Chapter 28

  Ren had missed. Again.

  For the tenth time that morning, the arrow thudded pitifully into a tree trunk several feet off the mark. The previous nine had embedded themselves in increasingly embarrassing locations—the ground, a distant shrub, the wooden practice dummy’s ear, and once, horrifyingly, his own boot. He'd spent ten minutes pulling that one out and swearing so colorfully that a passing Writ-bound stopped to judge him silently.

  Across the training clearing, Sinclair stood with his arms crossed and his usual unreadable half-scowl.

  “Feel the draw,” Sinclair said. “Don’t measure it.”

  Ren adjusted his grip on the bow. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Because I already learned it the hard way,” Sinclair replied. “You’re trying to cook the bow.”

  Ren blinked. “I… what?”

  “You’re treating it like a recipe. Steps. Quantities. Precision. Archery isn’t that. It’s rhythm. Instinct. Breath. Flow.” Sinclair stepped closer and gently nudged Ren’s elbow. “Stop measuring your success by results and start learning from the feel.”

  Ren gritted his teeth, drew the bow again, and loosed. The arrow flew—not straight, but better. It clipped the outer edge of the target and bounced off with a dull thunk.

  “That,” Sinclair said, nodding. “Wasn’t awful. Try again.”

  He did. Again and again. The pain in his shoulders had stopped feeling sharp and settled into a dull, ever-present ache. His fingers developed blisters, then calluses. His stance steadied. His breath slowed and he released.

  Swoosh

  It hit the target right in the center.

  “Guess all that [Perception] is useful in combat as well.”

  _____________

  Daggers, as it turned out, were far less forgiving. Sinclair drilled him on movement—short steps, feints, angle control—and Ren tripped over his own feet more than once. He got bruised, scraped, smacked across the ribs with the flat of Sinclair’s practice blade, and corrected mercilessly.

  But he learned.

  Not quickly. Not gracefully.

  But steadily.

  By the end of the seventh day, Ren could shoot a target reliably from fifteen paces and parry at least one out of every three strikes during sparring. It wasn’t exactly impressive, but it was better than before. And more importantly, he started to feel the flow Sinclair had talked about. Not just in his arms, but in his magic. In his cooking. In everything.

  That evening, as the sun bled gold through the trees and the air took on the chill of dusk, Ren felt cocky enough to believe he might actually survive the mission.

  Which, of course, meant it was time to do something reckless.

  He returned to the cave.

  He didn’t tell Sinclair. Or Ethan. They were occupied anyway—Sinclair sparring with two recruits near the edge of the ruins, Ethan elbow-deep in some half-eaten test roast, scribbling flavor notes and muttering to himself. Ren packed a satchel with a lantern, some chalk, a few mana-threading tools, and a couple pieces of the glowing tuber he’d harvested from the first chamber.

  Just a short trip, he told himself. A glance around. Nothing serious.

  The cave greeted him like an old friend—or at least, an indifferent roommate. The moss still glowed faint green along the walls, and the thin air currents whispered softly around his legs as he moved. The first chamber was unchanged: low-hanging vines, a small cluster of mushrooms that pulsed faintly with light, and a pool of still water reflecting the ceiling like glass.

  Ren crouched, touched the water’s edge, and tasted a fingertip.

  Still slightly sweet. Still charged with that odd, slippery mana he’d come to call culinary affinity mana. Not an official term, of course, but it worked. He’d been studying it all week—watching how it responded not just to spells or threads, but to intention. When he focused on food, the mana flowed easier. When he cooked with those ingredients, his control sharpened. Even simple dishes turned smoother. Deeper. It was like the ingredients wanted to be used.

  Cooking with them felt like discovering music in his hands.

  He’d made a stew two nights ago—just root vegetables, salt, a few spice-berries, and a dash of cave tuber. Ethan had been halfway through his usual grumbling when he paused mid-chew, brow furrowed. Then he'd blinked and asked, “Did you lace this with Zubo?”

  He didn’t even know what that was but the effect was real. Subtle, but real.

  Today, he wanted to try a few new specimens.

  He moved deeper.

  The familiar corridor wound gently left, then right, until he reached a fork.

  The right path led to the chamber with the altar he’d harvested from last time.

  He went left.

