"Healer, I am afraid," Alistair admitted as the water rose around him. The kind eyes of the Healer calmed him some, but his warm hands did more. Alistair examined the olive-tinged hands that held his fair ones. They were smooth with long fingers. The nails were trimmed short but sat deep in their beds, giving the illusion of length. The Healer wore a simple ring on his index finger on the right hand, but nothing else adorned them. The ring attracted Alistair's attention; the glint of green in the gold spoke of tiny jewels, but he could see none. As he stared at the ring, Alistair stopped noticing the water rising around him.

"I am here," Destan's voice flowed like a serene stream, its gentle current carrying Alistair effortlessly into the depths of the Mindspace. When Alistair opened his eyes, the Healer's feminine avatar stood before him, his presence radiating warmth and reassurance. The environment was transformed—calm, shimmering waters replaced the usual vast, endless void. Yet, rather than feeling disoriented by the change, Alistair was enveloped by an unshakable sense of safety and peace, as if every ripple in the water whispered a promise that he belonged here.

"You are safe," Destan assured him, the warmth in his tone soothing like a balm."The Lady has asked that we start with your leg, as the pain will be intense. But do not fear—for though I cannot shield you from it, the strength to endure lies within you."

Alistair tilted his head slightly, his brows knitting together as he processed Destan's words with a puzzled frown. "How can I have strength that you do not?" he asked, his tone tinged with genuine confusion and a hint of disbelief.

"You possess much strength, most of it untapped. This is normal for a boy your age. You are not yet in the bloom of your youth. Much you will discover in time." Destain smiled and welcomed Alistair's avatar to sit on the soft sand beside him. "Tell me about your childhood, Alistair. Share your story with me, and together, we can begin to heal many of your wounds—not just of the body, but of the heart and mind as well."

With that simple prompt, Alistair's Mindspace changed, and the house he had grown up in surrounded them. His older brother carried him down the stairs, watching for their father. Alistair was young, perhaps 5 or 6, and his brother was a teenager, but their bond had been strong. The burly young man took his lame brother with him everywhere. That day, they were dressed for training, something they never did in front of their father.

Nikko had taken it upon himself to teach Alistair to fight, stepping in when all of the instructors had abandoned him in frustration. The private drillmasters, hired by the Duke to hone the heir's skills, had dismissed Alistair's lame leg as an insurmountable obstacle. Yet Nikko refused to yield, determined not to give up on his brother. Suddenly, one lesson in particular surged vividly to the forefront of Alistair's mind.

Sweat dripped down his forehead as searing pain flared through his leg, a sharp reminder of its limitations. The agony distracted him for a split second—just enough to miss Nikko's strike. The blow landed harder than it should have, knocking him off balance, and Alistair saw the instant regret in Nikko's wide eyes. The strike wasn't intentional and should have been an easy dodge. But his leg betrayed him, locking up in a painful cramp at the worst possible moment.

Tears threatened to spill as Alistair struggled to push himself upright. The humiliation stung nearly as much as the physical pain, but he refused to let the tears fall—not here, not in front of Nikko, and certainly not in front of the small crowd that had gathered to watch, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled judgment.

"Are you alright?" Nikko whispered, crouching beside him and steadying him with firm hands. Alistair could see the guilt etched into his brother's face, but that didn't lessen the sharp ache radiating from his leg or the simmering frustration bubbling in his chest.

Alistair clenched his jaw and sucked in a shaky breath, forcing back the tears that burned behind his eyes. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped Nikko's arm for support. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained but steady, undercut with a sharp edge of defiance.

"No," he hissed through gritted teeth, the admission harsh and brittle. "But we can't stop. They're all watching." His gaze flicked toward the onlookers at the edge of the training area, their presence a constant reminder of what was expected of him. Their stares were as heavy as his father's looming shadow, their judgment palpable. Lowering his voice, Alistair added bitterly, "I'm in pain—more than I can stand—but not as much as I will be if Father hears I gave up before we finished."

For a moment, Nikko hesitated, his expression caught between worry and reluctant admiration. Finally, Nikko nodded, his voice soft with resignation. "Alright," he said, the sadness in his tone unmistakable.

He helped Alistair to his feet, steadying him as they reset their stances. Alistair clenched his fists, forcing himself to block out the throbbing pain in his leg as they resumed the familiar pattern. Each movement sent sharp bursts of agony through him, but he endured, unwilling to falter again.

