The late afternoon light filtered through the fogged glass of the study, painting the worn wood in quiet shades of amber. Elise and Elian sat at the table. Before them rested the two grimoires Elise had given him earlier that day.
Elise opened her own book with the precision of someone who had done it hundreds of times, and spoke without preamble:
"Page seventeen, Elian."
The boy obeyed. The paper had a coarse texture, and the scent of freshly opened pages mingled with the herbal candles burning in the corner of the room. The page revealed diagrams—schematics of the human body crossed by fine blue lines, marking the flow points of vital energy. Above, written in elegant letters, the title read: Sanare – Fundamental Principles of Magical Restoration.
Elise leaned slightly over the table.
"We'll start with the basics. Sanare magic works through the conscious manipulation of vital energy." Her voice was calm but firm, the voice of someone teaching something that demanded more than understanding—it demanded reverence. "This energy is subtle. It exists in every living being. But to channel it, you must first feel it… and more importantly, visualize it."
Elian lifted his eyes from the grimoire.
"Visualize it? What do you mean? Is it like when I use regular spells?"
A simple question, but weighed with anguish. He had tried to visualize during his solitary practice, but all that came were disjointed fragments. Memories. Scenes of blood. Muffled voices. Never a clear flow. Never light.
Elise didn't rush to answer. She knew this was the point where most apprentices stumbled—and in Elian's case, she suspected it would be more than a stumble.
"Visualization isn't just any image, Elian," she began, lacing her fingers together. "It's a mental structure—a bridge between intention and magical execution. The mind must shape the spell before it can take form. Like an engineer who sees the bridge before it exists."
She paused, then pointed to the center of her chest.
"Vital energy flows from here." She tapped her diaphragm. "It's a central point. For me, this energy manifests as an underground river. I close my eyes and see its current flowing through me—a calm, steady stream. When I need to heal, I guide that river to where it must touch."
The image was poetic, but to Elian, it felt unreachable.
A river... I don't see any river.
All Elian ever saw when he closed his eyes was a broken mosaic. Fragments of one life stitched into the next. It felt like searching for water in a field of ashes. Like remembering what it was to be whole—but finding only static.
"And what if that river's dry?" he asked, eyes lowering. The question slipped out unfiltered, more intimate than he intended. "Or… what if it's invisible to me?"
Elise studied him closely. That wasn't a theoretical question—it was personal. She recognized it instantly. It wasn't born from ignorance, but from accumulated frustration.
"Then you dig," she answered without hesitation. "You dig deep. Not with force, but with persistence. The flow may be hidden, yes... but it's there. It's always there."
She paused briefly, then softened her tone:
"But that's my way of seeing it. A calm, steady river—that's how I understand my energy. Not everyone feels it the same way, Elian. Some see light. Others, a breeze, a field... even music. What matters is that you find your own form." She held his gaze, serious now. "But what doesn't change is the need to feel the other's vital energy. If you can't do that, the healing will never be precise. And instead of restoring… you might end up causing more harm."
My flow... is a patchwork. It's not hidden. It's... something else.
Elise continued, resuming her instructional tone.
"Sanare is a magic that demands precision. It's not powerful because it heals deep wounds with a snap of the fingers—but because, when done right, it reactivates the body's own mechanisms. It doesn't impose healing—it only accelerates what's already there. That's why the caster must clearly map where the energy is going… and how much is being given."
For a common conjurer, the vital flow is like a warm breeze inside the body—subtle, but constant. But for Elian, reborn, that breeze came as whirlwinds, as if part of his essence was operating on a different frequency. He sensed too much—too many voices, too many memories that clouded his focus.
"And what if I'm dissipating everything?" he asked, eyes returning to the page, which now seemed to mock him with its clearly drawn flows. "What if I'm wasting magic and don't even realize it?"
"It happens," Elise replied. "That's why you won't be casting anything just yet. For now, you'll observe. The body. The breath. The sensation of mana circulating. You'll write everything down. Failures. Impressions. Silences."
She stood, picked up a vial of vervain essence, and placed it beside him.
"This will help calm the external impulses. Use it before you meditate. Silence is your greatest ally now."
Elian looked at the vial.
Silence? How am I supposed to find silence with so many echoes inside me?
He didn't answer. He just nodded. He knew he wouldn't be able to cast Sanare in his current state. But there was something he could do: start mapping the chaos. Understand the points where everything fell apart. And with time… maybe he'd find the river.
Or rebuild it.
★★★
Hours had passed since the explanation. The sun was already dipping below the horizon, painting the sky with shades of amber and purple, when the calm of the house was suddenly broken.
