I stirred awake, my consciousness swimming up through layers of thick, heavy fog. The first thing I saw was the familiar, webbed ceiling of the ruins, cracks tracing patterns I'd memorized over weeks of staring up from my bedroll. For a blissful, silent moment, there was only the dull, pervasive ache in my body. Then, like a tide of ice water, memory rushed back in.
Glowing eyes in the dark. The wet crunch of fangs meeting bone—my bone. Seres's cry of warning. Ethan's face, white with fear. The feeling of my own blood, hot and slick, spilling down my arm. The weight of a dead wolf collapsing on me.
I shot upright, a gasp tearing from my throat. The sudden movement sent fire lancing through my ribs and a white-hot agony screaming from my left arm, which was now tightly bound in clean, rough bandages. I ignored it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The ruins were too quiet. Where were they?
My legs wobbled violently beneath me as I shoved the blanket aside. Every muscle protested, my body a symphony of pain, but a cold, sharp panic was overriding it all. I had to see. I had to know. Had I failed them in the end? Had the last wolf gotten past me after I fell? The images flashed behind my eyes—Seres falling, Ethan dragged into the dark—and my breath hitched.
I staggered forward, using the cold, rough stone of the wall for support. The main hall was empty, the hearth cold. The silence was deafening, pressing in on me. Each shuffling step was a battle, my vision swimming at the edges with the effort. The fear was a physical weight in my chest, heavier than any axe or wolf. Please. Let them be here. Let them be safe.
My unbandaged hand pressed against the great, weathered wooden door of the ruins. I leaned my forehead against it for a second, gathering the strength to push. Had they left me? Had my failure been too great?
With a final, grinding effort, I shoved the door open.
Sunlight, bright and almost shocking, streamed in, making me wince. The crisp, clean scent of woodsmoke and pine hit me, washing away the phantom stink of blood and fear. And then I saw them.
The scene outside was so normal, so peacefully mundane, that it stole the air from my lungs. Mia and Nico were stacking chopped wood into a neat pile, their movements coordinated and practiced. A little farther off, Ethan was swinging an axe—my axe, I realized—his face set in concentration, sweat gleaming on his brow. His injured ankle was carefully bound and braced, but he was putting his weight on it, his movements strong and sure.
And Seres. She was tending the growing woodpile, her back to me, her white hair a bright banner in the sun. She paused, as if sensing a shift in the air, and turned.
Her pale eyes found my figure slumped in the doorway. Her hands stilled, a piece of firewood forgotten in her grasp. Her expression was unreadable for a heartbeat, that familiar, guarded mask in place. Then, something in it softened, shifted. It wasn't a smile, not quite.
They were all here. They were safe. They were working, living, breathing. The tight, panicked knot in my chest unraveled so suddenly it left me lightheaded. I hadn't failed. They were alive. The world, which had narrowed to a bloody clearing and the snarls of wolves, rushed back in, full of sunlight and the sound of an axe biting into wood. I just stood there, clinging to the doorframe, drinking in the sight of them, my legs trembling for a reason that had nothing to do with pain.
"Ardyn—!"
The name tore from Seres's lips, a raw sound of shock and fear that cut through the peaceful morning air. She dropped the piece of firewood she was holding, and it landed with a dull thud in the dirt. In an instant, she was running toward me, her movements swift and sure despite the tremor I could see in her hands even from a distance.
She reached me just as my legs chose that moment to truly give out, her hands shooting out to steady me, her grip surprisingly strong on my good arm. Her pale eyes were glistening with unshed tears, but her voice, when it came, was sharp, laced with a anger that couldn't quite mask her terror.
"What do you think you're doing?" she half-shouted, half-pleaded, her words coming in a frantic rush. "You should be in bed! Your wounds are deep, do you want them to reopen? Do you want to bleed out on the floor after all that?" Her scolding was relentless, but her actions were gentle as she turned me, guiding my shaking, unsteady form back through the doorway and into the dim, cool interior of the ruins.
She didn't lead me to my bedroll, but to a low stool near the cold hearth, pushing me down onto it with a firmness that brooked no argument. I didn't have the strength to offer any. I simply sat, my body humming with pain and exhaustion, and let her tend to me.
Her touch was efficient, practiced. She unwrapped the old bandages from my arm, her fingers careful but sure. I flinched as the air hit the torn, stitched skin beneath, a landscape of angry purple and red. She cleaned it with a damp cloth that stung fiercely, then applied a fresh poultice of crushed herbs that cooled the fire almost instantly. My breath hissed through my teeth at the initial sting, but I managed a weak, crooked smile for her benefit.
