Chapter 30

  The first few days passed in fragments.

  Voices, footsteps, dull pain. The cot beneath him was soft enough, but every motion pulled on healing tissue. His right shoulder throbbed—emptiness where there should’ve been weight. Phantom sensations came and went like cruel jokes: the itch of a lost elbow, the clench of fingers that no longer existed.

  Ren didn’t speak much. Not to the apothecary, not to Sinclair, and especially not to Ethan. He slept, ate when ordered to, endured the daily poultice changes. The others whispered, of course. Rumors flickered through the halls of the outer infirmary like fireflies.

  He was the fool who’d wandered too far.

  The reckless initiate who triggered a mana anomaly.

  The idiot who lost his arm to a forest beast—and lived.

  But none of them said it to his face.

  On the fourth morning, he sat up. Slowly. Carefully. The stump where his arm ended had been wrapped in clean white bandages, now tinged faintly green from the Order’s healing salve. His left hand trembled as he adjusted his loose tunic, then reached for a small bowl of congee on the bedside table.

  He almost dropped it. Almost.

  But he didn’t.

  And something inside him clicked at that: not triumph, but the smallest spark of maybe.

  He stared out the window for a long time after that, watching sunlight spill through shifting leaves.

  That night, he felt it again.

  The threads.

  They weren’t visible. Not in the traditional sense. But when he sat still—breathing slow, chest steady—they shimmered just at the edge of perception. Not light. Not sound. Something in between.

  They curled like mist around his remaining palm, coiled from his chest, his spine. Faint and pale-blue, with hints of warmth. Almost... curious. As though they’d been part of him all along and had only now decided to say hello.

  Ren didn’t know what they were. He didn’t understand them. But his instincts didn’t scream danger. These weren’t like Sinclair’s mana drills or the [Mana Pulses] he could cast. These were gentler. Subtle.

  So he reached.

  The first time he tried to push one, he nearly blacked out. His vision swam, blood pounded in his ears, and the cot spun like a carousel.

  But when he came to, he was smiling.

  Because it had moved.

  _____________

  By the end of the week, he could pulse a thread into his chest. Just a little. Just enough to clear his fatigue for a few seconds. It left him exhausted after, like a burst of adrenaline followed by a crash—but it was something. Something he could do.

  He practiced when no one was watching. Nights were easiest. The infirmary’s corner room had a small balcony facing the inner courtyard. Sometimes order members passed below, torchlight flickering across their armor. But they never looked up.

  Ren sat with his knees drawn to his chest, bare feet on the stone floor, and breathed.

  He focused. Listened. Reached inward.

  The threads responded.

  He could now nudge them into his legs for a short burst of speed—barely enough to take three fast steps. Or weave them into his fingertips and pull a light wooden spoon across the table. It wasn’t telekinesis. Not really. It felt more like coaxing gravity to help.

  One night, he dropped a ceramic cup on instinct. His left hand lunged out to grab it—missed.

  The cup hovered. Just for a second. A faint shimmer clung to it, as though reluctant to let go.

  Then it clattered to the floor.

  But it hadn’t shattered.

  And again, Ren smiled.

  ____________

  He wasn’t allowed back into the training yard yet. Sinclair still barked at him to rest, to wait until the healers gave full clearance. Ethan hadn’t spoken to him since the incident.

  But Ren still cooked.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Sloppily, at first. One-handed was hard. Harder than he ever imagined. Cutting, flipping, even seasoning took effort. The first pan of eggs ended up scorched. The second spilled entirely. But by the fifth attempt, he'd figured out a rhythm. Cradle the pan in the crook of his elbow, lean in, tilt the edge with a thigh.

  Clumsy. Inefficient.

  But it worked.

  The mana threads helped. A little.

  He used them to steady bowls or nudge herbs closer. To hold a spoon in place while he stirred with his left hand. They couldn’t lift anything heavy, but with focus, he could keep a leaf from sliding. Could spin a skewer just enough to keep from burning it.

  The threads weren’t the solution, not yet.

  But they were a start.

  ________

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Ren turned. Sinclair stood at the kitchen archway, arms folded.

  It was late—probably past midnight. The main dining hall was empty, just firelight flickering from the far hearth. Ren stood at the prep station, sleeves rolled up, brow damp with sweat. A pan sizzled behind him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Figured I’d practice.”