Elian was still alone in the study room.
Since Elise had left to attend to other duties in the infirmary, he had stayed there obediently—trying, practicing, searching for any sign of the flow she had described.
The grimoire lay open on the same page, almost mocking his inertia. The lines of the Sanare formula were clear and steady, holding the serene confidence he could not reach.
He tried.
He tried to visualize the underground river.
He tried to imagine the earth being dug until something pulsed beneath his fingers.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Delved within himself.
But all he found was silence.
Emptiness.
It was like digging a dry well with his bare nails.
Frustrated, he pushed the grimoire aside and simply watched the flickering flame on the table. The candle danced in the breeze as if everything in the world was right, as if everything flowed—unlike him.
Then, suddenly, the door burst open.
Elise rushed in, eyes sharp, followed by a man with rough hands and clothes stained with dried paint. An artisan. In his arms, he carried a girl—pale, feverish, her eyes half-closed, lips cracked and dry.
"Elise, please…" he begged. "She's gotten worse since yesterday. I tried giving her tea, but she can't keep anything down. I don't know what else to do…"
"Calm down, Gallen. We'll take care of her," Elise replied firmly. Then, she looked at Elian—and hesitated for a moment. "Come with me, Elian."
Elian's eyes widened.
"I… I still can't…"
"I'll be by your side," she said as she walked. "But you will try. This is Gallen's daughter. Today, you'll be my assistant. Are you ready?"
He wasn't. But he nodded anyway.
He followed Elise to the infirmary, his heart pounding.
The girl was laid gently on the wooden cot. Her hair clung to her sweaty forehead. Despite the blankets, her body trembled—as if her bones were being eaten from within.
Elian approached slowly. The child's presence, so real and fragile, made everything feel heavier, more concrete. He knew the name of the spell. He understood the theory. But he didn't know if he was capable.
He closed his eyes.
Tried to remember Elise's words.
"Visualize it as an underground river. A flow that runs inside all of us. You just need to dig."
He took a deep breath.
Imagined the soil beneath his feet. Imagined his hands piercing the earth, layer by layer. Searched for that river.
And then he murmured:
— Sanare…
Nothing.
No light.
No warmth.
Not even the faint vibration he'd felt in earlier practice. It was like pushing against a locked door with no handle. Like blowing wind against a rock.
Elise watched silently. She did not interfere.
Elian lowered his head. Took a step back. He felt the father's gaze pressing on him like lead. No accusations were spoken, but the silence said everything.
"Why doesn't it work? Why is it always different with me?"
"She's here, alive, right in front of me. I can see her. I can touch her. But I can't feel anything."
"Where the hell is that damned flow? Where is it hiding?"
Then something snapped inside him. Not an answer, but like an old wound reopening.
"My flow… it's a patch. It's not that it's hidden. It's… something else."
He looked at the grimoire he had brought with him, now resting on the bench. The Sanare page was still there. Perfect. Immaculate. Indifferent to his pain.
"She says it's like digging. That you just have to persist until you find the flow… But what if there's nothing to dig up?"
He slid his fingertips over the formula. The ancient handwriting seemed to glow under the dim light. It spoke of vital energy, focus, intention—and that visualization.
But to Elian, it all sounded like a language he didn't know.
"She feels this flow as a quiet, buried river, constant. I… I don't have that. What I have is a labyrinth. Something broken, made of fragments from two lives that should never have crossed paths."
He lifted his eyes. Elise was still there, but he barely saw her. The world had shrunk—a distant whisper. Inside him, there was only noise.
"My soul isn't a spring. It's a patch. A piece that doesn't fit. A poorly sewn point in the fabric of something that used to be whole. It's not that I can't find the flow… it's that what I find isn't mine."
A knot formed in his throat.
"What if all I can do is destroy? What if that's why I can't feel another's life? Because mine is… contaminated?"
Emanuelle's face appeared. Laughing. Then Maria's, eyes full on the day of farewell. And then Arthur's… when he said he trusted him.
"What if I fail them too?"
He closed his eyes. He didn't want Elise to notice. Didn't want anyone to see. He was ashamed. Afraid. Guilty.
"I'm not just a five-year-old boy trying to learn magic. I'm the man who used to be a monster trying not to repeat himself. But what if… what if this essence never leaves me?"
His fingers tingled. Anger. Sadness. Helplessness. All mixed.
"They call me the one who brings the light. But what light? I don't know how to save anyone. I only know how to kill."
The Sanare instructions hadn't changed. They remained serene. Seemingly simple. But to him, they felt unattainable.