Hand-to-hand combat had always been the most challenging for Alistair. He had already mastered the bow and arrow, a skill he had surpassed even Nikko, but he could still not wield a sword. This left hand-to-hand combat as his primary focus, a discipline that required relentless effort and precision. Understanding Alistair's physical limitations, Nikko sought alternative methods, combing through books until he discovered a foreign fighting style that placed less emphasis on standing upright.

This style proved to be a revelation. Once the fight moved to the ground, Alistair's impressive upper-body strength allowed him to compensate for the weakness in his leg. Though Nikko always held back, it was never so obvious that their father would deem it unfair. These small victories on the ground gave Alistair hope—a chance to prove that he could rise above his limitations and find a way to persevere, no matter the obstacles.

"You are a strong young man," Destan interjected his words into the scene just as the burning in his leg intensified, blurring the action around him. As Alistair focused on the beautiful man again, Destan smiled. "But let's go somewhere else, young one. Somewhere peaceful," Destan stretched out his delicate hand, and Alistair took it. The scene around them changed, and he sat in the Master's study.

Alistair was older now, perhaps 8 or 9. By this time, the Master had made it clear that Alistair would become his apprentice as soon as he could enter the Academy. Since then, Master Seren had taken complete control of Alistair's education, removing him from the oppressive confines of his home and settling him into a modest room within his own apartment at the Academy.

Here, in the quiet sanctuary of the Master's study, surrounded by shelves overflowing with books and knowledge, Alistair felt something he had rarely known—peace. Sitting in the plush chair by the window, engrossed in a book, with sunlight filtering through the curtains, he was happier than he had ever been. This place, this moment of immersion in the written word, felt like a refuge from all the pain and rejection he had endured. There, Alistair felt as though he belonged.

Alistair did not remember this day, but he remembered feeling at peace. Nikko also studied at the Academy; though he did not possess enough magic to apprentice, he sat with the other young nobles in the group classes. Alistair remembered the day then, seeing the stack of books on the floor next to the chair. Nikko and he had spent the morning together. Ever indulgent, Nikko let Alistair drag him to every city's bookstore and library. They had bought so many new books that most would have to be delivered later that day. Because Nikko was buying them, no one would refuse them anything. Nikko was so handsome and charming, but he never denied Alistair as his brother, even after their parents admitted Alistair was not of their blood.

Another earlier memory resurfaced, unbidden and vivid. His mother, the Duchess, wept. Her sobs were quiet but relentless, and his father was standing over him, radiating anger and disappointment. Shame burned in the Duke's glare as Alistair knelt before them, the weight of yet another failure pressing down on his small frame. He couldn't even recall what test he had failed this time or why his mother was crying, but the humiliation of that moment lingered like an open wound.

As his father's fury boiled over, the Duke raised his hand to strike him again. Alistair braced himself for the blow, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the familiar sting of pain. But it never came. Confused, he opened his eyes, and a shock coursed through him.

Nikko stood between them, gripping their father's wrist. His older brother's face was etched with a fury that mirrored the Duke's, but there was something different in Nikko's expression—a fierce protectiveness that radiated like a shield. He had never been so bold in his defiance of their father before.

"Why do you take so much pleasure in beating your son?" Nikko's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Are you so weak that you must take your failures out on a child? What kind of man taunts and punishes his own blood like this? Discipline him if he's wrong, but you take it too far. He's just a child, and he's your son!"

The Duke's face twisted, his hand still raised, trembling not with restraint but with the weight of something more profound. His voice, when it came, was venomous. Each word spat like a curse.

"He is not my son!"

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, and for a moment, the room became suffocatingly still. Alistair's lungs tightened, burning as if the very weight of the moment had stolen his breath. The Duchess gasped, her sobs breaking into jagged, uncontrollable cries, while the Duke's face flushed a deep crimson, his expression twisted with the dawning horror of his own admission. The truth, long-buried, had torn free like a beast breaking its chains.

"What did you just say?" Nikko demanded, his voice low and dangerously steady, though the restrained fury beneath each word threatened to erupt. Behind him, Alistair trembled, the echoes of his father's declaration striking him harder than any blade ever could.

"He is not my son," the Duke answered but with less heat, his hand dropping limply to his side with a loud slap against his thigh. "He was adopted after the loss of your brother in the womb. Your uncle brought him to us as a babe, and we did not know then that he would turn out lame. He had seemed like a gift."

