The sun hung low in the sky as I made my way to Old Maren’s cottage, its light casting a golden glow over the village. The scent of wildflowers mixed with the earthy aroma of herbs as I approached the healer’s home, a quaint little place nestled at the edge of Brustel. Though modest in size, her cottage radiated warmth and serenity, its garden overflowing with vibrant plants that I couldn’t begin to name.

  For the past few weeks, my schedule had become a finely tuned balance of steel and magic. Mornings were devoted to Wes’s rigorous training sessions, and afternoons I reserved for Maren. She’d been the one to set me on the path of magic when she gifted me her worn, leather-bound book of spells time ago. It had been a lifeline, something that carried me through my early, clumsy attempts at spellcasting.

  Now, however, I needed more than what the book could teach me. The Beartling encounter two months ago was a stark reminder of how fragile life could be. My magic had saved us that night, but my lack of healing abilities haunted me. If things had gone just a bit differently, if Miquella or I had been gravely injured, what then?

  Maren, as it turned out, had a solution—and it wasn’t in that book.

  “Come in, Ronan,” her voice called out before I even knocked. It was uncanny how she always seemed to know when I was near. I pushed the door open, stepping into the cozy interior of her cottage. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of dried herbs, bottles of tinctures, and bundles of roots. The faint scent of lavender and sage filled the air, calming and comforting.

  Maren was seated at her usual spot by the window, her weathered hands deftly grinding something in a mortar and pestle. Though she was well into her sixties, her sharp eyes and steady hands spoke of someone far younger. Her silver hair was tied back in a loose braid, and she wore the same earthy robes she always did, stained with the marks of her trade.

  “Good afternoon, Maren,” I said, setting my pack down by the door.

  She looked up with a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Punctual as ever. That’s good—discipline will take you far.” She gestured for me to sit. “Now, tell me, have you been practicing the energy channeling exercises I showed you last week?”

  I nodded, settling into the chair across from her. “I have. At first, it felt strange, like trying to catch water with my hands. But it’s starting to make sense now.”

  “Good,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Control is the foundation of all blessings. Without it, you’ll end up wasting your energy—or worse, harming the one you’re trying to heal.” She set the mortar and pestle aside and leaned forward, her expression serious. “Healing magic is not like elemental magic, Ronan. It’s not about commanding the forces around you but about channeling your own energy into another or again in your body. It requires focus, patience, and a steady heart.”

  I listened intently as she spoke, her words sinking in. Over the past few weeks, Maren had been introducing me to the fundamentals of blessings—magic meant to mend and protect rather than destroy. It was a stark contrast to the fiery and forceful nature of the spells I’d learned from her book, but that was precisely what made it so fascinating.

  “Today,” she continued, “we’re going to focus on [Minor Mend]. It’s a simple spell, but don’t underestimate it. Mastering the basics is key to advancing to the higher tiers.”

  She stood, motioning for me to follow her to the small table in the corner of the room. On it lay a bundle of cloth, and as she unwrapped it, I saw a small cut on her own forearm—deliberately inflicted, I realized.

  I frowned. “Maren, you didn’t have to—”

  “Hush,” she said, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. “It’s shallow and won’t do me any harm. Besides, it’s better to learn on real wounds than to imagine them.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded, focusing on the task at hand. She guided me through the steps once more—how to center my mind, how to draw on the energy within me, and how to channel it through my hands into the wound. I placed my hands over her arm, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

  Closing my eyes, I visualized the flow of energy Maren had described so many times, a golden light that flowed from my core and into her. At first, it was faint, flickering like a dying flame. But as I focused, the light grew stronger, warmer. When I opened my eyes, I saw the cut on Maren’s arm slowly knitting itself back together, the torn flesh mending until there was nothing but smooth, unblemished skin.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, a mixture of relief and exhilaration washing over me. “I did it,” I said, looking up at her.

  She smiled, her pride evident. “Yes, you did. And with remarkable control for a first attempt.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent honing the technique, with Maren challenging me to heal increasingly complex wounds. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I was both mentally and physically drained, but the progress I’d made filled me with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  As I packed up to leave, Maren placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve come a long way, Ronan. But remember, healing is not just a skill—it’s a responsibility. Use it wisely.”

  “I will,” I promised, meeting her gaze.

  Eleonore's POV

  For quite some time now, my son has been running himself ragged with training. Every morning, before the sun fully rises, he disappears without a word. At first, I assumed it was just the wanderlust that comes with being a boy of his age. But then I started to notice the pattern—he comes back at midday just long enough to wolf down his lunch, his cheeks flushed, eyes alight with purpose, and then bolts out again, not to return until dinner.

  It isn’t as though I don’t trust him. Ronan’s stronger than most boys his age, more determined too, and he’s already shown an aptitude for both swordsmanship and magic. But I’m his mother, and it’s my nature to worry.

  Darrick, my husband, has always been more pragmatic about it. “Let him be,” he said when I expressed my concerns. “A boy needs to forge his own path. He’s training hard, not getting into trouble. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “But where does he go, Darrick?” I pressed. “What if he’s wandering too far into the woods? Or worse, what if he’s—”

  “He’s fine, Eleonore,” Darrick cut in gently, but firmly. “If you follow him, you’ll only make him feel stifled. Trust him.”

  I wanted to trust him. I truly did. But today, I couldn’t help myself.

  So when Ronan slipped out of the house just after dawn, I quietly followed him. I kept my distance, hiding behind trees and bushes when necessary, my heart racing every time he glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t see me, though—he was too focused, his small figure cutting a determined path through the village streets.

