The door closed behind me with a soft hum as the privacy wards activated.
The sound felt final, absolute.
For a moment, I stood with my back to the door, staring at the woman on the bed.
Professor Miriam Thorne looked nothing like she did during orientation.
Back then, she had stood in front of a lecture hall filled with nervous first-years, wearing a calm smile and patient eyes. Her auburn hair was neatly tied back, and her glasses rested low on her nose. She talked about growth—of plants, people, and magic—making even the most distracted students pay attention.
Now, she was pale, her lips tinged gray, her breath shallow and uneven. Faint lines of sickly green spread beneath her skin like invasive roots, pulsing slightly with each heartbeat. The corruption wasn't subtle or hiding.
It was winning.
The crystals around the bed flickered with diagnostic readings I barely understood, their light dim and erratic. The smell in the room was sharp and unpleasant—sweet rot mixed with burnt mana residue. It was the kind of scent that indicated healers had already tried everything they knew.
And failed.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to step closer.
My heart pounded in my chest, loud enough that I was sure she could hear it. I had never healed anyone before, not really. Not with this power. I didn't even fully understand it myself.
But if I walked away, she would die.
That much was clear.
"Professor Thorne?" I said softly as I sat beside the bed. "Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, with effort, she opened them.
A green haze clouded her pupils, but a flicker of awareness showed behind them. She turned her head slightly, trying to focus on my face.
"So," she murmured hoarsely. "You're the boy."
My chest tightened. "Yes."
"The one they wanted to throw out," she continued, a weak, humorless smile touching her lips. "Or burn."
"…Yes."
She coughed, her body tensing as pain rippled through her. The green lines beneath her skin pulsed brighter for a moment, then faded again.
"They argue very loudly outside," she said weakly. "For people who think they're saving lives."
I clenched my hands together and then forced them to relax. My palms felt warm, too warm. There was a strange pressure in them, as if something was pushing outward, waiting.
"Professor," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I need to explain something before I do anything else."
Her gaze sharpened slightly. "You're nervous."
"I've never done this before."
"That's obvious," she said dryly. "You look like you're about to be sick."
Despite myself, a shaky breath escaped me. "My class... you probably know what it does."
"I read the preliminary report," she said. "Fast reader, even while dying." Her eyes flicked to the door. "They didn't want to send you in. Valentina overruled them."
"Yes."
There was a pause. Then, quietly, "Tell me."
I took a breath.
"My healing magic activates through physical pleasure," I said. "It doesn't respond to pain, prayer, or light. The patient must experience genuine pleasure for the healing to trigger. The intensity of the pleasure determines how strong the effect is."
I waited for disgust, fear, or anger.
Instead, Professor Thorne closed her eyes.
"…Of course it does," she murmured.
I blinked. "Of course?"
"I've studied magical afflictions for thirty years," she said. "Parasites, curses, symbiotic infections. Most evolve to resist what we consider 'pure' magic." Her breathing hitched. "Life doesn't run on purity. It runs on drives—hunger, fear, desire."
Her eyes opened again, focused on me.
"So your magic uses one of the strongest drives there is."
I stared at her. "You're... not horrified?"
She let out a weak, breathy laugh. "Young man, I am fifty-two. I have buried a husband, raised children, and spent half my life elbow-deep in soil and decay. Right now, I am far more horrified by dying on a table while a group of men debate ethics."
The knot in my chest loosened—just a little.
"But," she continued, "there is one important question."
I nodded. "Consent."
"Yes." Her voice was steady, even now. "If this is to work, I need to choose it. I cannot be forced by fear or desperation."
"You are desperate," I said quietly.
"I am," she agreed. "But I am also lucid." She met my eyes. "Explain exactly what you need to do."
So I did.
I explained the contact, the escalation, and the need for a genuine response, not fake reactions. I told her I would stop immediately if she asked, even if that meant the healing would fail.
When I finished, the room was silent except for her uneven breathing.
"Well," she said after a moment, "this is certainly not how I imagined my evening."
I managed a faint smile. "Nor mine."
Her hand twitched, fingers curling weakly against the sheet. "Will it hurt?"
"At first... maybe," I admitted. "The corruption is deeply rooted. My diagnostic sense—" I paused, realizing something. "I think I can feel it—the infection."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You can diagnose without training?"
"I don't know how," I said honestly. "But when I touched you earlier, I could feel... pressure points. Places where the corruption is anchored."
The warmth in my palms pulsed in response, almost eager.
"That's impressive," she murmured. "And terrifying."
I nodded. "I won't lie to you."
"Good." She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. "Then here is my answer, Theo Ashford."
She reached out, her trembling hand brushing against my wrist.
"I consent. Fully. Do whatever you must to save my life."
The system voice I had barely noticed since waking chimed in my mind, clear and undeniable.
[Consent Confirmed]
[Healing Conditions Met]
[Euphoric Restoration — Ready for Activation]
My breath caught.
"There's one more thing," I said.
"Yes?"
"My magic doesn't react to hesitation," I said quietly. "If I hold back because I'm ashamed or afraid, it won't work."
Her fingers tightened slightly around my wrist. "Then don't hold back."
Easier said than done.
I shifted closer to the bed, my heart racing. My movements felt clumsy and uncertain. I had read about anatomy and studied healing theory. None of that prepared me for this.
I placed my hand gently against her forearm.
Nothing happened.
The warmth in my palm remained contained and unresponsive.
I frowned. "It's not activating."
"Because you're treating me like a patient, not a person," she said softly.
I looked at her.
"You're being careful," she continued. "Respectful. That's admirable. But pleasure doesn't come from distance."
She took a shaky breath. "Try again. This time... be present."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
When I opened them, I focused on her—not as Professor Thorne, but as Miriam. A woman who had lived, loved, and now didn't want to die.
My hand moved again, slower and warmer.
I brushed my thumb lightly along her skin.
She inhaled sharply.
And something inside me clicked.
The warmth surged outward, a soft pink-gold glow spreading from the point of contact, seeping into her arm like sunlight into soil.
[Healing Touch — Activated]
[Patient Receptiveness: 18%]
[Healing Output: Low]
"There," I whispered. "It's responding."
Her eyes widened as she felt it. "I... I can feel something. Heat. Not pain."
"Good," I said. "That means we can proceed."
The corruption beneath her skin recoiled slightly, the green lines dimming where the light touched them.
It wasn't much.
But it was working.
And for the first time since I had placed my hand on the Awakening Stone, I knew—without a doubt—that my power wasn't a curse.
It was a tool.
One I would have to learn to wield, no matter how uncomfortable it made the world.
Because Miriam Thorne was still breathing.
And I intended to keep it that way.