"And he was!" Nikko turned away from his father and wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulder to help him to his feet. "He was my gift; you cannot take that from me. He is my brother, if not by blood, then in every other way."

Once he ensured Alistair could stand alone, Nikko returned his glare to their father and rose to his full height, towering over him, something he was careful never to do.

"Alistair has been chosen as the Master Keeper's apprentice. He will start in a year. I returned to give you the Master's intent, but I see that things have worsened here in my absence. You have given up all pretense of fatherhood, and I will not leave him here with you."

"Son," our mother began softly, and Alistair knew she did not speak to him. Alistair did not remember her ever calling him son. "You will anger your father. He is still too weak from his illness."

"Not weak enough to stop his beatings," Nikko held firm and then grabbed Alistair's arm. "We are leaving this home, and I will not return while you still live, Father, unless you stop your mistreatment of my brother."

"He is not your brother," the Duke snapped, his voice laced with anger as his face reddened again. "You fill his head with nonsense. Your coddling has made him weak—made him this way."

Alistair's gaze flicked to his father's face, searching for meaning beneath the fury. He couldn't decipher all the emotions tangled there, but one stood out—a flicker of something he recognized. It mirrored the feeling Alistair had when Nikko first left for the Academy. It wasn't just anger. It was fear. The Duke feared Nikko's words, fearful of the truth they carried and the defiance they represented.

"He is my brother, you stupid man. I will not repeat this. You waste my time." Nikko grabbed Alistair's arm and pulled him behind him. Stopping when he noticed the resistance. They both looked down at Alistair's lame leg to discover it was bleeding. One of the scars had ripped open. Nikko frowned at the reminder of his father's brutal attempts to correct Alistair's lame leg. How many surgeries had Alistair had before he was old enough to speak? And none had worked. In fact, Alistar suspected they made things worse or at least more painful. Nikko bent down and picked up his small brother. His look squashed any protest Alistair had thought to give. Instead, Alistair laid his head on Nikko's shoulder and let himself be carried like a child because he was a child.

During this sad memory, Alistair once again found peace. He heard his brother's heart beat rapidly with both exertion and anger. His brother's arms made Alistair feel safe and loved, a feeling he had experienced so little. But Nikko had always made him feel important and special. Alistair didn't understand why his brother cared for him so much, why he had always protected him, even when that meant being beaten as well. Alistair felt the tears he had held in escaping his eyes.

"We are almost free. Hold off just a little longer, brother. The carriage awaits. Your new Master has prepared a room; you will never have to return here." This had been his brother's plan all along.

"Did you know?" I whispered finally as we settled into the carriage.

"Yes and no. I was old enough to understand what had happened when our mother lost the baby she was carrying. I remember her wailing and the uproar in the house. I knew that my brother had died, but then you appeared, and I let myself believe I had misunderstood. That you had been hurt but not died, that whatever caused Mother to weep so had been the cause of your lame leg, but deep down, I knew the truth. How could I not?" Nikko put his hand on Alistair's arm. "But it did not change how I felt about you. From the moment you first took my hand, I knew I would protect you from our father. You were my salvation, Alistair. You gave me purpose. I was no longer just the heir. I was also your brother. And of the two jobs, I preferred brother." Alistair felt the warmth spreading through his body at his brother's words. Then, the scene disappeared, but the warmth remained.

"He loves you very much," Destan observed as he sat next to Alistair on the grass that had appeared, the ocean and beach having given way to a wooded area with a gentle stream running through it. Where were they now? On the other side of the stream, a girl with bright red hair played with a boy with hair as white as a cloud. Alistair stared at the two teenagers as they ran after each other in the woods before they stopped to swim in the stream. Alistair both knew and didn't know these people. He recognized them but didn't think this was his memory.

"It is an inherited memory, one that belonged to one of your people. You are apprenticed to the Wiseman for a reason, Alistair. You possess the memories of those who have come before you. They remain hidden, but the Lady will find those she wants you to see."

"Who are they?" Alistair watched the scene in fascination. Finally, the happy couple had ended up in each other's arms and were now exploring a different aspect of friendship. Destan's cheeks reddened before he waved his hand. The scene changed to a wedding. An older version of the couple stood staring at each other with devotion. The woman laid a hand on her belly, and Alistair knew who she must be.

"Mother," Alistair whispered, his voice barely audible, and Destan gave a quiet nod. Alistair ran toward the couple, an overwhelming need to reach them surging through him—but he could not touch them. It was only a memory, distant and immutable, a moment frozen in time that he could only observe, never join.

