Jason forced himself upright one agonizing inch at a time.
Every step toward the tent sent fresh lightning through both legs. He moved like an old man, teeth locked, breath coming in short, ragged pulls. By the time he pushed through the flap he could no longer hold himself together. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the packed earth, clothes already dark with sweat.
Hannah's bright expression lasted only a heartbeat. The moment she saw the swollen, angry red of his shins, the smile vanished. She dropped to her knees beside him and reached out.
"Shh—take it easy," Jason hissed when her fingers brushed the tender flesh of his body.
She jerked her hands back. "What happened to your legs, big brother? Did you get into another fight with Andrew and his gang?"
"If only it had been a fight," he muttered, voice rough. "I might have preferred it."
Hannah's brows knit. "Then how—"
"Hannah." Clara's calm voice cut across the tent. "Leave your brother be and go prepare the meal."
Hannah glanced between them, then rose without argument and slipped outside. The tent fell quiet except for Jason's uneven breathing.
Clara studied his legs for a long moment. "Your training will have to wait until these have fully recovered. Pushing further now will only cripple you."
Jason closed his eyes. *Thank the heavens,* he thought. *One more day of that tree and I really would be finished.*
Later that morning Hannah returned with a wooden bowl of thin soup and a small portion of roasted meat. They ate in near silence. Night had fully settled when Clara appeared again, a small clay jar cradled in her hands. She nodded to Hannah.
"Hold his hands. Keep him still."
Hannah climbed onto the pallet and pinned Jason's wrists against the blanket. Clara knelt, uncorked the jar, and poured a thick green liquid into her palm. The moment the cool salve touched his skin Jason felt a brief, blessed numbness—then the real work began.
Clara's fingers dug in, kneading the bruised muscle and bone with deliberate, merciless pressure. Fire exploded up both legs. Jason arched, a raw shout tearing from his throat as he tried to twist free. Hannah held on with everything she had, her small frame braced against his struggles.
"Big brother, stop fighting it," she urged, voice tight. "Just bear it."
The torment stretched on until Clara finally sat back on her heels, wiping her hands. Jason lay soaked in fresh sweat, chest heaving, staring at the canvas ceiling.
Minutes passed. The searing pain gradually dulled to a deep, manageable ache.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. "I can barely feel it now. What *was* that?"
Clara tossed him the jar. He caught it one-handed. "Vial of the healer. Keep what's left. If the swelling returns after training, apply it and massage the same way."
"Thank you, Mother."
Hannah leaned forward with an exaggerated pout. "What about me? I'm a lady, you know. Don't I get any?"
Clara arched a brow. "Sorry, Hannah. That was the last of it. And you're not even a cultivator—what would you use it for?"
"Taking care of my skin is important!"
"The jar is already your brother's. You can ask him for it… if you don't mind slowing his cultivation."
Hannah's eyes went wide. She waved both hands in frantic refusal and bolted from the tent. Clara watched her go, then let out a soft, helpless laugh.
"What a silly girl."
---
The days that followed blurred into quiet recovery. Jason rested, ate what little they had, and applied the remaining salve whenever the residual ache flared. By the end of the week his legs had returned to their former strength—scarless, steady, ready.
He rose before dawn, intent on the tree near the tent. Clara's voice stopped him cold.
"If you're looking for a place to train," she called from her pallet, "go deeper into the woods. Some of us would still like to sleep."
Jason slipped away without argument.
He found a sturdy trunk far enough that the sound of impact would not carry back to the camp. There he resumed the work—left leg, right leg, power held carefully at half strength, then sixty percent, then a fraction more. Hours passed. Sweat darkened the earth. The sun climbed and fell. Only when the moon hung high and the forest had gone silver and silent did he finally stop.
He examined his legs in the pale light. No swelling this time—only the familiar deep sting. Crouching, he opened the clay jar, smoothed the last of the green salve over the skin, and worked it in with careful fingers until the worst of the heat faded.
On the walk home he paused at the small lake that lay like a mirror among the trees. The moon's reflection trembled across the black water. Something else trembled with it—an unmistakable shape, slender and curved, floating on the surface as though the light itself had taken solid form.
A bracelet.
Jason's breath caught. "How can a bracelet float like that… unless it's a treasure?"
He stripped quickly, the night air sharp against his skin, and slipped into the cold water. Strokes carried him toward the glowing outline. When he reached for it his fingers passed straight through the light and closed on empty water.
The reflection only.
He drew a deep breath and dove.
The lake closed over his head. He followed the descending shaft of moonlight until his feet found soft silt. There, resting on the bottom as though it had been waiting, lay the bracelet—real, solid, glittering faintly even in the dark.
Jason's heart hammered. He closed his hand around the cool metal, kicked upward, and broke the surface with a quiet gasp. Water streamed from his hair and shoulders as he climbed the bank. Without drying, without even dressing fully, he gathered his clothes and the precious find and hurried through the trees toward home, leaving only wet footprints that the night would soon erase.