The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air of the large hospital ward, sharp enough to sting the nose with every breath. Unlike the quiet private rooms reserved for wealthy patrons or senior adventurers, this chamber was crowded—four beds arranged in close rows, curtains half-drawn between them, each occupied by a member of Kael's team.
Morning light slipped through the blinds in pale strips, laying bands of gold across the polished floor. Somewhere farther down the corridor, footsteps echoed in measured rhythm, accompanied by the soft squeak of wheels and the distant murmur of healers changing shifts. Glass vials clinked together. A patient coughed behind another partition.
Kael sat between the beds, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. His eyes burned from exhaustion. He had not slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw collapsing stone, black mist, and Ronan's body engulfed in unstable Aether.
Across the ward, Darius and Orin slept soundly. Their breathing rose and fell in a steady rhythm beneath white blankets. Bruises darkened their skin, bandages wrapped their torsos and shoulders, but the healer had assured him they would recover fully. Time would handle the rest.
The other two beds were harder to look at.
To Kael's left, Garrick lay motionless. His arm rested atop a support frame, encased in a thick cast carved with glowing runes that pulsed faintly beneath the surface like trapped fireflies. Thin threads of pale light crawled across the fractures in carefully timed intervals.
Kael watched the healer adjust the markings with a small silver stylus.
"How is he?" Kael asked quietly.
The healer paused, shoulders sagging slightly as he rubbed at his temples. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes; apparently, Kael was not the only one running on little rest.
"Stable," the man said, "but complicated."
He traced another rune into the cast, causing the light to brighten briefly.
"The fracture itself isn't the main problem. The bone shattered badly, yes, but the attack carried residue."
Kael frowned. "Residue?"
"Miasma." The word settled heavily in the room.
Kael straightened. "Miasma?"
"Corrupted Aether," the healer clarified, lowering his voice instinctively. "It resists restoration. Healing magic cannot properly bind tissue while contamination remains. Think of it as poison woven into spiritual energy."
He adjusted the cast again, watching the glow stabilise. "We must purge it slowly. Force the healing too early, and the corruption spreads deeper. His arm will mend—but not quickly. A month at minimum. Possibly two."
Kael exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting toward Garrick's sleeping face. Even unconscious, Garrick looked tense, jaw locked as if still resisting pain. "And Ronan?"
The healer turned. Ronan lay to Kael's right, pale beneath the morning light. Sweat dampened strands of dark hair against his forehead. His brows remained faintly furrowed even in unconsciousness, like his body had not yet escaped whatever nightmare trapped him.
"His injuries are deceptive," the healer said gravely. "Externally, minor. Internally…" He hesitated. "His Aether Core was pushed beyond safe thresholds." Kael's chest tightened.
"That technique he used—the amplification combined with unstable output—it should have shattered his core entirely."
Kael looked sharply at him.
The healer folded his arms. "By some miracle, it held together. Barely. It's unstable now. Fragile. He must rest completely. No strain. No external Aether intake. Nothing."
A breath escaped Kael before he realised he had been holding it. Relief came first. Then guilt followed immediately after. Because Ronan had nearly destroyed himself protecting everyone.
Kael stood slowly, legs stiff from hours in the same chair. "I need fresh air," he muttered. "And I should report back to the Guild."
The healer gave a distracted nod.
Kael stepped out into the corridor. The scent of medicine faded gradually as he walked, replaced by cooler air drifting through the hospital entrance. Outside, the morning breeze brushed against his face. The city had already awakened. Vendors shouted in distant streets. Wheels rolled over cobblestone. Somewhere nearby, bread baked, warm and faintly sweet beneath the sharper smell of rain-damp stone.
His shoulders felt heavier than armour. Sylphie was safe—back at the guild, resting. But the rest of them… He clenched his jaw. The image of Ronan collapsing still refused to leave his mind.
By the time Kael entered the guild hall, the familiar scent of parchment, polished wood, and old Aether crystals greeted him. Conversations murmured quietly around quest boards and reception counters.