"Guess I'm late," I said softly, my voice rough from disuse but surprisingly steady.
She didn't look up, focusing on re-bandaging my arm with precise, tight wraps.
"But…" I continued, watching the top of her head. "Late Happy Birthday, Seres."
Her hands froze. The entire world seemed to pause for a single, suspended heartbeat. She slowly lifted her gaze to mine, and her eyes, usually so guarded and sharp, had softened into something I couldn't name. A sound escaped her—a small, choked laugh that was also a sob, thick with tears she refused to let fall.
"My birthday was three days ago, Ardyn," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You've been asleep for that long after the wolves."
Three days. The words didn't fully register. All I could see was the look on her face.
Then she did something that stole the air from my lungs. She pressed her palm flat and gentle against my chest, right over my heart. Her voice lowered even further, and the words that slipped past her lips were in her own language.
"Fina'el, Ardyn," she breathed. Thank you.
It was more than just thanks for fighting. It was for coming back. For waking up. For remembering her birthday in a haze of blood and pain. Her hand remained there for a moment longer, a warm, steady weight, and in that silence, I understood everything.
The Revelation
As Seres carefully smoothed the last bandage over his wounds, her expression softened from stern worry into something more vulnerable. She spoke with a quiet intensity, her voice barely above a whisper.
"After you fell… you were so still. The bleeding wouldn't stop." Her hands paused, resting gently on his bandaged arm. "It wasn't you who brought yourself back, Ardyn. If it weren't for Finel… you wouldn't be here with us now."
"Ardyn… you were lucky," Seres said, her voice low and steady. "Someone brought you back here after the attack. His name is Finel." She paused, her pale eyes holding his with unusual seriousness. "An A-ranked adventurer. He was on a mission nearby, passing through the forest when he found you."
"Finel?" I croaked, the name unfamiliar and strange on my tongue. My voice was still little more than a rough whisper, scraped raw from disuse and pain.
Seres nodded, her expression unreadable for a moment before it softened into something reminiscent. "Yes. An old friend of mine," she explained, her fingers gently adjusting the bandage on my arm. "He used to buy herbs and medicines from me when he passed through this territory. He knows the forest almost as well as I do." She paused, her pale eyes flicking up to meet mine, a trace of awe in their depths. "He was the one who found you in that clearing. He was… surprised."
A dry, weak cough escaped me. "Surprised?"
"Shocked," she clarified, her voice dropping slightly. "He said anyone else would have been torn to ribbons. He couldn't understand how you'd killed wolves like that—a D-rank and its pack—without using a shred of mana." Her hand, which had been tending my wounds, stilled, resting softly on my bandaged forearm. "He told me he scanned you, trying to sense your core, your energy… and he couldn't feel a thing. It was like you weren't even there."
I frowned, trying to process this through the fog in my mind. The memory of the fight was a blur of instinct and survival. "He thought I… used mana?" The concept still felt alien, a language I couldn't speak.
Seres shook her head, a faint, almost wry smile touching her lips. "No. That's just it. You didn't. That's what confused him so much." She looked away, as if recalling the conversation. "He asked me what your rank was. As an adventurer." She let out a soft breath, a sound caught between disbelief and a strange pride. "When I told him you aren't one… that you have no rank, no guild registration, no experience… he nearly fell over. He just stood there, staring at you, repeating 'Impossible.' He couldn't believe someone with no training, no mana, could fight like that and live."
"He had to leave quickly after that," Seres continued, her voice taking on a practical tone as she dipped a cloth in a bowl of clean water. "A-ranks sometimes get personal missions they cannot refuse or delay. He told me he'd been tracking something else entirely when he saw the blood trail and heard the… the commotion." She didn't elaborate on what 'commotion' entailed—my cries, the snarls, the sound of violence. "That is why he came. After he carried you back here and ensured you were stable, he left to complete his task. He said he would return when he could."
I leaned back against the rolled-up furs serving as my pillow, the simple motion sending a fresh wave of exhaustion through me. But it was a clean tiredness, the kind that came after survival, not the cold emptiness of nearing death. Seres hovered beside me, her attention absolute. She cleaned each cut and bruise with a tenderness that belied her usually stern demeanor, her touch light and sure. She sprinkled a sharp-smelling, green powdered herb over the deeper wounds, the pain immediately dulling to a distant throb under her careful ministration. She whispered soft, calming words in her own language as she worked, a steady stream of sound that seemed to weave a spell of its own, and my breathing slowly steadied in response.
