His eyes snapped wide as adrenaline flooded every nerve.
Recall whipped up between him and the sound just as a thicket of vines on the small incline above them rippled violently—then detonated outward in a spray of shredded leaves and sap.
A reptilian horror lunged from the explosion, low and fast, twin serpent heads weaving in perfect tandem. No predator would pass up an easy double meal.
Fangs—long, ivory hooks dripping venom—darted for their throats, mouths gaping wide enough to swallow a child whole.
KLANG!
Both heads clamped onto Recall’s haft instead. Fangs screeched against enchanted wood, sliding off in sparks of friction. Arion’s legs buckled under the sudden weight; muscle fibres screamed, thighs trembling as he fought to keep his footing against the crushing downward force.
PTUNG—SLINK!
A crossbow bolt punched into the creature’s scaled flank with a wet crack. One head whipped toward Hyjal, who knelt gasping on the dirt, crossbow shaking in his white-knuckled grip.
Arion flung a hand up to cast—but the beast dismissed him like an afterthought. A violent sideways toss sent him flying; he hit the ground hard, rolling through ferns and mud, breath punched from his lungs.
The creature leaned hard left, legs overcompensating, dragging as though invisible weights had shackled its joints.
Ghost Chains had taken hold.
Its movements turned sluggish, giving them seconds—not minutes.
“Hyjal!” Wiela’s voice cracked with panic.
“I’m… all… out,” he rasped, crossbow dropping from numb fingers.
A double hiss slithered from the beast’s throats—angry, impatient. Smaller prey now, but prey nonetheless. It lurched forward, heads rearing back for the kill, fangs glinting inches from Hyjal’s exposed neck.
Then another hiss answered—this one cold, sharp, final.
A jagged spike of ice slammed into the creature’s underbelly, punching through scales with a wet crunch. The beast toppled sideways, legs scrabbling uselessly as frost spiderwebbed across its belly and locked joints in glittering manacles.
Arion stood trembling, Grimoire of Vitalis open in his left hand. Its Boon—Page of Memory—had triggered: one daily spell, zero Vitalis cost.
The twin heads twisted toward him, hissing fury.
A high whistle cut the air. Heat Coil flared—glowing disc spinning razor-edged—curving in to shear both necks in one wet, final arc.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Heads thudded to the dirt, jaws still snapping reflexively. The disc kept spinning, embedding itself in a tree trunk behind them until its heat finally guttered out, leaving only scorched bark and the smell of charred meat.
The children exhaled in ragged unison. Arion swayed, knees threatening to buckle as the last scraps of his Vitalis guttered like dying embers.
“Let’s… hurry,” he managed, voice raw, already turning toward the treeline.
…
They broke through the last screen of branches.
Brisden sprawled before them.
Walls of weathered gray stone rose sturdy and high, gates open and bustling with carts and foot traffic. Smoke curled from chimneys; distant laughter and the clang of a smithy carried on the breeze. Farms quilted the surrounding fields—people bent over rows, children chased each other between hedgerows. Life moved here, steady and unconcerned.
Arion stared.
Not sure what I was expecting, but… that sure is a town.
It felt impossibly normal. Too real. Too alive.
His chest tightened. This wasn’t his world.
It wasn’t just foreign—it felt actively wrong, like the air itself was pressing him back, rejecting the intruder. His own mind kept trying to deny it: this can’t be real, you don’t belong here, you never will.
Then the pain caught up.
Bandages peeled away from torn flesh; fresh blood soaked through fabric and trickled warm down his ribs. Light-headedness rolled in like fog. Vision smeared at the edges.
The last thing he registered was Wiela’s voice—sharp, urgent—telling the children to run to the nearest villagers for help.
Then the world folded sideways.
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Grass against his cheek. The smell of earth and green things.
Everything faded.
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Fresh seeds and turned dirt drifted past on a breeze he could no longer feel.
Wood creaked beneath him. Planks groaned under rolling weight.
A high stone wall flashed by, paired with an open gate. Voices muffled through layers of fog—life moving around him, indifferent.
Each jolt of the cart stabbed through his nerves like broken glass. Pain flared bright and hot, dragging him half-awake just long enough to register the screams in his own head.
Then darkness again.
Children’s voices—soft, worried laughter.
Cloth beneath him, rough but clean.
A door banged open. A stern voice barked instructions.
Soft bedding cradled his weight.
Then—
Silk. No—hair.
Golden strands brushed his forehead, catching faint light.
A fragrance—clean, floral, faintly medicinal—filled his lungs.
Deep green eyes met his dazed stare.
Lips moved. Words he couldn’t catch.
A hymn rose—soft, resonant, wrapping around his fading thoughts like warm water.
His consciousness slipped under, pulled down into velvet dark.
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Tentative hands moved over Arion’s injuries as he lay bloodied on one of the orphanage’s narrow beds.
He’s in such a horrible state… Selene thought, fingers hovering above torn flesh and crusted bandages. So this is the man who dragged six children out of the forest?
She frowned, brow creasing.
But how did he even survive this long… Who exactly are you?
Something tugged at her—some half-remembered shape behind the blood and dirt. She leaned closer.
He looks strangely… familiar?
The door opened. Wiela stepped in, arms full of clean linen and medical supplies.
“Here are the things you asked for, Selene.”
She set them on the bedside table.
“Elise has settled in the next room. How is he?”
“Thank you, Wiela. He’s not critical… but he’s lost far too much blood.” Selene’s voice stayed steady even as her hands moved to peel away soaked bandages that clung stubbornly to skin. “I’m still checking if anything vital was hit.”
