Nifily barely slept. She'd spent the night tracing runes in the dirt, matching each stroke until the first light. By dawn she was pounding on Veyne's hovel like a cannonball.
"Rise and shine, Mister Veyne‑sir!" she chirped.
Veyne jolted, half asleep and far too aware of his useless shoulder. "Ah! Stop popping up out of nowhere," he grumbled, but a small smile tugged at him. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
She set out a humble breakfast from the village. They ate by a small fire while the forest woke. Veyne watched her more than he spoke—she was eager and awkward, all at once.
"Before I teach you anything," he said between bites, "can you introduce me to the monk in your village?"
"Mudbree folk don't like strangers much," Nifily shrugged. "But maybe, if he's in the right mood." She blinked. "Also—your arm looks weird."
Veyne massaged the graft. "Guess I'll meet him later. First lesson: runes."
He took the dire‑wolf fang and carved into a nearby tree for emphasis, slipping into his teacher voice. "Runes are the bones of an old language. Each symbol has weight and meaning. Learning them makes a farmer into a mage, and a mage into a craftsman."
"What about Realmforgers, you mean the high ranks don't use runes?" she asked, surprised.
"Most move past them. Spells are faster. Runes are slow, but reliable—and useful. You can bolster a sword, a door, even a skeleton." His fingers paused. The memory of the council chamber made his jaw tighten. "But for now, the basics."
He scratched four symbols in the bark. "The two on my arm mean absorb and control. Absorb draws essence in; control lets me move the limb. Your wand's runes are different."
Nifily held her stick like a trophy. "Mine are for focus and amplify. They're supposed to help the magic travel and make it stronger."
"Correct. But don't get greedy—items have limits. Two runes on a common object, three on a better one. Overload it and the item breaks." He looked at her seriously. "A wand is a channel, not a crutch."
They drilled stroke after stroke until Nifily could etch the runes cleanly. Her hands ached and her eyes watered, but she kept smiling. Veyne felt something unfamiliar: the urge to protect that smile.
"Show me your magic," he said as dusk slanted gold through the trees.
They found a muddy puddle. Nifily planted her feet, raised the wand, and pushed. She strained as if wrestling a boulder.
"Wrong," Veyne called. "You're forcing it. The wand doesn't make magic—you do. Let the mana swell, then guide it like a river into the stick."
She relaxed, breathed, and the puddle shivered. Tiny ripples rolled and then, haltingly, a strip of mud rose—a crude whip.
"Look! I'm moving it!" Nifily beamed.
"Good. Try a proper spell: a mud whip. Focus, build, release." She concentrated. The rope of mud formed, higher and stronger... then collapsed. Nifily's eyes crossed and she sagged, unconscious.
Veyne scrambled to catch her with one arm—failed. Panic clawed him. He wanted to pick her up easily, but his body betrayed him.
"Damn it," he cursed, furious at his weakness. For a moment darkness swallowed his patience: If I'd killed the council— He snapped the thought away. If I'd killed them, I wouldn't be here to train her.
The forest whispered. From deeper in the woods came a rustling and faint voices—guttural, unfamiliar. Goblins, perhaps. Veyne's mind turned cold and tactical. He glanced at the sleeping girl, then at the lack of a spear in his grip.
A cowardly voice in his head urged escape. "Leave her. Survive."
Another voice—his old habit—countered: "Analyze. Adapt."
He moved. With trembling hands he shoved Nifily's wand into the gap between his Radius and Ulna and wrapped the bandage tight. It wedged there, crude but functional. The runes carved into the wand and the bandage formed a shaky conduit.
He forced himself to focus. For the first time since waking in this body, he tried to channel. He flexed one finger. It twitched. Then another. The graft hummed.
"Finally," he whispered.
He scooped Nifily up, every movement an exertion, and ran toward the lab. Branches slapped his face; goblin voices grew louder. He heaved her through the forest, laid her on his bed of leaves, then collapsed himself—mana bleeding out of him.
Darkness crept up.
The last thing he saw before the world folded was Nifily's face, peaceful, trusting. His breath hitched as exhaustion dragged him under. He didn't know whether hope or doom had more claim on the two of them—but for now, they both slept.