached the door, a strange smell invaded me. It wasn't rot or recognizable: it was dense, almost spiritual. I felt dizzy, as if an invisible hand was squeezing my skull from the inside. My breath became heavy, and a part of me... I wanted to leave. Turning around and running like something told me I didn't belong here.
Just as I began to take a step back, a raspy and annoyed voice broke the silence:
"Are you going to stand there trembling like a puppy or are you going to call?"
I turned around with a start. A young woman of about fourteen years old was watching me with her arms crossed. His skin was gray, almost silvery in the moonlight, blue runes snaking down his neck and down beneath his tribal clothing. Her white hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she held a dark cane with a blue stone embedded in the tip, which throbbed softly.
His violet eyes showed no sympathy.
"You're Nakhúr, aren't you?" The "son of the great Toran," he said wryly. If you're afraid of a simple human repellent, you'd better go back to your daddy.
I didn't know whether to answer. The way he spoke to me baffled me, but it also sparked a certain spark within me. I wasn't used to being treated like that, with that mixture of brazenness and disdain. I was almost amused.
"And who are you?" I asked.
"Nimue. Daughter of Lyvanna, the healer. He raised an eyebrow. Or didn't they tell you who you had to talk to?
I swallowed hard. I nodded slowly.
"Then move." If it's urgent, don't waste time drooling. He pushed me with his cane towards the door as if I were a sack of potatoes.
I walked in without saying another word, feeling a little stupid... and, curiously, somewhat intrigued.
As soon as I stepped inside the cabin, Nimue pushed me with her cane unceremoniously. It wasn't a strong blow, but the contempt with which he did it boiled my blood.
"Go ahead, dark prince," he said with a scathing, lopsided smile.
I turned to look at her, already beginning to frown. It wasn't the first time someone had spoken to me ironically, but there was something about his tone, that natural way of provoking me, that made me uncomfortable. It bothered me. A lot.
—Do you always treat people who come to ask for help like this? I replied coldly.
"Only those who bring more pride than common sense," he shot without hesitation, as he walked in front of me.
The cabin was... Different.
A mixture between the mystical and the macabre. The air smelled of burnt incense, mixed with something metallic, perhaps dried blood. The walls were covered with the skins of creatures he did not recognize, and on shelves of rough stone rested thick glass jars. Inside, roots, floating eyes, scales that changed color with light, and even what appeared to be a heart slowly beating in an amber liquid.
A very faint murmur, almost like a distant whisper, ran through the room. I didn't know if it was real or if my head was playing tricks on me.
"Welcome to Mommy's little hell," Nimue murmured, with a dry laugh as she pulled back a heavy curtain made of bird skulls held together by rustic threads.
Behind her, the light of an oil lamp revealed a figure sitting in a chair with his back to us. Her grayish hair was braided into dozens of small knots, and green specks floated around her that disappeared when they hit the walls. A staff just like Nimue's—but more worn and with a darker stone—rested beside her.
"Mother," Nimue said, without losing that tone between serious and bored. Toran's son is here.
The woman didn't move at first, but slowly turned her head. His face was serene, but his eyes... his eyes seemed to see everything.
"Tell him to come closer," he replied, in a low and strangely harmonious voice.
I swallowed, stepping forward, aware of every creak of the ground beneath my feet. That was no longer just a visit. It was the beginning of something else.
"B-good evening, s-ma'am," I said nervously, trying to keep my composure as the air laden with strange scents churned my stomach.
"But look, you're pathetic," Nimue murmured dismissively, leaning with her arms folded on a makeshift table made of intertwined bones and dry roots. A jar with an amorphous creature floated right next to him, bubbling slowly.
"Don't be so with Toran's son, Nimue," his mother replied without even looking at her, still sitting in her bentwood and tanned leather chair. His voice was soft, but every word weighed like a sentence.
Nimue snorted in annoyance, rolling her eyes as if the scolding was unnecessary.
"Yes, of course... the son of the great Toran," she said quietly, more to herself than to us. Surely the only thing that differentiates him from the others is that he knows how to say thank you without stuttering...
"Nimue," her mother interrupted her again, this time turning all the way to me. Is your mother in serious condition?
I nodded quickly, not daring to say another word. I felt observed, not only by his eyes, but by every object in that room, as if everything breathed in silence.
"Come, tell me exactly what symptoms he's had," he asked with a leisurely gesture. And don't skip a single one.
I approached slowly, carefully dodging the jars hung from the ceiling by braided ropes. Nimue watched me with a raised eyebrow, as if assessing every step I took, every expression on my face, every tremor in my voice.
The healer reached for a box full of runestones that began to glow when they touched her skin.
"This will not be easy," he added, more for himself than for me. But if she's still alive, I can still try something.
I plucked up the courage.
"He's had a fever for three days, and—" and sometimes their eyes don't respond. He says things that don't make sense. His breathing... "It's very choppy," I explained, making an effort to remember everything.
The woman nodded slowly, as if those words were pieces of a puzzle she already knew well.
"Get things ready, Nimue. We're going to your house tonight.
Nimue clicked her tongue, clearly irritated.
"Now?" Seriously? I have to...
"Now. Her mother's gaze was enough to silence her.
I just watched, not daring to intervene further.
I sat on a rock in front of the river, letting the sound of running water try to quiet the chaos inside me. The reflection of the moon was faint, as if even she was afraid of illuminating this place too much.
I didn't feel well. It was a pressure on my chest, as if a rope had been tied to my heart and someone was pulling it mercilessly. My empty stomach hurt, but not from hunger. It was anxiety, helplessness, anger... all mixed into a single bitter drink that I didn't know how to spit out.
