When I woke again, the world was quiet.
Soft light spilled through the window, painting the room in gold and white. The chair beside my bed was empty now, only a neatly folded blanket resting on the armrest.
Mother must have gone to her room once I'd fallen asleep.
I smiled faintly. She stayed until she knew I was safe.
Stretching slowly, I sat up. My body felt lighter — not just rested, but clear, as though the dreams of last night had smoothed away the lingering fog in my mind.
Cerys' calm voice echoed faintly in my memory: "Growth and rest — both are parts of learning."
And Elyon's deep tone followed: "Do not chase it. Learn to listen."
I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift inward. I could feel it now — faint, subtle, like a quiet pulse beneath my skin. The mana Elyon had shown me. It moved softly through me, like warm air rising after a spring rain.
My heart quickened. This is it.
I wanted to focus, to follow the flow, to explore it deeper — but then I stopped.
For a moment, I simply breathed.
No, I told myself. Not yet. Don't rush it.
I remembered their words — patience, balance, steadiness. The flame must burn evenly, not fiercely.
Opening my eyes again, I let the sensation fade naturally and rose from bed.
This time, I would start the morning the right way.
I splashed cool water on my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair until I looked more like a student and less like a ghost. The refreshing sting of the water brought me fully awake, and I found myself humming quietly without realizing it.
Five minutes later, the door opened.
"Good morning, young master—" Melody froze mid-sentence. Her brows lifted in mild surprise. "You're already awake? And… washing up?"
I glanced back, toothbrush still in hand. "Good morning, Melody."
Her tone softened, though she still tried to sound stern. "Well, that's a pleasant surprise. You look much better today."
"I feel better," I said honestly. "I think I overdid it before."
She crossed her arms but smiled just slightly. "That's an understatement. You worried everyone yesterday."
"I know," I said, rinsing my mouth and drying my hands. "I won't push myself like that again. I promise."
Melody studied me for a moment — then nodded, her smile growing warmer. "Good. Breakfast is almost ready. I'll let your mother know you're up."
As she left, I looked once more toward the folded blanket on the chair. My chest tightened with quiet gratitude.
Thank you, Mother. Thank you, everyone.
Then I took a deep breath, steady and calm, feeling that faint pulse of mana hum within me again. Not loud, not rushing — just there.
It was enough.
Today, I wouldn't chase power.
Today, I would simply learn to listen.
The smell of fresh bread and roasted nuts filled the dining room as I walked in. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, washing over the long table where breakfast had been neatly set: fruit compote, eggs, and warm milk.
Mother sat near the head of the table, sipping her tea. When she looked up and saw me, relief softened her entire face.
"Good morning, dear," she said, her voice gentle but weary. "You finally look like yourself again."
I bowed my head slightly. "Morning, Mother. I'm… sorry for worrying you."
She set her cup down. "You certainly did," she replied, but the scolding in her tone was mild. "When Melody told me how pale you'd been, I nearly had the healers brought in."
"I won't push myself like that again," I promised, taking a seat. "Thank you for staying with me last night."
Her eyes glistened faintly as she smiled. "That's what mothers are for."
Across the table, Melody was already ladling porridge into bowls. "Eat slowly, young master," she said firmly, though her voice lacked the icy edge she'd shown before. "Your body still needs time to recover."
"I will," I said, meeting her gaze. "Thank you… for taking care of me."
She blinked once, a little taken aback, then nodded. "It's my duty. But you're welcome."
We ate together quietly for a while. The warmth of the food felt soothing, grounding — like every spoonful was mending the parts of me I'd strained too far.
After breakfast, I made my way through the manor, finding the people I'd worried most.
First was the head chef, who was supervising the cleaning of the kitchen. His large frame loomed over the counter, but when he saw me, his gruff expression softened.
"Ah, young master Baker," he said, crossing his arms. "Feeling better, are you?"
"Yes," I said with a bow. "Thank you for the special meal yesterday. I heard you prepared something extra for me."
He chuckled. "Hah, just a bit of broth and greens. You looked half-dead, boy. Eat properly and rest, or I'll start feeding you in your sleep."
I laughed quietly. "I'll remember that."
Next came the groundskeeper, who waved at me while trimming the hedges outside. "Up and about already, Master Baker? Don't go fainting in the gardens now."
"I won't," I replied with a grin. "And thank you for checking on me yesterday. I really appreciate it."
He smiled, shaking his head. "Kind heart, that one. You'll make your mother proud yet."
And so the day went — a series of small meetings, apologies, and thanks. The maids, the gardeners, the stablehands — each of them had shown worry, in their own way, when I'd collapsed from exhaustion. Each of them now smiled with relief to see me well again.
By midday, my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. Their kindness, their simple care, reminded me of something the gods had said.
"Even divinity is powerless without those who nurture it."
Perhaps power wasn't something to chase alone. Perhaps it grew best when shared — quietly, kindly, with gratitude.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, I returned to my room.
I sat by the window, watching the fading light, and whispered softly:
"Thank you… everyone."