Great. I'll write chapters 41 through 45 in full, each around 1500 words, continuing the story of Kelan's journey with Dennor as they travel north. These chapters will emphasize cultural detail, philosophical tension between healing and destruction, and Kelan's deepening magical abilities in line with L. E. Modesitt Jr.'s reflective and methodical style. I'll let you know once the chapters are ready for review.
Chapter 41
Kelan lifted his eyes to the northern horizon as he and Dennor trudged along the packed dirt road out of the capital. The late summer sun hung low and golden, casting long shadows from the rows of oak trees lining the Imperial highway. A warm breeze carried the scent of dry grass and distant woodsmoke. Behind them, far in the distance, lay the spires of the Academy and the orderly bustle of the Imperial heartlands. With each step northward, those spires grew smaller, and Kelan felt a mix of relief and uncertainty settling in his chest. He was leaving everything familiar—his humble fishing village upbringing and the Academy's stone halls—because he had to. Yet, despite the lingering ache of isolation from his former peers, he also felt an undeniable lightness. Out here, under the open sky, there were no resentful eyes watching his every move.
Dennor walked a half-step ahead, humming an old traveling song under his breath. The seasoned mind mage was a man perhaps in his fifth decade, with graying hair tied back and a brightly patterned scarf around his neck that fluttered with each stride. He carried himself with an easy confidence, a walking stick tapping the ground in rhythm. A sturdy dun-colored mule followed obediently at his elbow, laden with their packs—worn books with cracked leather covers, bundles of dried food, and a bedroll or two. Kelan led the mule's rope gently, occasionally reaching out to pat the creature's neck when it snorted. He had never traveled with an animal before, but Dennor had insisted on buying the mule at the last waystation before leaving the Academy lands. "A mule remembers the road and carries burdens without complaint," Dennor had said that morning with a wink. "Better than breaking our backs with all these tomes, lad." Kelan had to agree; the weight of knowledge—literally sacks of books on mind magic—was not something either of them could carry alone for hundreds of miles.
As they walked, Kelan found his thoughts drifting back to the Academy one last time. The cool dawn when he'd slipped away, Master Zujan's concerned face as he pressed an old notebook into Kelan's hands at the gate, and the murmured farewell: "Learn well, and stay safe. We will meet again when the time is right." Zujan's voice still echoed in Kelan's mind. The master's parting gift—a slim journal filled with observations on scanning and healing—now nestled safely in Kelan's satchel. He resisted the urge to pull it out yet; there would be time to study by the campfire. Instead, he tried to focus on the present: the soft thud of his boots on the road, the creak of the saddle on the mule's back, and Dennor's cheery humming.
Dennor suddenly glanced over his shoulder, catching Kelan's eye. "You're awful quiet, lad," he called, slowing his pace so they walked side by side. His tone was light, but his dark eyes were probing. Dennor had a way of sensing emotions—whether through subtle scanning or just keen observation—that Kelan was still getting used to. "Second thoughts about leaving?"
Kelan shook his head, though it wasn't a simple yes or no answer. "No… not exactly," he replied softly. He cleared his throat, searching for the words. "I know why I had to go. It was just…" He inhaled the warm air, thick with late-summer sweetness, trying to dispel the memory of whispered taunts and cold stares in the dining hall. "I didn't expect to leave the Academy so soon. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing."
Dennor made a thoughtful sound and adjusted the strap of the pack slung over his shoulder. "From what Master Zujan told me, staying wasn't much of an option," he said dryly. "Jealousy and resentment rarely lead to anything good. Especially not when the ones holding grudges also wield power." He pointed his stick at a rutted spot in the road so the mule could step around it. "Out here, you'll have room to grow without looking over your shoulder all the time."
Kelan nodded. That much was true. The past few months at the Academy had become increasingly uncomfortable—other students whispering that Kelan thought himself better than them, that his mind scanning abilities were unnatural, even dangerous. He never flaunted his gift, but it hadn't mattered. Healing a grievous injury on a classmate during exercises—a feat none of his peers could replicate—had marked him as different. And different did not sit well with some. Perhaps I was naïve, he thought, to assume they'd all be glad for my success. The bitterness of that realization still stung. He hadn't wanted special attention, only to help. Instead, he'd been met with spiteful glares and pranks that bordered on malice. When a few classmates sabotaged his final examination by tampering with his potion ingredients, Master Zujan intervened before things escalated further. Leaving had been a mutual decision between Kelan and his mentor. It was safer this way, even if it felt like an exile of sorts.
"You'll find no academies where we're headed," Dennor continued, his voice breaking into Kelan's reverie. The older mage swept an arm out to indicate the rolling plains ahead. "No formal dueling circles, no library archives at your fingertips. But you'll find knowledge, if you open yourself to it. The world teaches in ways books do not." He shot Kelan a grin, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. "And you have me, of course. I'm not as refined as Master Zujan, but I dare say I know a thing or two that stuffy Academy instructors overlook."
