I woke up before the pain did.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal—too normal. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, carved stone with faint azure inlays, sunlight filtering through tall windows. Linen sheets. The distant sound of gulls.
Then my body caught up.
Pain hit in layers.
First my ribs—tight, shallow breaths reminding me how close they were to cracking. Then my arms, heavy and trembling, muscles locked like they'd been clenched for hours after I stopped moving. My legs followed, dull and weak.
And beneath all of that—
Aura fatigue.
The kind that didn't burn or scream.
The kind that sat deep and cold.
I stared at the ceiling longer than necessary.
So this was the cost.
When I finally pushed myself upright, my chest protested immediately. I clenched my jaw and ignored it. The room spun for a second, then steadied.
A mirror stood across from the bed.
I didn't like what I saw.
Bandages wrapped my torso and shoulder, already faintly red at the edges. My face looked thinner somehow. Pale. There was a new cut along my collarbone I didn't remember getting.
I flexed my fingers.
White sparks flickered.
They vanished just as fast.
"…Stop," I muttered.
The aura listened.
That bothered me more than the pain.
The villa felt different in the morning.
Too quiet.
No shouting. No laughter echoing through the halls. Even the servants moved more carefully than before, voices low, footsteps soft.
Recovery wasn't loud.
I found Aldred in one of the side halls, speaking with a physician from Newoaga. The man straightened the moment he noticed me standing there.
"You shouldn't be up," the physician said.
"I can stand," I replied.
"That wasn't the question."
Aldred turned then, eyes narrowing slightly as they took me in. Not anger. Not concern.
Assessment.
"How long?" he asked.
"Few minutes."
He nodded. "Sit."
It wasn't a request.
I sat.
The physician checked my pulse, my aura flow, the color under my eyes. His frown deepened with every quiet hum of the device in his hand.
"…You pushed far past safe thresholds," he said eventually.
"I know."
"You fractured internal channels," he continued. "Not permanently. But close."
Aldred's gaze sharpened.
"How close," he asked.
The physician hesitated.
"Close enough that if he'd drawn again—properly drawn—he would've collapsed. Or worse."
Silence followed.
Aldred dismissed the physician with a nod.
When we were alone, he didn't raise his voice.
That scared me more.
"You didn't retreat," he said.
"I couldn't."
"You didn't signal."
"There wasn't time."
"You didn't trust command."
"I trusted my judgment."
He studied me.
"You stepped past where first-years are meant to survive," Aldred said quietly. "Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes."
"No," he said. "You understand what it felt like. Not what it cost."
I didn't argue.
He sighed.
"You're not reprimanded," he said. "But don't mistake survival for permission."
He paused.
"And don't mistake strength for control."
That one landed.
Later, I passed through the western corridor and stopped without meaning to.
Voices carried from the adjoining room.
"…he didn't hesitate," someone said. Liam, I thought.
"That's the problem," another replied. Kazen.
A pause.
"He didn't look scared."
Silence stretched.
"…Do you think he'll burn out?" someone asked quietly.
I stepped away before they could notice me.
They weren't wrong to ask.
That bothered me more than anything.
I left the villa before noon.
No one stopped me.
The shoreline stretched wide and empty beyond the city's edge. The sea rolled in slow, heavy breaths, nothing like the chaos from the night before.
I walked until the sand cooled under my feet and the sounds of Newoaga faded behind me.
The ocean didn't glare.
Didn't threaten.
It just… watched.
I crouched near the waterline, letting the tide brush against my boots.
White sparks danced faintly across the surface.
The water didn't resist.
It parted.
Not violently.
Not obediently.
Recognition.
I pulled my hand back at once.
"…Not yet," I said to no one.
The tide resumed its rhythm.
The sea didn't care if I was ready.
And that was the problem.
I stood there for a long time, letting the breeze dry the salt from my clothes, letting the pain remind me that I was still human.
Friends didn't carry you through battles.
Training didn't guarantee survival.
And power—
Power watched.
Waited.
I turned back toward the city without another word.
Summer wasn't just rest.
It was exposure, exposure to the real world.
As I faced away from the city, I headed down the shoreline.
The sand was still damp from the tide, cool beneath my boots. The noise of the city softened the farther I walked—laughter dissolving into wind, voices thinning into the hush of waves folding over themselves. Lantern light stretched across the water in broken lines, trembling with each small swell.
I needed the quiet.
Not because I was angry. Not because I was running from them. Just… because the feeling inside me hadn't settled yet.
The ocean shifted as I walked, subtle at first. The water pulled back when I slowed, pressed forward when I stopped. Not dramatically—nothing anyone else would notice. A coincidence, if you wanted to call it that. My aura stayed low, contained, but the sea still responded, as if listening without being asked.
I exhaled.
I'd almost died more times than I could count now. Ignis. The Forest of Mist. The Gaiadrake. The Ocean. Each time, someone had been there—covering my flank, dragging me back, shouting my name.
I appreciated that. More than I ever said out loud.
But appreciation wasn't the same as dependence.
I stopped near the water's edge and crouched, dragging my fingers through the foam. It parted around my hand, curling back in slow spirals before closing again. Calm. Obedient. Dangerous, if pushed.
I understood it better than I wanted to admit.
I liked having friends. That realization still felt strange, like saying a word in a language I hadn't practiced enough. I liked the noise they made. The way they argued about nothing. The way they stood their ground when things went bad.
But I couldn't let myself lean on that.
Not fully.
If I did, I'd hesitate when it mattered. I'd wait for someone else to move first. I'd assume someone would always be there to catch me.
That wasn't how knights survived.
That wasn't how I survived.
I straightened and kept walking, the wind tugging at my coat. My reflection wavered on the surface of the water—distorted, stretched thin, then gone. For a moment, I saw flashes instead: the slums of Ignis, rusted roofs and narrow alleys; the academy grounds under rain; white lightning splitting the dark inside my chest.
Strength had carried me this far. Not borrowed strength. Mine.
And it still wasn't enough.
The water surged slightly, a low wave brushing closer to shore before retreating again. I hadn't meant to call it. My thoughts must have leaked through anyway.
I tightened my jaw.
"I know," I muttered, unsure whether I was speaking to myself or the sea. "I'm not done."
The ocean didn't answer. It never did. It just moved—patient, endless, indifferent to intentions.
That was fine.
I stood there a while longer, letting the wind dry the salt from my clothes, letting the noise inside my head thin out. When I finally turned back toward the city lights, my steps felt steadier—not lighter, just… aligned.
I realized I wasn't alone anymore.
But the path ahead was still mine to walk.