In the bustling heart of the clan grounds, children of various ages ran to and fro, their laughter blending with the rhythmic clang of blacksmiths and the hushed recitations of cultivators meditating under the ancient trees. It was a place of vibrancy, of energy, of youth at its prime.
Yet among them stood a boy who seemed out of place.
He was tall for his age, shoulders straight, but his frame was thin, too thin. His skin clung close to his bones, giving him a sickly, fragile appearance, and there was a constant pallor about his cheeks as if blood had long abandoned them. His lips were pale, his hands often trembling.
At first glance, he appeared no more than fourteen--perhaps nearing fifteen. But when one dared to meet his eyes, they would falter. Those eyes carried a weight too heavy for a boy. They were the eyes of someone who had lived through winters far too harsh, who had borne pain that should not belong to his years. And sometimes, if one watched closely enough, they would see him go utterly still, staring into nothingness as if lost in some unseen world. Then suddenly...violently--he would shake his head, even striking his own skull with his fist, muttering words under his breath, as though he were trying to silence voices no one else could hear.
Two figures sat nearby, watching him quietly.
Elias clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the boy. His hand gripped the edge of the bench so tightly the wood creaked beneath his fingers. He looked at Seren, wild-eyed, his voice breaking the silence.
"It's getting worse."
Seren didn't deny it. He only nodded, his delicate brows furrowing.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply watched as the boy—Caelum—picked up his gear with trembling hands and began fastening the straps. The sight of his persistence, his refusal to bend, filled them with a complex blend of admiration and dread.
And in the silence, memories returned.
******
It had been only months ago, during one of the clan's instructional sessions for youths approaching their awakening. The lesson that day was focused on the fundamentals of healing—channeling life mana into wounds to knit flesh and restore vitality.
Elias had hated the idea from the start. He always hated these classes.
"What use is it," he had muttered under his breath as they filed into the training hall, "to learn how to heal when the point of training should be to fight without getting wounded in the first place?"
That was Elias through and through. His heart yearned for strength, for battle, for glory. He admired the Dragon race—those legendary beings whose scales turned aside blades and whose might could topple mountains. Healing, to him, was a distraction, a chore forced upon him by a clan too cautious, too timid.
And yet, he went.
Not because he wanted to, but because if both he and Caelum were absent, it would be noticed. Elias, with his reputation for rebellion, could perhaps be forgiven with punishment. But Caelum who's somehow grew quiet, sickly, already under scrutiny—could not afford another mark against him. So Elias dragged himself along, grumbling the entire way, determined that if he suffered, Caelum would not suffer worse.
Inside the training hall, the instructor, a stern woman named Dae'siniel, an eighth-level mortal elf renowned for her healing expertise, stood before the gathered students. Without ceremony, she raised her hand and sliced her palm open with a small dagger.
Gasps filled the air as blood welled up, crimson against her pale skin.
"Observe," she said calmly, her voice as sharp as the blade that had cut her. "I will suppress my mana. The wound will not close on its own. Your task will be to use your own mana to direct life force, to mend flesh and restore balance. Healing is not only about intent...it is about control."
She roamed her eyes before landing on Caelum."You first."
Caelum stepped forward slowly. He had not wanted this. He never wanted to stand in the center of attention. His stomach churned as he approached her, eyes fixed on the blood that dripped steadily from her palm.
"Place your hands over the wound," she instructed. "Close your eyes. Let your mana flow. Not as a river in flood, but as a stream guided by the shape of life. Focus on the thought of healing, of closing the wound. Nothing else."
Caelum obeyed. His hands hovered over her palm. He inhaled, focusing, channeling his energy outward. His mana was… strange, thin but potent, clinging to her wound like a shadow, yet he directed it carefully, shaping it as he had been taught.
For a moment, it worked. The wound began to respond, the edges knitting ever so slightly. The teacher's stern eyes softened in rare approval.
But then—
A scent.
It struck him like a blow. The smell of blood.
He had noticed it before, faintly, from the butchers' quarters, from kitchens where meat was prepared. He had forced himself to ignore it, burying the hunger deep. But here, now, with blood so close, with his hands inches away, with no barrier of distance, it's not like his measly self could harm someone of this level so he went for it.
His control faltered.
Something primal surged inside him. His lips parted, his breath quickened. Whispers in his mind grew louder, demanding, urging. His vision tunneled until all he saw was the red of her blood.
And before he realized what he had done..before thought could catch instinct, his finger jerked forward and pierced her flesh.
The sound was sickening. Flesh giving way where it should not have.
Dae'siniel screamed, a sharp cry of pain and fury, yanking her hand back. Her mana surged instinctively, throwing Caelum backward.
The hall erupted in gasps and shouts.
"What—?"
"He—he just—!"
"Did you see that?!"
Caelum sat frozen on the ground, staring at his own hand. His finger was intact, yet it had pierced through the flesh of an eighth-level mortal elf, whose body was reinforced with mana. Impossible. It should have been impossible.
He didn't understand. He didn't know if his nails had sharpened, if claws had formed, or if something else entirely had burst forth in that split-second. But the truth was undeniable... he had attacked his instructor.
"I—" His voice was a broken whisper. He scrambled to his feet. "I didn't—"
Confusion, horror, shame—too much, all at once.
And so, he fled.
******
Elias and Seren had found him later, hiding in the shadows of the training grounds, his shoulders shaking.
They had demanded answers, no longer willing to pretend everything was fine.
And there, with his back pressed against the cold stone wall, Caelum had confessed. About the whispers. About the urges. About the way the scent of blood haunted him, gnawed at him, drove him mad.
Elias had wanted to deny it, to call it nonsense, but the look in Caelum's eyes,the torment, the exhaustion, the desperation, was undeniable.
From that day on, they watched him more closely. They noticed the way his hands trembled more often, the way he muttered under his breath, the way he pressed his palms to his temples as though trying to hold his skull together.
It was getting worse.
*******
Now, as Caelum fastened his training gear, readying himself for yet another day, Elias and Seren exchanged a glance filled with unspoken words.
Elias's chest ached. He wanted to believe things would get better. That Caelum could endure. That the awakening ceremony, just weeks away would change everything for the better.
But deep down, he feared the truth.
That the ceremony would not save Caelum.
It would expose him.
And once it did, nothing would ever be the same.