Kelan couldn't help but smile at Dennor's self-deprecating tone. "I'm grateful for that," he said earnestly. "Truly. If it weren't for you… I don't know where I'd be heading now." Probably back to his fishing village, he thought, which would have felt like defeat. This journey north, at least, held purpose.
They walked on through the afternoon, the road gradually narrowing as it branched away from the main Imperial route. Fewer travelers passed by now. Once, a merchant's wagon rumbled past, heading south toward the capital, laden with late-season fruits and barrels of ale. The merchant waved at the two travelers, and Dennor hailed him in a dialect Kelan didn't recognize—likely a northern tongue. The merchant called back with a friendly laugh in the same language and continued on. Kelan realized this was his first taste of the cultural shift Dennor had mentioned. He felt a prickle of anticipation. Beyond the next few days lay lands he knew only from maps: tribal territories, independent villages, and old principalities absorbed at the Empire's fringes.
By late day, the sun sank toward the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in hues of orange and purple. They left the road to find a campsite near a gentle bend in a creek, a place Dennor assured had good water and enough cover. The mule was relieved of its burden and tied where it could drink from the clear stream. Kelan gathered dried branches and twigs for a fire, while Dennor unpacked a small iron pot and their provisions. These simple tasks felt oddly satisfying to Kelan—more real than all the theoretical exercises in Academy classrooms. Stacking kindling, striking flint and steel to spark a fire, blowing gently until it caught—each action grounded him in the present moment.
Soon, flames crackled merrily, and twilight deepened into a dome of stars overhead. Crickets began their chorus in the grass. Dennor had set a pot of porridge to cook, stirring in a handful of dried berries and a pinch of salt. The aroma of simmering oats and fruit filled the campsite. Kelan's stomach growled; he hadn't realized how hungry the day's march had made him. They ate from simple wooden bowls, the porridge thick and hearty. Kelan savored each bite. It was far from the varied fare of the Academy dining hall, but hunger made it delicious. Besides, he thought, this was honest food under an open sky, earned by honest travel.
After dinner, they settled by the fire. The night air had a slight chill, a reminder that autumn was not far off even if days were still warm. Kelan drew his cloak around himself. Across the fire, Dennor was thumbing through one of the worn books, the firelight dancing over the pages. The older mage's face was unreadable, fixed in concentration. Kelan hesitated, then softly asked, "Master Dennor… what will our training be like? I mean, how do we begin?" It felt strange calling him Master, but Dennor had half-bowed and laughed when Kelan first addressed him that way, saying "Oh, I've not the patience for formal titles, but call me what you will." Still, in deference, Kelan used the honorific now and then.
Dennor looked up, snapping the book shut gently. "Training, yes," he said, drawing out the word. "You're eager, which is good. But after a long day's walk, even the keenest mind needs rest. We won't dive into heavy theory tonight." He tapped the side of his head. "Learning mind magic isn't like cramming for an alchemy exam. It's as much about your mental state and physical condition as it is about knowledge. Fatigue can dull your abilities. So first lesson"—he held up a finger—"take care of your body, or your mind will suffer."
Kelan managed a small grin. "Master Zujan said something similar once—when I nearly collapsed after practicing scanning late into the night. He made me sleep for a day." The memory brought a pang of warmth; Zujan had cared for him almost like a son at times.
"Smart man," Dennor chuckled. "I have no intention of dragging an exhausted apprentice around. But,"—and here his tone shifted to something a bit more serious—"we also won't be coddling you like a sheltered student either. The road can be unforgiving. Bandits, accidents, illness… we must keep our wits. So discipline will be your other teacher." He leaned forward, prodding the fire with a stick. Sparks whirled up into the dark. "Still, a bit of practice each day is wise. Let's not neglect it entirely."
At that, Kelan straightened, attentive. Dennor reached into one of his many coat pockets and produced a small river stone, smooth and oval, that he must have picked up earlier. He placed it in the dirt between them. "Show me your telekinesis, as it stands now," he instructed, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Lift the stone."
Kelan took a slow breath and wiped his hands on his trousers reflexively. Though the task was simple, he felt a flutter of nerves. This was his first demonstration under Dennor's tutelage. He focused his gaze on the pebble, then let his eyes unfocus slightly as he extended his mind toward it. Telekinesis, he'd learned, was often about imagining an extension of oneself—an invisible hand, guided by will. He visualized that hand now, grasping the stone gently but firmly. At first, nothing happened. The stone sat stubbornly still. Kelan exhaled, realizing he was trying too hard, his mind too tense. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering how he used to practice in the Academy gardens at dawn when no one watched. Calm, focus, intention. Opening his eyes, he tried again, more softly this time, reaching out with his awareness rather than his force.