The night passed in a hazy blur of fitful sleep and pain. But every time I stirred, Seres was there. A cool hand on my forehead checking for fever, skilled fingers adjusting a bandage that had come loose, a murmured instruction to lie still. My head would loll back against the pillow, my body too heavy to disobey, but the fear was gone. I was safe. She was watching. Even without the mana everyone seemed to value so highly, her deep knowledge of herbs and her unwavering care were a power all their own, and it was keeping me alive.
By the second day, a sliver of strength had returned. With a great deal of effort and a sheen of cold sweat on my brow, I could push myself up into a sitting position. Seres was there instantly, her arm a solid support behind my back, a cup of water held to my lips. "Slowly," she instructed, her voice firm. I sipped, the water feeling like life itself trickling down my parched throat. She brought a simple broth next, guiding the spoon herself when my hands shook too badly.
Emboldened by the food and the return of feeling in my limbs, I tried to shift, to swing my legs over the side of the bedroll. The intention to stand was clear.
"Don't push too hard," she warned immediately, her hand pressing down on my good shoulder, not with force, but with undeniable authority. Every muscle in my body screamed in unanimous protest at the mere thought of bearing weight. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the claws that had raked my side, the teeth that had shattered my arm. The memory of the wolves was etched into my very flesh. Seeing the pain flash across my face, her expression softened, but she didn't move away. She stayed close, a silent promise that if I fell, she would be there to catch me.
By the third day, I could shuffle slowly around the ruin's main hall, each step a deliberate and careful negotiation with my protesting body. Seres remained a constant, silent shadow nearby, her hands always ready with a fresh bandage, a pot of salve, or a steadying grip on my elbow if I wavered.
She studied the knitting skin, the fading bruises, the rapid retreat of inflammation. The rate of my recovery was clearly leaving her astonished. At this rate, she thought, the relief a tangible warmth in her chest, it won't take more than a week to fully recover. Her careful examination continued, noting the clean edges of the deepest cuts. And thankfully… no scars will remain.
She looked up at me, her expression a complex mix of professional assessment and personal awe. "You're strong… but reckless," she said softly, the words both a criticism and an admission of respect.
I managed a faint, tired smile, leaning against the cool stone wall for support. The phantom ache in my limbs was a constant, dull reminder of the clearing and the wolves. But it was just that—a reminder. Not a sentence. I was alive. "It seems to be working so far," I rasped, feeling the truth of it with every breath I took.
Once the strength had truly returned to my legs and the constant, sharp reminders of my injuries had faded to a manageable ache, Seres guided me to where the pelts were stored. The wolves' hides were heavy, thick-furred and surprisingly pliable after being properly treated and stretched. The sight of them sent an involuntary chill down my spine—a flash of glowing eyes and snapping jaws—but I pushed it aside.
Seres studied me carefully, "Ethan can't come," she said, her voice practical. "His leg still isn't fully healed. He needs to rest it." She paused, her gaze thoughtful as she looked me over. "And… being cooped up in these ruins all day might not be good for you either. Some air, a purpose…" She hesitated for a heartbeat, a rare flicker of uncertainty in her pale eyes before a hint of quiet hope warmed her tone. "I can't carry all these pelts alone. Would you… want to join me?"
"We'll take them to the Adventurer's Guild," Seres stated, her tone matter-of-fact as she began rolling one of the larger pelts, the one from the D-rank beast. "Sell the pelts. The Grade D pelt alone will bring a good price. It'll give us some coin for supplies before the deep winter…" She glanced at me, her pale eyes assessing. "…and you'll see how adventurers trade materials and goods. How the system works."
I nodded, the movement feeling stiff. Eagerness warred with a deep-seated caution within me. My body was healing, but the memory of the fight had left my mind perpetually alert, scanning for threats in a way it never had before. The Guild was no longer just a place of curious onlookers and strange jobs; it was now the marketplace for the proof of my own survival.
The ruins were quiet that morning, the other children already off on their chores. We worked in a comfortable silence, packing the pelts into sturdy sacks. Seres adjusted the straps on my shoulders with a critical eye, making sure the weight was distributed so it wouldn't pull on my still-tender side. She double-checked her own satchel, ensuring her pouches of herbs and remedies were secure.
"Stay careful," she murmured as she finished, her voice low and meant only for me. Her gaze was serious. "The guild can be busy, loud. Keep your wits about you. But this… this will be good for you to learn." It was more than a trading lesson; it was an initiation.
I hefted the sack, feeling the substantial weight of the pelts within. With a final, steadying breath, I followed her out of the ruins and onto the familiar path toward Velsharra. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from the physical burden, but from the significance of the journey. This was it. My first real, deliberate step into the world of adventurers, no longer as a bystander, but as a participant.