  The passage grew narrower. Roots hung from the ceiling—twisting vines tipped in glowing blue buds. The moss faded, replaced by tiny specks of bioluminescent dust floating in the air, almost like fireflies. The mana thickened, not in a threatening way, but with a weight to it. Like the cave was exhaling slowly.

  Ren walked with care. He marked the walls every ten steps with chalk, glanced back often, and counted paces under his breath.

  Fifty-three.

  Fifty-four.

  Fifty-five.

  The corridor dipped.

  Not steeply—but enough to make his footing careful. The walls here were smoother, touched less by root and more by intent. This wasn’t natural stone. It was shaped. Crafted.

  Ahead, the passage curved one final time and opened into an arch.

  Ren froze.

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  The arch was smooth—almost polished, formed of pale rock veined with faint silver. Its curve was perfect. Not carved by tools. Grown, maybe. Or shaped with magic.

  Beyond it stretched darkness. Not the absence of light—Ren’s lantern still glowed steadily—but a depth that swallowed edges. Like stepping into a painting unfinished.

  He hesitated.

  The mana beyond the arch was... different.

  Still weirdly resonating with him. Still warm, still gentle. But older. More… waiting.

  Ren took a breath.

  And stepped through.

  The air changed instantly. Cooler, but not cold. Like the silence after snowfall. He held up his lantern, but its glow seemed dimmer—less sharp. The chamber ahead was large, though the edges were hidden by thick mist. He could make out vague outlines—stone benches, maybe. A pedestal. Something glittered faintly at the far wall.

  He walked forward. His boots made no sound on the stone.

  Just ahead, the pedestal resolved into view. It wasn’t tall—chest height, carved of the same pale stone as the arch. On it sat a shallow bowl, empty but etched with runes.

  Ren moved closer, peered at the markings.

  They weren’t in any script he knew. But one of them looked familiar—an arc with three vertical strokes. He’d seen it once, barely, in the notes Ethan had refused to elaborate on. A rune for creation, Ethan had mumbled. Then turned the page.

  Ren reached out, but didn’t touch it.

  The room didn’t feel sacred—not in the Church’s way. There were no sermons etched into the walls. No golden light. But it felt… important. Like someone had been here before, and cared. Not about power or worship.

  About making things.

  Cooking things.

  Discovering things.

  Ren turned slowly in place. The mist shifted, and more shapes emerged—low tables, racks long rusted to ruin, stone storage boxes sealed with dust. It was a kitchen. Or had been.

  A long-dead one.

  A strange calm settled over him. He knelt, brushing his fingers along the edge of the pedestal. The mana here didn’t hum. It listened. Waiting not for obedience, but purpose.

  He exhaled, breath shaky, and whispered to no one in particular, “What are you?”

  The room gave no answer.

  But it accepted him.

  And somewhere, under the stillness, something opened. A quiet click. A shift in air pressure.

  Ren turned toward the far wall. A seam had appeared, barely visible in the mist—a crack in the stone, just wide enough to slip through.

  Another chamber.

  He hesitated again. He’d already gone further than he should have. Ethan would kill him. Sinclair would murder the corpse.

  But then again…

  He was learning to run.

  And more than that—

  He was curious.

  So Ren stepped forward, heart study, all common sense in him escaping.

  And entered.

  ___________

  The chamber beyond the arch wasn’t just a deeper part of the cave. It was something different.

  But it didn’t feel dangerous, not exactly. The mana didn’t press on him—it welcomed him. Or at least tolerated him, like a curious beast watching from the dark.

  He knelt near one of the glowing pools and dipped a small vial into the liquid. It shimmered as it swirled inside. He’d never seen anything like it—not in the Order’s stores, not even in the ancient elven gardenbeds. Whatever this place was, it had been forgotten for a long time.

  Ren unslung his foraging satchel, eyes scanning for ingredients. Faintly luminous mushrooms grew in clusters along the far wall—flat-capped, with golden ridges. He harvested a few carefully, noting their distinct smell: citrus and ash.

  He moved with practiced ease now. Over the last week, his steps had grown lighter. Sinclair’s training had brutalized him at first—blisters, bruises, a cut across his jaw—but something had clicked. Bow form no longer felt like mimicry. Dagger strikes didn’t feel clumsy. His body was learning to listen.