My leg was shaking nonstop, hitting the rock beneath me like a war drum. I put my hand to my face to rub my eyes and that's when I noticed it: red marks on my skin, light scratches made by my own fingernails. I hadn't even noticed.
The creaking of the door of bones and wood brought me out of the trance. I turned my head slightly, without quite looking up.
"Tsk... to have to leave my house in the middle of the night because of Toran's son—" Nimue's voice spat like poison dragged by her tongue. How much more pathetic can you be?
He was walking with a firm step, his cane slung over his shoulder as if it were a war lance. Her gray skin shone faintly in the moonlight, the blue runes in her arms pulsed a faint glow, and her white, disheveled hair fluttered like a flag of arrogance. His violet eyes showed no compassion whatsoever. Just fed up.
"If your mother survives tonight, it will be for me... not for you. Just for me.
He passed by, without stopping. Not a pause. Not a glance.
The stone beneath me suddenly seemed harder. I swallowed, holding back. There was something about his tone, the way he spat out every word, that made me want to answer him, to let go of everything he had inside.
But I didn't.
I just clenched my fists.
And I got up to follow her.
"Where is your mother?" I asked, frowning as Nimue moved forward without waiting for anyone else.
She didn't even turn around.
"My mother can no longer conjure healing spells as effective as she once could. His voice was sharp, dry, like a dull dagger that still cut. Now I am the one who helps the people with their disgusting problems... So it's just me going.
His footsteps echoed through the earth with force. He did not bother to soften his tone, or to hide the contempt he carried with each word.
"And for the record," he added after a few seconds of awkward silence, "I don't do it for you." I do it because I don't want to carry one more death in this decrepit place.
I gritted my teeth, partly because of helplessness, partly because of the way I talked about my mother... but also because, deep down, I knew that I could not refute anything. I had no power, no answers, no way to heal Asha on my own. I needed it.
"Can I ask you a favor?" I asked, although I already knew in advance that his answer would be loaded with thorns.
Nimue paused for just a second, barely cocking her face.
"More favors?" Don't you think it's enough that I'm going to save your mother's life? His voice was as sharp as ever, every word aimed at hurting me. And he succeeded. I was right... but this time it was not a favor for me. It was, in a way, for herself.
I took a breath. I swallowed my pride like it was burning coal.
"I only ask you not to be so conceited and selfish in front of my father," I said in a low voice, almost pleading.
She turned around completely, fixing her violet eyes on mine with a defiantly charged glow.
"Do you think that old man scares me?"
The way he said it had no hatred, but an overwhelming security, as if he were mocking my limits, my family... everything.
I clenched my fists. I didn't answer. I knew I wouldn't gain anything if I got into their game, but something in my chest was burning.
Even so, I kept walking.
Because that woman, arrogant and cruel as she sounded... it was my mother's only hope.
Some time later, we arrived at the hut.
I pushed aside the blankets that served as a door as if I were his butler. Bad of me knowing who I was doing it to.
"Go ahead, Nimue," I said calmly, holding back my frustration behind a mask of respect. I wanted to show humility, at least for my mother.
"Your chivalry is repulsive, son of Toran," he added, not bothering to look at me, crossing the entrance of the hut as if everything sucked up.
The way he said "son of Toran" was almost an insult. As if bearing that name were a reason for mockery or pity. And, for a moment, I wondered if that was exactly how he felt about me.
I didn't say anything. I just followed her, swallowing my words. There would be time to respond... when my mother was well.
Walked. The dim light of candles flickered against the mud walls, casting shadows that danced like ancient specters. Asha lay on the makeshift bed of dry leaves, her face pale and drenched with sweat. His breathing was weak, but steady. Toran was kneeling next to her, holding her hand as if he feared she would disappear at any moment.
"What did he eat?" Nimue asked without greeting, without asking permission, without even a hint of concern in her voice.
Toran looked up. His expression was severe, tired... and when he saw Nimue, for an instant, he softened. Not out of relief, but because of what seemed like a buried memory.
"The usual... boiled roots, clean river water. Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied without raising his voice.
Nimue frowned. He knelt beside Asha, set his cane aside, and scooped out a bright blue powder from his small bag. She sprinkled it in her hands, muttered a few words in a language I didn't understand, and instantly, a faint bluish light spread from her palms to my mother's chest.
"What are you doing?" I asked uneasily, feeling how every word that came out of his mouth made me more nervous.
—Runic healing. Something your brain probably wouldn't understand," he blurted out without even looking at me.
"Nimue!" Toran interjected, firmly, without having to raise his voice.
She didn't answer. He just gritted his teeth and continued with the ritual. The energy pulsed softly, warmly, unlike any kind of magic I had ever witnessed before. It was as if the runes in his hands responded directly to Asha's, slowly synchronizing.
Asha breathed a little easier.
I approached cautiously. I didn't want to interrupt, but the silence suffocated me.
"Are you... Improving?
Nimue took a deep breath and stood up.
"Not quite. But at least he'll be able to sleep pain-free tonight. I can't promise anything more... not without better ingredients. What he has can be controlled, but not completely cured with what is in this village.
Toran nodded slowly. I knew it. He knew it from the beginning. I just wanted to buy some time.
"Thank you, Nimue," he said, in a low, sincere voice.
"I didn't do it for you," he replied, picking up his cane.
Before leaving, he turned to me.
"And you..." he looked me up and down, with that expression of permanent judgment that had me fed up, "if you really want to help your mother, stop acting like a brat who expects everything to be solved by magic."
He left, disappearing into the dim light.
I hated her, I didn't like her, but she had helped my mother and I respected that more than anything.