Months passed.
The mansion became loud with children learning letters, chasing each other through hallways, fighting over the last sweet bun.
The armored man returned one afternoon carrying a crystal the size of a child's torso.
"From today, you're learning magic."
Excited whispers rippled through the hall.
He set the crystal on the table.
"Touch it. Shows your affinity."
One by one they did.
Red. Blue. Green. Yellow.
Some glowed bright, some barely flickered.
The armored man grunted approval or vague encouragement.
Then it was the gray girl's turn.
The room went quiet.
Everyone knew what happened when people got too close to her.
She walked forward like she was marching to execution.
Placed her hand on the crystal.
White light—pure, blinding—exploded outward.
The armored man whistled.
"White. Recovery magic. Rare as hell."
The girl stared at the glow, lips trembling.
"…Recovery… magic."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
The armored man scratched his helmet.
"Guess I'll have to teach you personally.
Church banned those books, so no one else can."
The other kids looked jealous, scared, resentful.
The gray girl didn't care.
She just stared at the white light like it was the sun after years underground.
Lessons began the next day.
She tried to refuse.
Hid in closets.
Locked her door.
Pretended to be asleep.
He found her every time.
Dragged her to the study.
Made her sit.
Taught her anyway.
Grumbling the whole time.
One afternoon he produced a small silver knife.
"Time to practice actual "Heal".
Cut yourself. I'll fix it if you go too deep."
The girl took the knife.
Looked at him.
And without warning drove it straight into her own left forearm.
Blood sprayed.
The armored man lunged.
"What the hell are you—"
Black mist erupted from the wound.
Living darkness.
It lashed out like a whip, wrapping around his gauntlet, trying to burrow inside.
The same curse that had killed every healer or assassin who ever sent near her.
The armored man didn't flinch.
He grabbed the black mist with his bare hand.
Slammed it into the floor.
Once.
Twice.
The darkness writhed, screamed, then shattered into harmless sparks.
The wound on the girl's arm stayed open.
No instant healing.
The curse was gone.
The girl stared at her bleeding arm.
Then at him.
Tears fell.
Silent, unstoppable.
The armored man sighed.
"Hey, hey, don't cry.
It's just a scratch.
"High Heal"."
White light wrapped her arm.
Skin knit.
Scar vanished.
The knife clattered to the floor.
The girl looked up at him.
Voice broken, barely a whisper.
"…Why can you touch it?"
He shrugged inside the helmet.
"Dunno.
Just could. Just normal magic isn't it? Just looks gross."
She kept crying.
Harder.
For the first time in years, the tears weren't from pain.
They were from hope.
The armored man scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable.
"…Look, stop that.
You're gonna flood the room."
The girl didn't stop.
She fell to her knees.
Clutched the hem of his cloak like it was the only real thing in the world.
And sobbed.
He stood there a long time.
Then, awkwardly, patted her head once with a metal gauntlet.
"…You're safe now.
No one's selling you.
No one's hurting you.
Got it?"
She couldn't answer.
Just cried harder.
Outside the window, the other kids watched through the glass.
Some jealous.
The armored man looked down at the shaking child and muttered under his breath.
"…Tch.
This is why I hate getting involved."
But he didn't move his hand from her head.
Not until she finally cried herself to sleep.
And somewhere deep inside the helmet, the man who hated everything troublesome felt something dangerously close to responsibility take root.
The gray girl's twisted hope had found its first crack of light.
And it was never going back in the dark.