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Chapter 19 - Vulnerable

Ares was lost in thought when the air around him stirred — a sudden shift, like wind catching against stone.Then the old man appeared.

Rodan's face was drawn tight, his eyes dark and sharp as chipped obsidian. "You little cheat," he barked. "Twenty bowls, and you've eaten six!"

Ares blinked, caught off guard. "You said fourteen," he protested. "Two for each day I worked. That's all."

"I said twenty." Rodan's voice cracked through the silence. "And I meant twenty."

"That's not how a deal works," Ares shot back, his patience thinning. "You had your fourteen. I earned mine."

Rodan leaned forward, the faint light from the motes turning the ridges of his face into sharp lines. "Boy, you'll learn soon enough that what you earn and what you keep aren't the same thing."

"Well," Ares said, matching his tone, "you can take your fourteen bowls. I'll keep my six."

Rodan's eyes flared. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might strike him. Then, slowly, a cruel smile spread across his lips. "So that's how it is? You don't want to give me what's mine? Then you can forget about learning how to create the gren string."

That stopped Ares cold. He hesitated — then his mind turned. "Then," he said carefully, "You can forget about how to hide the seams"

The old man blinked, the faintest twitch of surprise showing through the mask of disdain. Then, with a grunt, he waved his hand. The world folded around them, and they were back in his stone-carved shack.

From a distance, it looked wooden — the grain and texture perfect, the table worn and scarred like oak. But Ares knew better. Every surface here was sculpted from stone, molded by Rodan's magic into the illusion of a craftsman's cabin. The bowls of golden soup sat neatly in a line across the table, still steaming, still shimmering with faint threads of mana.

Rodan dropped into his chair. "Almost forgot," he muttered, picking up his spoon. "You were supposed to learn to make a string today. But seeing that attitude, maybe we should start from—"

"No need," Ares said quietly.

Rodan froze mid-sentence. "Don't get cocky. You've got months before you can even—"

But before he could finish, something shifted. The air hummed softly. Ares was standing still, eyes unfocused, his breathing steady — and then Rodan saw it. Through his Sight Lens, the motes around the boy began to bend, drawn by an invisible rhythm.

A conduit.

Not forced, not bound, but guided.

Rodan's spoon dropped into the bowl with a dull sound. The thread of will forming before him wasn't a practiced weave; it was instinctual — crude yet precise. The boy's focus carried the motes like water through a carved channel. In the space of seconds, the green line took shape — a fragile mana string, fifty motes strong, perfectly aligned.

Rodan's voice came low, almost wary. "Who taught you that?"

"No one," Ares said, his voice calm. "It just made sense."

Rodan narrowed his eyes. "Boy," he said slowly, "you expect me to believe that? That a child did something like this without anyones help?"

He raised his hand before Ares could answer. A thin line of light extended from his palm, touching the air — then splitting into hundreds of finer strands. They reached out like veins of gold and wrapped around Ares's chest.

Ares gasped. He could feel them — the invisible strings that ran through his body, tugging faintly at something deep inside.

Rodan's expression hardened. "Tell me," he said, his voice echoing now. "Who taught you this method?"

Ares tried to steady his breath. "No one—"

And then it slipped — a single thought, sharp and unguarded. Beth.

Rodan's eyes flared. His Sight Lens burned bright as a black sun. "The cook?" he muttered, disbelief and amusement threading his tone.

Ares's heart sank. He realized, too late, that the old man had seen inside him — seen what he thought. His secrets, laid bare like open pages.

Rodan's gaze lingered a moment too long. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the spell. "So that's where it came from," he said quietly. "Interesting."

Ares stood frozen, his chest tight, as if part of his mind was still caught in those threads.

Rodan flicked his hand and threw the fraylings cloak towards Aress "Well get busy then" and turned back to the table. "The broth," he said suddenly, his tone shifting. "It keeps reinforcing my channels. My soul. So little, but it's there — and it doesn't fade with each bite."

He leaned closer to the bowl, studying its golden shimmer. "Even at my level, I shouldn't feel that kind of restoration. How in all the suns' names is it doing that?"

While Rodan obsessed over the soup, Ares distracted himself with the freyling cloak — the same one Rodan had botched earlier. His rumbing thoughts found piece as he slowly created green strings. The feeling of laying his thoughts bare was horrifying, he would rather be naked infront of everyone.

 With each knot he adjusted he found his peace, weaving the translucent threads beneath the visible seams instead of over them, layering the spiritual motes until the folds themselves vanished into air.

When he spoke again, Rodan didn't answer.

"Done," Ares said.

The old man looked up, frowning. "What?"

Ares was gone.

Rodan blinked. His Sight Lens flared open instinctively, flooding the room with mana-light — but even through the spectral layers, there was nothing. No trace. The boy had merged with the freylings completely.

A rare moment of silence fell between them. Then, almost grudgingly, Rodan muttered, "Not bad."

He reached forward, trying to grab at the empty air, but his hand brushed nothing. Ares reappeared beside him, the cloak slung loosely over one arm.

Rodan snatched it back and studied it, his expression unreadable. "You've done enough. Now get out."

He waved his hand, and the shack dissolved.

Ares found himself standing in his own room again. The quiet pressed against him. He could still feel the ghost of those threads crawling beneath his skin — the memory of how easily Rodan had peeled his thoughts open. The sense of being seen too deeply.

His stomach turned. For the first time since arriving here, he felt small — painfully, helplessly small.

Then came a sharp voice behind him.

"You let him touch your mind."

Ares turned. Astro was perched on the edge of his bed — half-hedgehog, half-human, his spines half-flared in disapproval. "You let him," Astro repeated, eyes gleaming. "You don't even know what that means, do you?"

Ares sank to the floor. "I didn't let him. He just—"

"—Looked," Astro cut in. "And you didn't stop him. That old man had no right."

A faint shimmer rippled in the air. Rodan's voice came, rough and dry. "I heard that, hedgehog."

Astro bristled, fur rising. "Then hear this too — you crossed a line."

For a moment, Rodan said nothing. Then a weary sigh filled the space. "Perhaps I did." His tone was low now, grudging but sincere. "The boy should learn how to defend his own mind. I'll… teach him how to close it."

The air bent — and the old man appeared again, half-shadow in the corner of the room. "Tomorrow," he said. "We'll see if your will can hold against mine."

Then he vanished.

Ares sat in silence, feeling the echo of that promise — half threat, half lesson.For now, he only breathed. The room felt smaller than ever.

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