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The air carried the faint tang of wax and parchment, a scent that clung since childhood. The ancient stairs of the spiral staircase creaked under my weight as it stretched ahead. The chatter of apprentices preparing for the day echoed faintly, though none stopped to notice me as I passed.

As I reached the arched exit, sunlight spilled onto the stone courtyard. The warmth did little to soothe my unease. I hesitated, casting a glance back at the towering walls of the quarters, their windows darkened with curtains drawn against the morning.

The town of Westshores lay beyond the confines of the mage premises, its cobbled streets bustling with life. I stepped out into the city's pulse, the air alive with the mingling scents of fresh bread, salt from the distant coast, and the faint tang of iron from the smithy.

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to indulge in a small fantasy. I paused by a boarded-up shop, its empty windows clouded with grime. The thought of owning such a space, of filling it with trinkets and curiosities, was a distant dream that had once been shared with Vae.

If it weren't for my lack of skill, it wouldn't have remained a dream. I criticized bitterly.

But certainty called, and I continued toward the sanatorium. The yard was alive with grim activity— Healers moved with practiced urgency, tending to a line of battered and bruised soldiers. Blood stained the grass, and the metallic tang clung to the air.

The sound of boots on mud drew my attention. A young boy, no older than fourteen summers, rushed past, his arms full of tightly bound bundles of dried herbs. The faint scent of chamomile and Aelindew lingered in his wake. His apprentice's sash—a pale green marked with a golden caduceus—hung askew across his shoulder.

"Careful, apprentice," I called after him, my tone sharper than intended. The boy skidded to a stop, nearly dropping his bundle.

"Sorry, I—" he stammered, his words as unsteady as his footing. "I've been called to the infirmary. They said it's urgent—injuries from the border."

I raised a brow. "The border? What's happened?"

The boy hesitated, as though weighing how much he should speak. Then, lowering his voice, he stepped closer. "Shadowmantle attacks. A group of scouts returned from the Southlands—barely alive, from what I heard." He shifted the herbs nervously in his hands. "One of them's been bitten."

The air left my lungs at the mention of the Southlands. The cursed lands, as they were often called, lay beyond the kingdom's protection, their desolation a remnant of a long-forgotten war. Few ventured there, and fewer still returned whole.

"And they brought him back here?" I asked, incredulous. "Do the healers not know what happens to those bitten?"

The boy's face paled, and he tightened his grip on the herbs. "They know. But the head healer says the rites must be observed. Something about... granting them peace before the curse takes hold." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They say the shadowmantle venom doesn't just kill—it turns you into one of them."

I clenched my fists, a flicker of unease creeping into my chest. "The rites won't stop it. No spell will." I glanced at the boy, who looked ready to bolt. "You've seen one, haven't you?"

He nodded reluctantly. "In the Southwood. During a supply run with my master. It was... more shadow than beast. Its eyes—" He swallowed hard. "They glow, like embers. And its claws—" He shuddered, cutting himself off.

I forced myself to remain composed. "Stay out of the Southlands, apprentice. Nothing good ever comes from those cursed lands."

"I'll remember that," the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced toward the infirmary door at the end of the corridor. "But if they send me to help..." He trailed off, his fear evident.

"Then don't let them bite you," I said flatly, stepping aside to let him pass.

He nodded and hurried on, the soft shuffle of his boots fading into the distance. I lingered, my mind turning over his words. The Southlands, shadowmantles, and venomous curses—they were the stuff of legends, of warnings whispered to children in the dead of night. Yet here they were, inching closer to my world, creeping into the very halls I walked.

I murmured a silent prayer under my breath, though it felt as dead as my resolve. My father was among them—somewhere, fighting in the king's endless campaign to reclaim the cursed Southlands. Perhaps his blood, too, had stained the earth of those forsaken lands.

I forced myself to look away, but one soldier near the center of the yard caught my eye. His armor was battered, barely clinging to his form, and his tunic was soaked through with scarlet. My gaze traveled upward, meeting his eyes. They weren't dulled with pain like the others; they burned, fierce and unrelenting. My breath hitched, my pulse quickening as a flicker of recognition danced at the edges of my mind. I didn't know him, yet I felt as if I should.

Before I could step closer, a healer moved between, obscuring my view with a rustle of robes. "Keep moving, apprentice," the healer snapped, though not unkindly. "These men don't need your gawking."

I flinched and nodded, my feet carrying me toward the infirmary entrance, the atmosphere was no less heavy. The air hung thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the faint coppery tang of blood. Junior apprentices flitted about, their chatter a low hum beneath the groans of the wounded. I made my way to the postbox—an ornate contraption of brass and wood adorned with swirling carvings. With a furtive glance over my shoulder, I slipped in the two letters. One bore the Head Mage's seal for the king; the other was addressed to TADS.

