Months passed.
The mansion filled with the chaotic music of children: small voices stumbling over letters, footsteps pounding down hallways, shrieks over the last sweet bun, laughter and petty wars in equal measure.
One afternoon the armored man returned, boots heavy on the stone floor, carrying a crystal the size of a child's torso. It caught the light like trapped starfire.
"From today," he announced, voice flat behind the helm, "you're learning magic."
Excited whispers raced through the hall like wind through dry grass.
He set the crystal on the long oak table with a dull thunk.
"Touch it. It shows your affinity."
One by one they stepped forward.
Red. Blue. Green. Yellow.
Some flared bright and proud; others gave only the weakest, flickering glow.
The armored man offered grunts of approval or the occasional vague "Not bad" or "Could be worse."
Then it was the gray girl's turn.
The room fell abruptly silent.
Everyone knew better than to stand too close to her.
She walked forward as though marching to her own execution, her shoulders rigid, her eyes fixed on the floor. When she reached the table she hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her small, pale hand on the crystal.
White light, pure, blinding, almost holy, exploded outward.
The armored man let out a low whistle.
"White. Recovery magic." He paused, helm tilting slightly. "Rare as hell."
The girl stared at the radiance, lips trembling.
"…Recovery… magic."
Her voice cracked as she said those words, slowly.
The armored man scratched the side of his helmet.
"Guess I'll have to teach you myself. Church banned those books years ago. No one else is allowed to touch them."
Jealousy, fear, and resentment flickered across the faces of the other children.
The gray girl didn't notice.
Lessons began the next day.
She tried to refuse.
She hid in closets, locked her door, pretended to be asleep, curled into the smallest shape she could make.
He found her every time.
Dragged her, gently, but without negotiation back to the study.
Made her sit.
Taught her anyway, grumbling the entire time about troublesome brats and wasted afternoons.
One overcast afternoon he placed a small silver knife on the table between them.
"Time to practice actual Heal." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Cut yourself. I'll fix it if you go too deep."
The girl took the knife without hesitation.
She looked at him. She asked softly, knowing once he sees this, hell treat her like the prison guards treated her.
She assumed he'd sell her or prison her, but she was used to it.
And then, without warning or change in expression, she drove the blade straight into her own left forearm.
Blood sprayed in a bright arc.
The armored man lunged forward. "What the hell are you—"
Black mist erupted from the wound like living smoke.
Darkness lashed out, whip-fast, coiling around his gauntlet, seeking to burrow beneath metal and skin. It was the same curse that had devoured every healer and assassin foolish enough to come near her.
The armored man didn't flinch.
He seized the black mist in his bare hand.
Slammed it into the floor.
Once. Twice.
The darkness writhed, shrieked in a sound no living thing should make, then shattered into harmless sparks that drifted and died.
The wound on the girl's arm remained open, blood still welling.
No instant healing.
The curse was gone.
She stared at the ragged cut.
Then at him.
Tears spilled over, silent and unstoppable.
The armored man exhaled heavily.
"Hey. Hey, don't cry. It's just a scratch." He raised his hand. "High Heal."
White light emanated from his gloved hand, soft this time, warm and wrapped around her arm like silk.
Torn flesh knit together.
The scar vanished completely.
The silver knife clattered to the floor.
The girl looked up at him, voice broken, barely more than breath.
"…Why can you touch it?"
He shrugged, pauldrons creaking.
"Dunno. Just could. Looked gross, but it's just normal magic, isn't it?"
She kept crying.
Harder.
For the first time in years the tears were not from pain.
They were from hope.
The armored man scratched the back of his helm, visibly uncomfortable.
"…Look, stop that. You're gonna flood the damn room."
She couldn't stop.
She sank to her knees.
Clutched the hem of his cloak as though it were the only solid thing left in the world.
And sobbed.
He stood there a long time, unmoving.
Then, awkwardly, he reached down and patted her head once with the heavy metal gauntlet, careful, almost gentle.
"…You're safe now. No one's selling you. No one's hurting you. Got it?"
She couldn't answer.
She only cried harder, shoulders shaking.
Outside the window, the other children pressed their faces to the glass, watching in a mix of jealousy and awe.
The armored man glanced down at the trembling child clinging to him and muttered under his breath.
"…Tch. This is exactly why I hate getting involved."
But he didn't move his hand from her head.
Not until she finally cried herself to sleep, still curled against his armored leg.
And somewhere deep inside the helm, in the place the man who hated all things troublesome kept carefully locked away, something dangerously close to responsibility took root.
The gray girl's twisted, starved hope had found its first slender crack of light.
And it was never going back into the dark