  Ren stepped out of the cave just as the last light of day broke through the thick forest canopy. He paused near a clearing—one he had passed on the way in, where a few flat stones formed a rough semicircle around a long-dead fire pit. The ground was still damp with the scent of pine and crushed herb stems.

  He breathed deep, then got to work.

  He didn’t want to bring the ingredients all the way back to the Order. Not yet. Something about the mana here—the flavor of it, the shape in the air—felt too delicate to move far from its source. Besides, he needed to understand what he was working with.

  He unpacked his tools. A small traveling skillet, a set of narrow knives, a leather pouch of powdered salts, and three of the mushrooms he’d collected. The pool water went into a pot over the fire, just enough to simmer. He adjusted the pan over a stable flame, watching the mana flicker in the ingredients like heat-shimmers over stone.

  “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “Let’s see what you do.”

  He sliced the mushrooms thin. The golden ridges glowed faintly under his blade. As he added a pinch of salt, they sizzled—not from heat, but from mana reacting to the touch. A burst of clean lemon and toasted cedar filled the air.

  Ren blinked. The mana in the pan was… behaving.

  Usually, infusing food with magic was a delicate, stubborn process. But this was different. The mushrooms almost wanted to be cooked even more than the ingredients he brought in from the outer part of the cave. They pulled mana from the air, from the fire, from the broth—blending effortlessly, as if they had their own instinct for balance.

  He reached for his mana and pulsed it gently into the mixture.

  No resistance. No surge. It took the pulse like a sponge soaking up spring rain, and then—released it back. Not as pressure, but as warmth. Like a welcome. Like approval.

  Ren sat back on his heels, stunned.

  Farin’s words echoed in his head. “Some people—and some things—have special affinities. Maybe food has its own kind of mana.”

  He hadn’t taken it seriously at the time, but now?

  Now it felt like discovery.

  Ren plated the result onto a wooden board. No garnishes. No flair. Just roasted mana-rich mushroom, simmered in luminous poolwater, seasoned with salt and fire. He tasted it.

  The flavor hit like clarity.

  Bright, grounded, layered with notes he couldn’t even name—memories of meals he’d never had, and comfort he didn’t know he needed. And more than that: the mana entered his body without friction. His hands tingled. His perception sharpened. Even the burn in his legs from crouching for too long faded.

  Ren stared at the pan.

  “I need more of this,” he whispered. “I need to understand it.”

  But then the birds went silent.

  He froze.

  The forest, always humming with insect clicks and distant song, had gone utterly still. Even the wind seemed to pause. Ren slowly stood, placing the pan down without sound.

  From the treeline, something moved.

  It didn’t prowl. It glided. Silent as a shadow pulled across stone. Massive and lean, its fur dark as obsidian with streaks of silver along its flanks. A wolf. No—a beast. Easily the size of a horse, with eyes like molten coin.

  It locked eyes with him.

  Ren reached for his bow. Too late.

  The beast lunged.

  He dove sideways, rolled, and loosed a wild arrow—missed entirely. The wolf struck the fire pit, scattering ash and sparks. Ren scrambled to his feet, heart hammering.

  “Okay,” he hissed to himself. “Not friendly.”

  He drew again, steadied his breath, and aimed for the ribs as the wolf circled wide.

  It darted. He fired.

  The arrow grazed its shoulder. A growl tore from the creature’s throat—not pain, but challenge.

  Ren dropped the bow and drew his dagger.

  When the wolf charged again, he met it halfway. He ducked low, sliding past its snapping jaws, and slashed along its leg before dropping it and shooting out a point blank [Mana Pulse].

  The beast was pushed back and collapsed onto the floor. But it wasn’t enough.

  It got up with a roar and whirled around to clamp him arm.

  He screamed as the pressure crushed bone. The world narrowed to heat and sound—muscle tearing, blood spilling. He slammed his dagger into the wolf’s eye with his left hand, pouring everything—mana, rage, desperation—into the strike.

  The wolf let go. Shuddered. Then collapsed.

  Ren dropped to his knees, gasping. His right arm was gone. Just gone. A ruined stump, clean below the elbow, seared shut with lingering mana heat.

  He stared at it in disbelief.

  The clearing was silent again. Smoke from the fire curled into the darkening sky. The cooked meal lay untouched a few feet away, glowing softly in the dusk.

  Ren blinked, sweat freezing on his skin.

  And then darkness.