"What if my flow isn't a river, nor a well, nor a spring… but a scar?"
The infirmary was wrapped in thick silence, broken only by the girl's shallow breathing on the cot and the dry creak of Elise's chair as she approached. The scent of herbs, sweat, and fear hung in the air like an invisible mist.
Elian stood motionless beside the bed. The grimoire was still in his hands, but the words no longer made sense. They were dried ink marks, static, deaf to his despair.
He heard Elise's voice—firm, yet gentle.
"Elian. What are you trying to visualize?"
He didn't answer right away. He was too tired even to feel frustrated. His eyes remained fixed on the page, but he didn't really see it.
"The earth. The river. The digging," he thought. "Like she said. But there's nothing there."
He raised his eyes only to see Elise nodding, then crouching beside the girl. Her movements were calm, practiced—like someone who had tried to keep death at bay many times before. Elian felt small beside that certainty. An intruder in something sacred.
"Try again. But stop before you exhaust yourself," she said. "Focus on her presence. Forget the spell. Forget the outcome."
Elian obeyed, without hope. He raised his trembling hands. They were cold. Or maybe it was him already emptying from within.
"She wants me to feel her presence," he thought. "But all I feel is the fear of failing again."
— Sanare...
Silence.
"Again."
— Sanare...
A slight vibration ran through his arm, but the magic didn't come. His chest tightened with a dull weight. He tried once more, almost shouting at the world:
— Sanare...!
And then he saw.
But not as he expected.
No blue light. No glow. No healing.
It was dark. Almost viscous. A black current, winding, rising from his own chest like ink dissolving in water. Elian stepped back, disgusted.
"That… is what lives inside me?"
"I saw it…" he whispered, voice broken. "But it wasn't blue. It was… black."
Elise approached slowly. Her face remained calm, but her eyes revealed concern. Not fear. Recognition.
"You're not feeling her energy. You're using yours. Forcing it. If you keep going, you'll snuff it out."
Her words were clear. Rational. Without judgment.
But inside Elian, confusion only grew.
"If what I felt is my flow, then… I am corrupted."
He tried to breathe deeply. His muscles refused to obey. Cold sweat ran down his temple. The floor seemed to spin.
"I don't feel what she feels. I don't see what she sees. And when I do, it's wrong. It's twisted. It's sick."
He stared at his own reflection in the nearby glass cabinet, distorted by ripples. A five-year-old boy. But not only that. Not just an apprentice.
"I am what remains of someone who destroyed. Someone who killed. Maybe my flow isn't a river… maybe it's a scar."
He felt Elise crouch beside him again. She said nothing. She just stayed there, present—a steady anchor in the chaos.
He wanted to scream, tear this spell apart, run away. But he couldn't.
Not with that child lying there, gasping, trusting—even if unconsciously—in him.
"She said to use what I have. But what I have is… destruction."
Then something shifted.
A memory.
Muscles. Arteries. Bones. Precise cuts. The human body—not as an object of healing, but as a map of pain.
"I know the body," he thought, bitterly clutching his stomach. "Not as a healer. But as an executioner."
The idea came like a blade.
He didn't need to look for rivers or springs.
He needed to map.
The girl trembled before him. Sweaty skin, chest heaving. Elian closed his eyes.
He visualized the body's channels.
Veins. Heat. Pressure.
Points where blood runs. Where life pulses. Where fever settles.
"Maybe… maybe the flow is there. In the flesh. In the nerve centers. Like circuits."
It was awful to think like that. But it was all he had.
He breathed deeply, this time with more focus. The anger was still there—but cold, controlled.
He raised his hands again, this time placing his fingers not on a generic spot, but on the vital nodes he had learned to recognize even in battle.
— Sanare...
Energy emerged. Weak. Irregular.
But no longer black.
It was gray, like the sky before a storm.
Elise watched, still silent.
The light flickered, wavering like a candle in the wind.
But it didn't go out.
The girl's breathing slowed. The trembling stopped. The sweat remained, but now it seemed to drain something bad from inside her.
Elian opened his eyes.
He was exhausted. Sweating. His legs wanted to give way.
But for the first time, something worked.
"Elise will say it's little. That it's just the beginning."
But she didn't need to say it.
She simply touched his shoulder. That gesture was enough.
He kept his eyes fixed on the child, still disbelieving.
"I didn't dig. I mapped."
And deep down, maybe that was enough.
Not a river, nor a spring.
But a scar—and yet, a passage.
Something had flowed.
And now he knew where to start again.