Near the centre of the hall stood Mr. Alden and Mr. Alaric, speaking in low voices. Kael straightened instinctively as he approached. "Good morning, sir."
Both men looked up. Mr. Alden acknowledged him with a nod. Mr. Alaric's expression shifted slightly, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. "I'll make sure Aria apologises to you," he said.
Kael blinked. Then he forced a faint smile. "There's no need." His gaze drifted briefly toward the guild floor. "Besides… my team is the weakest. Who would even listen to my words?" The words came lightly, but bitterness lingered beneath them.
Neither man answered immediately. Silence stretched just long enough to make Kael regret saying it aloud.
A day later, the ward felt quieter.
The sunlight had shifted to a softer afternoon hue, warm and muted against the walls. Darius had already been discharged, though burns still wrapped one of his hands. Orin remained under observation, sleeping longer than usual but steadily improving.
Garrick and Ronan still had not awakened. Kael sat beside Ronan's bed again, elbows resting on his knees. The room hummed with low magical resonance from healing arrays hidden beneath the floor. He stared absently at Ronan's unmoving hand atop the blanket.
His thoughts wandered. "Had they truly survived? Or had they only delayed something worse?"
A sharp inhale shattered the silence. Ronan gasped. Kael jerked upright.
Ronan's body snapped forward violently, eyes flying open. His breath came in ragged bursts as his hands clawed frantically at his chest.
His pupils were wide. Wild. Disoriented.
He patted himself rapidly as if searching for wounds that should still be there. The memory had followed him back. The fire. The pressure. The sensation of burning from inside his own bones.
"Calm down," the healer said immediately, stepping forward. A glowing hand rested gently against Ronan's shoulder. "You're safe. You're in Eldergrove Hospital."
Ronan blinked rapidly. His breathing remained uneven. For several seconds, confusion lingered in his expression before recognition slowly surfaced. His gaze found Kael. The panic loosened. His shoulders sagged.
He dropped back against the pillow, dragging a trembling hand across his forehead. Sweat coated his skin.
"I…" His throat worked. "I had a nightmare." His voice sounded rough, scraped raw. "I felt like I was burning alive."
Kael poured water into a glass without speaking. The sound of pouring seemed unusually loud in the quiet room. "Is everyone okay?" Ronan asked immediately, already trying to sit up. "Orin? Garrick?"
"They're alive." Kael handed him the water carefully. "Orin and Darius are recovering. Garrick…" He glanced toward the other bed. "His arm took damage from Miasma. Badly. But he'll keep it."
Ronan accepted the glass with a shaking hand. "Miasma…" His eyes lowered slightly. The word carried memory now. Before he could say more, the ward door opened.
Mr. Alden and Mr. Alaric entered. Their expressions immediately changed the room. Neither looked rested. Their composure remained intact, but strain lingered beneath it. "You're awake," Mr. Alden said.
"Good morning," Ronan rasped. He glanced between them. "You both look terrible." A weak grin tugged briefly at his mouth. "Maybe if you brought me a Flame Core to absorb, I'd recover faster and stop worrying everyone."
Kael's head snapped toward him. "A Flame Core? I don't have one, but I can—"
"He's joking," Mr. Alden interrupted with a tired sigh. He stepped forward and flicked Ronan lightly on the forehead. Ronan winced. "Lying in a hospital bed with an unstable core, and you're still speaking nonsense."
Ronan rubbed his forehead. "Worth trying." The smile disappeared almost immediately. His eyes sharpened. "The man from the altar." The room quieted. "Did you get him?"
Mr. Alaric's jaw tightened. "He's dead." The answer landed heavily.
Ronan's fingers curled around the glass. "Dead?" His voice dropped. "How?" He looked between them. "We didn't kill him. We only broke the array."
"I had him restrained," Mr. Alaric said. His tone remained controlled, though tension pulled at every word. "After you were evacuated, I engaged him directly. My Light Aether suppressed the Miasma. I bound him."