Freedom should have tasted sweet, but guilt curled in my stomach instead and so did dread. Juniper's fate haunted me still, and the thought of Vae paying for my mistakes made bile rise in my throat. The last I'd ever wish is for anyone to suffer the cruelty I've borne.

The head healer's voice broke my reverie. "Aster, we've an elderly soldier in need of immediate care. I have been called to the Mage Towers, tend to him while I'm away."

"At once," I replied, straightening my posture with a measure of reluctance.

The soldier lay unconscious on the cot, his face weathered by years of battle. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, a pitiful echo of the life that still clung to him.

I moved closer, reaching into my pouch for the herbs I had left over from the week before—Aelindew to quell fever, Veilshade to ease his suffering, and Eclipsium Root, potent enough to calm his labored breathing. These were simple gifts of the earth, born from the soil, and nurtured by time.

The magic within them hummed softly against my skin, a resonance that was almost imperceptible to others, but it thrummed through my veins like an ancient pulse. Terrabreeding was my birthright, but unlike my peers, it had never fully awakened within me. As a child, I dreamed of commanding the earth itself, the Terrabreeding rites transforming dirt into marvels. Now, the dreams feel like taunts—mocking whispers from a power that refuses to heed me.

I could feel it—barely—a subtle stirring within me as I crushed the herbs into a paste with practiced hands. A soft warmth bloomed in my palms as the plants responded to my touch, their magic bending to my will. I let the earth's energy seep into the mixture, coaxing it into potency, though the effort left me feeling drained. The magic was there, beneath the surface, but it was faint—distant and just out of reach.

A light pressure settled on my chest as I diluted the paste with an amber syrup, my hands trembling as I carefully administered it to the soldier. The relief I sought to bring him seemed to waver at the edge of my magic, as though I were merely borrowing strength from forces greater than my own. The pulse in my fingertips faltered, sputtering in the same way my own connection to the earth did—unreliable, weak.

I drew back once the soldier swallowed, his chest rising slightly as his breathing steadied. But I knew—I knew—that my magic had only just enough power to do this. Nothing more. The earth offered me fragments of strength, not the whole. It remained stringent with my presence alone.

A surge of frustration tightened my throat. Why had I been chosen for this path, when my magic felt so half-formed, so incomplete? Even now, it seemed to elude me, as though it were something I could never fully possess. And yet, I keep trying—grasping at the faintest thread of hope, as fragile and foolish as it feels. Perhaps it's Father's voice, lingering in my mind, or a pride too stubborn to die.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, exhaling slowly to steady my shaking hands. The soldier's face remained unchanging, though the faintest flush of color had returned to his cheeks. That was something, at least.

But it was not enough.

My focus was interrupted by a fleeting glimpse outside—a familiar figure walking past. Martha.

I froze. Martha's presence here was an anomaly; after the Choosing Day, the Head Mage was required to escort the newly appointed mages to the king for their formal induction. That was what I had counted on when I posted the letters earlier.

But Martha didn't glance in my direction. She walked with the calculated grace of someone who owned every space she entered, her robes billowing behind her. Lena followed dutifully; her expression unreadable. I let out a shaky breath, hands gripping the edge of the soldier's cot. I couldn't afford to slip now, not when I was so close.

I left the infirmary in search of more herbs from one of the junior apprentices but curiosity drew me back to the yard. The wounded were everywhere, their bodies twisted into unnatural angles, faces pale and slack as though life itself had begun to retreat. Yet in the middle of the chaos, the familiar soldier stood out like a beacon amidst a fog.

His wounds were no less grotesque than before—deep gashes carved into his flesh, dried blood crusting over jagged edges of broken armor—but now there was something alive in his gaze. Bloodshot veins laced his irises, but they shimmered with a sharp, almost unnatural light.

I told myself to stop, to retreat before anyone noticed my wandering. But my feet defied me, dragging me closer. Briefly I freed my worries; the choosing ceremony, Marthas threats and my fathers dreams of me. My thoughts silent to the moment. The path to him was clear, the busy movements of the healers seeming to part around me like reeds in a stream.

He saw me. Of that, I was certain. His gaze locked on mine with an intensity that made my heart pound. Each step forward was heavier than the last.

The soldier's lips moved, the motion slow and deliberate, but no sound emerged. I leaned closer, my heart thrumming in my ears. The faint glow in his eyes flickered, brightening with urgency as his hand rose shakily from his side. His fingers reached forward, each movement costing his strength and the last of his life.

I froze, caught between fear and an inexplicable pull toward him. His fingertips brushed my wrist—cold as stone, yet electric.

Then the word came, barely audible but steady in sound.

I didn't wait to understand. My feet carried me away, my satchel bouncing against my side as I fled the yard, the single word echoing in my mind like a tolling bell.

Run.

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