Alliyana Etheria's Perspective
The expedition began at dawn.
I said goodbye to Lina just outside the barracks, our shelter still heavy with the scent of dried canvas and boiled root. She wrapped her arms around me one last time, tighter than usual.
"Come back," she said. "Please."
I nodded, pulling away gently. "It's just a walk through monster-infested territory," I said. "I'll be back before you realize I'm gone."
She didn't laugh. But she let me go.
The carriage we rode in was lined with wool, but it did little against the chill. Spring hadn't fully claimed the land yet—especially not this far north. The air still tasted like iron and old frost. My breath fogged against the windowpane as the wheels thudded rhythmically over half-frozen ground.
The other healers sat in silence, bundled in thick cloaks, avoiding eye contact. Only a few had names I remembered. All new faces. I didn't speak. Neither did they.
The assignment was simple.
We would travel west to Orell March, where we would unite with their stationed forces. From there, we'd push deeper into the northern mountain range—toward the denser zones of corruption. The demonic bears we faced before would be the least of our concerns.
I knew little of the March itself, only that it had once belonged to the dwarves. Like the Duchy, it was a fortress carved into stone, repurposed by human hands after its original inhabitants disappeared into legend or extinction.
Several days of travel. Then the real work would begin.
Hours passed in slow rhythm. The forest shifted around us—tall trees stretched like skeletal arms overhead, letting in thin slivers of pale sunlight. Crows circled, quiet. Too quiet.
The horses eventually slowed.
Outside, I heard Dave Holton's voice bark through the trees. "Camp here. Clear the ground. Watch shifts by sundown."
Our carriage halted with a soft lurch. I stepped out into the cold.
The soil was still hard, but not frozen. Patches of dead grass and snow intermingled like rotting lace. The soldiers moved like clockwork—driving stakes, unfurling tents, clearing brush.
The ones who slept on the road were now appointed to the night watch. Fair exchange.
I turned to inspect the perimeter—then paused.
She was walking toward me.
The mage.
Red hair shimmered in the dusk light like coals swept into a braid. Her dress, somehow, still looked immaculate. It didn't gather mud. It didn't tear at the thorns. It floated with her. Like she was part of a different layer of reality altogether.
She stopped a few paces from the carriage, then tilted her head—half-smile curling her lips.
"You there," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "Come."
I followed without a word. I'd been waiting for this.
I wanted to know what real magic looked like. Not force enhancements or body reinforcement. Not utility spells. Real magic.
We stopped just past the outer ring of camp. Only distant firelight reached us now. The wind here was sharper. Clean.
She turned toward me, arms folded loosely, wand at her side.
"Who taught you tracking magic?" she asked. Her tone was soft, but not idle. Like someone asking a question they already had two answers to—and wanted to see which one I'd give.
She added, "It's common among elite hunters. Mage scouts. Not something taught to battlefield healers."
I hesitated.
Then understood.
She wasn't surprised I could track.
She was surprised how I did it.
"It's not tracking magic," I said. "Not in the formal sense."
Her brow lifted—just slightly.
"I taught it to myself. Improvised casting. I pulse mana through the terrain. It echoes back—reflected from moving things. Sonar, basically."
A brief pause. Sonar is too modern for this time period.
Then the corners of her lips curled. Not in mockery. Not in shock. But in that rare expression I recognized immediately:
Recognition. Of course she noticed. A proper mage would.
The mage studied me with more interest now. Her gaze softened, then shifted—like she was no longer scanning my magic, but reading me.
She stepped closer. Closer than most people dared.
Her perfume was faint—something like sandalwood and dusk rain. A scent that didn't belong to camps or clinics.
"Why'd you come, little one?" she asked. "A cute girl like you, riding out into corrupted lands? Healers like you don't get paid like soldiers do. Is it your faith in God that makes you this brave?"
I blinked.
"I just wanted to go out for a walk."
She paused, lips parting slightly.
Then she laughed.
It was warm and quiet. The kind of laugh that poured, not burst. It echoed gently through the trees like it didn't want to disturb the cold.
"That's the calmest answer I've ever heard from a child," she said. "You're strange."
I tilted my head. "Can you cast a fireball?"
She blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"…What?"
"Can you cast a fireball?"
She stared at me for a moment, trying to gauge if I was mocking her or testing her.
Then she smiled again. Amused. But different this time—like I'd said something both absurd and endearing.
"Oh dear," she said, sighing softly.
She reached for her wand, fingers wrapping around the polished shaft like a ritual.
She raised it, and the air shifted.
Mana stirred around her. No chants. No flares of divine light. Just a subtle pull of heat and pressure from the atmosphere. Particles gathered, spiraling along the wand's tip as if drawn to her by memory.
Then—fshoom.
A fireball ignited with a low hiss and shot toward a dead tree just beyond the clearing. It struck with a burst of flame, curling orange embers up the bark.
Before the last spark died, she raised her wand again. The moisture in the air condensed—her mana pulled it together with effortless precision. A sphere of water swirled into being at the tip.
She flung it toward the flames. It struck with a sharp hiss. Steam rose in a clean spiral.
I blinked once.
Then again.
That wasn't what the books described.
I'd read about fire magic—how it was cast through ignition and friction. Fire mages in the past were more like brutes than elegant casters.
I'd been wrong. Old books didn't hold all the answers. Magic didn't stagnate. It advanced.
I stared at her, not with reverence—but with something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Curiosity. And the faint pulse of excitement. Not at her power, but at the possibility.
The mage studied me for a moment longer, then let her gaze drift toward the campfires behind us.
"Would you like to join me for dinner?" she asked, her tone warm—teasing, almost.
There it was again. That lilt beneath the words, like she found me interesting rather than exceptional. She probably asked like that to everyone.
"I appreciate the offer," I said, "but you've interrupted my nightly walk."
Her smile widened.
I turned back toward the trees, exhaling into the cold.
Truth was, I hadn't eaten all day.
Ration portions aren't enough. I was warming myself up the entire day. I'm starving.
My slime hadn't eaten either. It made small, unhappy pulses inside my satchel earlier. Demonic meat was hard to come by unless I hunted it myself.
The mage stepped slightly closer, her voice dropping low enough that the trees nearly absorbed it.
"There've been sightings," she said. "Wolves, if you're lucky. Bears, if not."
I glanced back over my shoulder. Her hair caught the light of the nearest torch and shimmered like polished copper.
"That's good to know," I said, lifting a hand.
"Good night."
And with that, I walked deeper into the woods.
The air grew colder away from the firelines. My boots sank into patches of soft soil, and frost clung to the undersides of tree bark like brittle scales.
The quiet out here was deeper. Honest. Just corrupted creatures and the wilderness trying to keep breathing.
I was starving.