The fabric came away with a wet sucking sound. Wounds stared up at her: a deep gash across the right pectoral, still weeping; multiple punctures in the shoulder, ragged and deep; the left arm swollen and misshapen—fractured, likely compound. Bruises bloomed purple and black across ribs and abdomen. More punctures on the opposite shoulder—matching fang spacing.
She reached to turn him gently.
A hand clamped around her wrist—weak, trembling, but stubborn.
Dark eyes cracked open. A faint radiant glow flickered at their centers—Vitalis stirring even now.
How is he still conscious after my Siren Song?
His cracked lips moved.
“Treat… her… first.”
“Arion, I take it?” Her tone sharpened with professional authority. “You’ve lost a dangerous amount of blood and you’re still bleeding. I need to treat you now—”
“Treat… her.”
He’s bleeding out and still arguing for someone else…
Selene exhaled through her nose, a sound caught between exasperation and reluctant respect.
“Fine. If you insist.” She met his fading gaze. “But I’m stopping your bleeding first. Then I’ll see to Elise.”
His grip slackened. Eyelids fluttered shut. He slipped under again.
“Vibrant Heal.”
A resonant hum rose from her throat—silk-smooth, warm—washing over his body. Luminary stirred in the air, threading into torn vessels, knitting muscle, staunching the worst of the flow.
Pulse steadied. Energy flickered back. Heartbeat strengthened.
“Selene!” Wiela’s voice cracked from the next room. “It’s Elise… something’s wrong with her!”
Selene surged to her feet and crossed into the adjoining chamber.
Elise lay rigid on the narrow cot—eyes wide and unseeing, body jerking in short, violent spasms. Jaw locked. Muscles corded. Joints twitching like live wires.
Selene dropped to her knees beside the girl, one hand on the narrow chest, the other cupping the back of her skull.
Eyes closed. Vitalis reached inward.
She felt it immediately: circulation stuttering, then crackling like broken glass inside the mind. Static. Jagged pulses where smooth flow should be.
Damage… Her brow furrowed. Is her mind blocking her own Vitalis?
Elise’s face was a mask of locked terror—eyes twitching behind lids, muscles seizing in waves.
This is beyond lower-tier healing…
“Selene… what’s wrong?” Mother Tessa’s voice trembled from the doorway. “Can you save her?”
“I—I should be able to.” Selene swallowed. “I’ll have to go deeper. A much stronger spell. But… I haven’t fully mastered it yet.”
I need to reach past skin, past flesh—into the mind itself.
Her hands cradled Elise’s head. Vitalis pooled, Luminary threading finer and finer, following rhythmic feedback to map the exact point of disruption.
When she found it—a snarled knot of trauma blocking neural pathways—she exhaled once.
A path lay ready, prepared by Luminary, waiting for her cast.
I need this to work… I can't afford a second cast. Otherwise that man—Arion—will die.
“Hands of Luminary.”
Essence ignited between her palms, saturating the space. Vitalis poured in—lavish, reckless—granting the spell its properties of deep reconstruction.
It was brain surgery without tools, without incision—only precision and desperation.
Focus absolute. One misalignment and she could scar the girl’s mind forever—memory, motor control, personality—gone.
Spots danced at the edges of her vision. Sweat stung her eyes. She held.
Steady… steady…
After long, agonizing moments, Elise’s body stilled. Spasms faded. Muscles unclenched. She settled into the deep, even breathing of exhausted sleep.
…
A few heartbeats passed.
“She’s… okay now,” Selene said, voice thin and frayed. “She just needs rest.”
Relief rolled through the room like a wave. Mother Tessa sagged against the doorframe. Wiela exhaled a shaky laugh.
Elise had stabilized—her body resuming normal circulation. The deeper damage would heal slowly, naturally; Selene had only cleared the block.
Selene collapsed to her knees, sweat beading on her brow and hands, chest heaving.
“Selene, are you all right?” Mother Tessa asked, worry creasing her face.
“Yes. Just… need to catch my breath.”
That’s one saved…
She wiped her face with a trembling forearm, forced herself upright, and glanced toward the other room.
Now for that stubborn fool...
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Hands of Luminary
Tier 3 — School of Luminary
Description:
Hands of Luminary channels concentrated Essence through direct touch, restoring deep wounds and repairing damage beyond the reach of lesser mending rites. Flesh, nerve, and inner structures are guided back toward wholeness as Luminary saturation suffuses the affected area.
Unlike surface healing, this spell does not merely close wounds—it reconstructs. The caster must maintain continuous contact, shaping the healing as it unfolds, ensuring that what is restored aligns with what was lost.
Most commonly employed in critical injuries, trauma of the mind, or Essence-disrupted wounds where delay would mean death or permanent loss.
Essence Principle:
Luminary Essence remembers harmony.
When guided by sufficient Vitalis, it does not force the body to heal—it reminds it how it once was. Through touch, the caster offers a template of wholeness, allowing damaged systems to realign toward their intended state.
The deeper the injury, the more precise the guidance required. Essence restores faithfully, but without discernment it may preserve error as easily as truth.
Practitioner’s Note:
Hands of Luminary demands absolute focus. Misalignment during reconstruction risks lasting impairment, scarring, or cognitive damage, particularly when the mind or Vitalis Circulation is involved.
Vitalis expenditure is high. Prolonged use may induce vertigo, sensory distortion, or loss of consciousness in the caster.
This spell is not a mercy given lightly. It is a responsibility borne moment by moment.
Maxim:
“To heal deeply is to touch the shape of a life—and be trusted not to change it.”
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