  Sinclair eyed the small tray of roasted mushrooms and spiced greens. Then the delicate spiral of steam rising from a bowl of broth.

  “That for anyone?”

  Ren shook his head. “Just me.”

  “Hm.”

  The older man walked in. Picked up a fork. Took a bite without asking.

  Chewed. Swallowed. Paused.

  “It’s better than the commissary’s.”

  Ren exhaled—relief, laughter, maybe disbelief. “Low bar.”

  Sinclair set the fork down and leaned on the counter.

  “You used something strange in here.”

  Ren hesitated. “...I didn’t mean to. Just trying to balance without a second hand. Sometimes the threads help.”

  Sinclair’s gaze sharpened. “Threads?”

  He described them carefully. Not everything—he didn’t dare—but enough. The shimmer. The way they moved when he focused. How they pulsed in his blood and flickered just at the edge of reality.

  Sinclair didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “That’s not mana. Not regular mana.”

  “I know.”

  “You told anyone else?”

  Ren shook his head.

  “Good. Don’t. Not yet.”

  Ren frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know what it is either,” Sinclair said. “And if Ethan finds out, he’ll report it. If the Lords of Obsidian get wind of it, they’ll lock you in a lab…or worse and the church? You don't even want to know.”

  “The church? In a base of outsiders?”

  “There are always filthy traitors around. Trust me, i know.”

  He stepped back. Looked tired.

  “But I also don’t think it’s dangerous. Not yet. So keep it quiet. Keep practicing. And if anything weird happens or you wake up somewhere weird again—tell me. Immediately.”

  Ren nodded.

  Sinclair turned to leave.

  “Sinclair?”

  He paused.

  Ren hesitated. “Thanks.For not giving up on me.”

  The older man didn’t smile. But his voice softened.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Then he left.

  ____________

  Sinclair stood on the walkway above the western barracks, watching the sun rise through the thick-trunked trees. The mists were burning off, dew dripping steadily from leaves, branches, and old stone. A pair of recruits jogged through the training yard below, their footfalls muffled by pine needles.

  Routine. Order. Discipline.

  That was what kept people alive.

  He folded his arms, the cold wind threading beneath his cloak. His thoughts refused to quiet.

  Ren Saito should’ve been a cautionary tale by now. A name on a wall. A warning during orientation lectures.

  Instead, he’d limped out of a forbidden anomaly half-dead, missing an arm, and—according to the apothecaries—bleeding mana from places it didn’t belong.

  And now he was experimenting. Again.

  “Reckless,” Sinclair muttered to no one.

  He’d read the report three times. Ethan’s, his own, the apothecary’s logs. Ren wasn’t stable. Not in the systemic sense. He couldn’t be measured. Couldn’t be controlled. He’d violated three internal protocols and two oath clauses. There were policies for this kind of thing.

  Remove the variable. Reinforce the system. Preserve the chain.

  That’s what Sinclair was trained to believe. What he still believed.

  Usually.

  But something about the boy—it forced him to rethink.

  He’d bled and fought and cooked and survived. Without whining. Without demanding sympathy. Most people, missing an arm, would be sobbing into a pillow or begging for a blessing.

  Ren was in the kitchens at midnight, trying to balance a pan with his knee and moving spoons with raw, untrained magic.

  Idiotic? Yes.

  Dangerous? Potentially.

  But weak?

  No.

  Sinclair exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate.

  The Writ-bound meeting was scheduled for dusk. Ten seats. Nine opinions that would snap toward expedience like a drawn bow. The moment Ren’s threads were brought up—and they would be—someone would propose containment. Observation. Possible clearance for arcane vivisection.

  And if the boy panicked again—if he ran, if he turned—he’d be marked a traitor.

  Sinclair’s jaw tightened.

  Traitors.

  His hand curled unconsciously at the memory. The scent of ash. The betrayal etched into the scars beneath his sleeve. No mercy for those who turned against the chain. Never again.

  But Ren hadn’t betrayed anyone.

  Not yet.

  He’d made a mistake. A stupid, reckless,mistake but he knew it wouldn’t happen again.

  The others wouldn’t see that. They’d see the unknown. The risk.

  Sinclair stared out over the mist-choked woods and made his decision.

  He wouldn’t vouch for Ren. Not again. Not directly.

  But he would stand for him.

  Not because it was the rational move.

  Not because the chain demanded it.

  But because sometimes you had to choose the variable—and make it work.