His eyes hardened slightly. "He was alive." Ronan stared. "I intended to return him for interrogation."
"Then what happened?" Kael asked quietly.
Mr. Alden exhaled through his nose. "The Luminal Covenant." He spoke the name with clear distaste. "An agent arrived claiming authority over Dark Arts incidents. Before Alaric could intervene, he executed the prisoner."
Ronan froze. "Executed?"
"On the spot," Alden said. "He claimed it was necessary to prevent contamination."
Ronan slammed his fist into the mattress. The impact rattled the bedframe. "They killed our only lead." Frustration flared visibly across his face."Why?"
"Arrogance," Mr. Alaric said. His voice lowered. "Or fear." He folded his arms tightly. "The Covenant holds more influence than the Academy. We could not stop them without creating something larger."
Kael frowned. "There's something I still don't understand." Everyone looked toward him. "That man was strong. Stronger than most mages we've seen. But he barely used Miasma directly."
He leaned forward slightly. "He relied mostly on barriers and physical force until the end. Why?"
Mr. Alaric nodded once. "Because he was still human." He paced slowly near the foot of the bed. "Miasma is corrupted Aether. It can be controlled—but not safely. Humans are not built to wield it freely." His expression darkened. "Using it poisons the body. Every moment spent channelling it damages flesh, spirit, and mind."
He looked toward Ronan. "He likely used only what he could survive."
Ronan lowered his eyes to his hands. That explanation fits too well. The man had looked desperate. Like every movement carried strain. "There's one more thing," Ronan said quietly. His fingers tightened around the blanket. "He said he was the same man from the cave." The memory surfaced clearly. The curse. The death. The body is collapsing. "We saw him die." He looked up. "How was he still alive?"
Mr. Alden dragged a chair closer and sat down. For a moment, he simply rested his forearms on his knees. Then he spoke. "We have a theory." Ronan waited. "Soul Splitting." The words felt colder than the room.
Ronan frowned. "What is that?"
"A forbidden practice from the old era," Alden said. "A person divides their soul into fragments, then binds those fragments to external vessels or objects."
"Curse Binding," Mr. Alaric added quietly.
Alden nodded. "We believe the man in the cave housed one fragment."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "And when he died…"
"That fragment died with him," Alden finished. "But not the whole."
Understanding slowly formed. "The altar…" Ronan murmured.
"Another fragment," Alden said. "Likely the primary one. Or a larger portion." He leaned back slightly. "But splitting the soul comes at a severe cost. Fragmentation weakens stability. Identity degrades. Existence itself becomes unstable." He looked toward the window briefly. "That may explain his desperation."
"He wasn't trying to become a god," Kael murmured. "He was trying to survive," Ronan finished.
Mr. Alaric nodded. "He may have needed stronger cores to stabilise himself." Then he shrugged faintly. "But much of this remains speculation. Soul Splitting is likely. Curse Binding fits the evidence. The rest… assumptions." Silence settled heavily across the ward.
The enemy no longer felt like a rogue mage. He felt ancient. Persistent. Something broken that refused to die.
Ronan stared at the ceiling. "We reached a dead end." No one interrupted. "The witness is dead. The organization behind him is hidden." His voice lowered further. "And the Luminal Covenant stands in the way."
"For now," Mr. Alden said. He rose from the chair.
"The Academy will file a protest, though I doubt it will change anything." His gaze moved across the boys.
"Your task now is simpler."
"Heal."
The healer stepped forward, clapping softly. "That's enough discussion."
His tone carried practised authority. "The patients need rest."
Mr. Alden and Mr. Alaric gave quiet nods before turning toward the door.
"We'll talk later," Kael said. He settled back into the chair beside Ronan.
The familiar position felt natural now. Like he had not moved from it at all.
Ronan lay back slowly. The ceiling above blurred into pale white. Questions circled endlessly. Too many missing pieces. Too many shadows behind shadows. But beneath the uncertainty, one truth settled firmly inside him. He was not strong enough yet. And next time, survival alone would not be enough.