"Father?" he asked softly, his eyes studying the man before him. The figure was serious and regal, with striking white hair and blue eyes—lighter than Alistair's own but unmistakably similar. Yet there was something extraordinary about those eyes. His father's irises had paled, their color drained by the relentless use of Mind Magic, a transformation that marked only the most gifted.

These were not merely the eyes of a man—they were the eyes of a legend. They spoke of wisdom that shaped kings and power that bent the very fabric of thought. Such a transformation should have taken decades, a lifetime of mastery. But this man stood before him, impossibly young yet carrying a power so vast, it defied understanding. He was a force of nature, a presence that seemed to pull the very air around him into his orbit. And yet, Alistair did not fear this man, this father who held more strength as a youth than the Duke had ever possessed, had such a look of love and devotion on his face as he smiled at his wife and touched her belly discretely.

"Natalia," Destan offered as he pointed to the woman, "and Lukas. Your parents," he affirmed. "You were with them even that day, forming in her belly. See the love they send to you? You were precious to them both."

"Then why did they abandon me? Why couldn't they care for me?" Pain ripped through his chest with the words he spat out. Embarrassment followed quickly at the release of emotion to this stranger.

"It is a story for another day," Destan said gently, his voice steady yet filled with warmth. "But look at your mother and feel her love. Look at your father and know he wanted you—both did. You were the product of their love, symbolizing the future they dreamed of together. Your absence from their lives was their greatest tragedy."

As he spoke, Destan's hand came to rest on Alistair's arm, the touch grounding and reassuring. It wasn't dismissive of Alistair's pain or embarrassment; instead, it seemed to absorb them, to acknowledge and share the burden. Somehow, Destan made Alistair feel at peace, a sensation so foreign that it almost felt unreal.

How Destan managed this remained a mystery, and Alistair was no stranger to mysteries. Most often, the actions of others confounded him, their motives veiled and incomprehensible. But now, for the first time, it was his own feelings that left him bewildered. This calm, this connection unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"Are they still married?" Alistair wasn't sure why, but he suspected the answer.

"No, their bond was severed, and their marriage annulled by the Queen." A hint of revulsion and anger was transmitted through their linkage. Alistair wondered if that anger was for this Queen, who his Master had warned him about, or for the Bondholders. "They have found each other again, and you will meet them both soon."

"I will?" Hope flared in Alistair's chest.

"Yes, and I suspect your mother will finish your healing. I cannot seem to broach one area of your mind. Where you have hidden much of your trauma."

"Is that why I am stupid? The locked part of my mind?"

"I am in your mind, Alistair, and I can tell you with certainty—you are not stupid," Destan corrected gently, his voice steady and sure. "You think differently, yes, but different does not mean worse. Your mind sees patterns and finds answers that others would overlook entirely. It's a rare gift, one that sets you apart. But that difference... it's not easy for others to understand."

He paused, his expression softening as he continued. "Your adoptive parents struggled with that. They couldn't see the value in how you think, only that it didn't match their expectations. Their frustration turned to anger, and instead of trying to understand, they pushed you away. I wish I could tell you they will be the last to react that way—but there will be others, Alistair. Some will not see your brilliance, only your differences. But that does not make you less. It makes you unique."

"You cannot fix me?" Alistair implored, his hatred of his difference spilling over into his words.

"Difference is not wrong. It is not an ailment that I can heal. It is a way of being. Your leg, I can heal; your continued reaction to your childhood trauma, I can heal, but your way of thinking is not a thing to heal."

Alistair felt bitter disappointment at this answer. He had harbored hope that he would become like others, that he would be able to read the expressions on people's faces and understand the nuance behind their words. He struggled with this daily, yet the Healer said it could not be fixed.

"You have to be able to do something," Alistair burst out, his voice trembling with frustration and desperation. His fists clenched at his sides, and he felt the familiar ache of tension knotting in his chest. "I cannot continue to live this way." The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded, a confession of the pain he usually kept buried.

"You can—and you will—continue to live this way," Destan replied calmly, his voice unwavering despite Alistair's outburst. He lifted his hand, a subtle gesture to quiet the protest already forming on Alistair's lips. "However," he continued, his tone softening, "you can learn to react differently. If I cannot change the trigger, I can help you change your response."

The words hung in the air, steady and deliberate, a lifeline offered in the face of Alistair's turmoil.