  Finally, I saw where he was headed: the old shack near the edge of Brustel, the one everyone said was occupied by an adventurer who’d taken up residence there a few months ago.

  I stopped in my tracks, my heart sinking.

  I remembered when Ronan first mentioned wanting to train with that man. Darrick and I had both refused outright. “He’s a drifter,” I told Ronan then. “Not the sort of person you should be associating with.” My own parents had raised me to be wary of adventurers, mercenaries, and anyone else who lived on the fringes of society. They were reckless, dangerous, and above all, unreliable.

  But Ronan had been persistent. “He knows things I want to learn,” he’d argued. “Things that could help me protect this family.”

  “Protect us from what?” Darrick had countered, his tone sharp. “There’s no war here, no monsters lurking at our doorstep. You don’t need to learn from some vagabond.”

  Ronan had dropped the subject after that, but now I realized he hadn’t given up—he’d simply gone behind our backs.

  From my hiding spot, I watched as he approached the man, who was sitting on a stump outside the shack, sharpening a blade. Ronan handed him something—a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Food, perhaps? I couldn’t make out their conversation from where I stood, but I saw the man nod and gesture for Ronan to follow him to a small clearing nearby.

  My anger simmered beneath the surface, but it was mixed with something else—a reluctant sense of admiration. Ronan had negotiated with this man, found a way to learn from him despite our objections. He was only four years old, yet he carried himself with the determination of someone far older.

  Still, I couldn’t shake my unease. What if this adventurer was taking advantage of him? What if the training was too harsh, or worse, dangerous?

  I stayed a little longer, watching as the man handed Ronan a wooden practice sword and began demonstrating a series of movements. Ronan mimicked him with surprising precision, his small frame moving with a focus and intensity that took my breath away.

  Eventually, I tore myself away and made my way back to the house. I couldn’t decide whether to confront him or let it go.

  Ronan’s POV

  That evening, as I made my way back home, the sky had already darkened, and the air carried the crisp chill of the approaching night. My limbs ached from the day’s work—Wes’ relentless drills in the morning, followed by Maren’s demanding lessons in the afternoon—but I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Today was a good day.

  But the moment I stepped through the door, I knew something was wrong.

  Both of my parents were waiting for me. My mother, Eleonore, stood with her arms crossed, her face a mask of worry and frustration. My father, Darrick, leaned against the dining table, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight.

  They knew.

  “Where have you been, Ronan?” my mother asked, her voice calm but laced with tension.

  My stomach twisted, and I hesitated for a moment too long. “I was out training,” I finally admitted, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

  “Alone?” she pressed, her eyes narrowing.

  I swallowed hard, glancing at my father. His silence was even more unsettling than my mother’s questions. “Yes,” I lied, though I knew it was useless.

  “Don’t lie to me, Ronan,” she snapped, her voice rising. “I followed you this morning. I saw you with that adventurer.”

  The air seemed to leave the room, and my heart sank. I clenched my fists, unsure whether to feel anger, shame, or both.

  “You followed me?” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

  “You’re my son,” she shot back. “Of course, I followed you! You’ve been sneaking around for weeks, running off without a word. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

  I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when my father raised a hand, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “Enough,” he said, his tone calm but firm. He turned his gaze to me, and for a moment, I couldn’t read his expression. Then he spoke again.

  “Ronan, explain yourself. Why are you training with this man after we told you not to?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Because I need to,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Wes is teaching me how to fight, but that’s not enough. The world isn’t just swords and fists. There’s magic, monsters, things out there that don’t care how strong your swing is. I need to learn from someone who’s faced those things—someone like him.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. My mother, on the other hand, was shaking her head.

  “He’s an adventurer, Ronan,” she said, her voice trembling. “A drifter. Someone who doesn’t belong anywhere or answer to anyone. Do you know how dangerous that kind of life is? Do you want to end up like him?”

  Her words stung, but I held my ground. “You don’t understand,” I said, my voice rising. “He’s not like that. He’s teaching me things that no one else can. I’m not doing this because I want to run off and become some wandering hero—I’m doing this for us. For this family. For this village. If something happens I want to be ready. I want to protect you.”

  The room fell silent, my words hanging in the air. My mother’s expression softened, her anger giving way to something else—fear, perhaps. My father rubbed a hand over his face, sighing deeply.

  “You’re too young to carry that kind of burden, Ronan,” my father said at last, his voice weary. “You’re just a boy. It’s not your job to protect us.”

  “But it is!” I shot back, surprising even myself with the force of my words. “It’s my job because I can. I have magic, I have skills, and I’m not afraid to use them. If I don’t prepare now, then when? When it’s too late?”

  Another heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. My parents exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations they seemed to have mastered over the years.

  Finally, my father straightened, his gaze steady. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “But this doesn’t mean we’re entirely on board with what you’re doing. That man you’re training with—he’s still a stranger to us, and that makes him a risk.”

  “He’s not a risk,” I insisted. “He’s—”

  “We don’t know that,” my father interrupted, his voice firm. “If you’re going to keep training with him, then I’ll be meeting him myself. If he’s going to be a part of your life, then he’ll answer to me.”

  I hesitated but nodded. “Fine,” I said. “But he’s not what you think he is.”

  My father gave me a small nod, but my mother still looked unconvinced. She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “Ronan,” she said softly, “I’m proud of how determined you are, but please—don’t lose yourself in this. You’re still my son. You’re still a child.”

  I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t a child, not anymore, but I knew it would only hurt her. So I nodded, letting the matter rest for now.

  That night, as I lay in bed, I replayed the conversation in my mind, trying to shake the lingering weight of their words. I’d made my choice, and I wouldn’t back down.