The stone wobbled, then lifted a few inches off the ground, hovering shakily. Kelan felt the familiar strain behind his eyes, the subtle thrill of connection between his mind and the object. A grin broke over his face. He held it aloft for a couple of breaths, then let it down as gently as he could. The stone dropped the last inch, with a soft thud.
Dennor nodded, his expression measured. "Good. You have fine control for a student your age. I'd heard, of course, but it's satisfying to see it." He picked up the stone and turned it over in his fingers. "You can lift larger things, I assume?"
Kelan stretched his slightly aching fingers, though he hadn't used them. "Yes, a bit larger. I once lifted a chair across a room," he said. He didn't add that it was during an ill-advised attempt to impress a fellow student, which earned him more scowls than admiration.
"We'll work on endurance and strength in that area," Dennor said matter-of-factly. "By the time winter arrives, you'll be tossing logs like twigs—if you keep at it." He tossed the stone lightly. "But telekinesis is only one facet. Now, your scanning and healing—that's where Master Zujan said you truly excel."
At the mention, Kelan's face grew more serious. "He said I have a talent for it," he murmured. Scanning had always come to him as naturally as breathing. The first time he realized not everyone could sense the ebb and flow of another's life force was a shock. To Kelan, detecting the faint shimmer of energy in a living body, the subtle warmth of health or the cold void of sickness, felt intrinsic. Healing, though draining, felt similarly intuitive—guiding a body to mend itself, nudging flesh and bone into alignment. He'd assumed every mage could do it, until the Academy proved otherwise.
"Could you… would you permit me to scan you, Master Dennor?" Kelan asked hesitantly. It was a personal request—scanning someone was an intimate act, almost like reading a private letter. But he was eager to show Dennor what he could sense.
Dennor raised an eyebrow, then let out a low chuckle. "Bold of you to ask an old traveler for his secrets. But I've no objection." He settled himself, sitting up straight. "Go on then. Tell me what these bones of mine say to you."
Kelan shifted closer and took a calming breath. He softened his gaze on Dennor, not focusing on the man's physical form but on the space just around him—the aura, as Zujan had called it. At first, it was like looking at a faint mist around Dennor's silhouette. Then Kelan reached deeper with his mind, extending a tendril of thought gently forward. Gradually, sensations trickled in: the steady thrum of a heartbeat, strong but a tad slower than a young man's; the whoosh of breath through lungs that had seen many winters, one of them slightly scarred—perhaps a bout of pneumonia long ago. There was the subtle tension in Dennor's shoulder muscles (no doubt from carrying the pack), and the tingling fatigue in his legs from the day's walk. Nothing life-threatening, just the ordinary wear of a traveler's day. Beneath it all, Kelan sensed the mind—Dennor's mind—calm and observant. He didn't try to read thoughts (that would be a grave intrusion), but the emotional aura was one of patience and gentle amusement.
Kelan withdrew after a few moments, blinking as his own senses reasserted themselves. "You're in good health," he reported with a small smile. "A little muscle strain in your shoulders, some lingering tightness in your chest—old illness, maybe? But otherwise, strong heart, strong lungs. Perhaps a slight ache in your left knee joint—"
Dennor slapped that very knee and laughed aloud. "Ha! Right on all counts. The chest was a bad fever when I was thirty. And the knee, well, a horse threw me a decade back. Acts up in the cold." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Zujan wasn't exaggerating. You have a healer's sight, boy."
Kelan flushed with pride at the praise, but also felt the familiar humility that came with using his gift. "I can try to ease the shoulder strain, if you like. It's simple enough—"
Dennor held up a hand. "No need. A night's rest will do that much. Save your strength." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fixing Kelan with a more intense look. "What you just did—scanning—is a skill many mind mages struggle to develop to that degree. Treasure it. But also be cautious with it. People don't take kindly to the idea of someone peering into them, even if all you seek are injuries to heal. Always ask permission, as you just did. That shows respect."
"Yes, Master," Kelan answered. He already knew this lesson, but hearing it from Dennor reinforced its importance. In his home village, he'd once scanned a sick neighbor without asking, in his eagerness to help. The old man had recovered from the fever thanks to Kelan's intervention, but he also avoided Kelan thereafter, muttering about uncanny eyes. Intentions mattered little if one violated someone's sense of privacy or autonomy.
Dennor tossed another log on the fire, sending sparks spiraling up. The stars were brilliant now, strewn across a moonless sky. Silence fell between them, a comfortable quiet punctuated by the crackle of pine wood. Kelan felt fatigue creeping over him, but it was tempered by a blossoming hope. This first day on the road, though gentle, had already shown him glimpses of what life with Dennor would be like: challenging yet freeing, practical yet filled with learning. He unfolded his bedroll and lay down near the warmth of the fire. The ground was hard, but he didn't mind. It was the price of freedom.
As he stared up at the starry expanse, Kelan's thoughts wandered. There was apprehension—who knew what trials the journey north might bring? But there was also determination. He would prove worthy of the trust Master Zujan and Dennor had placed in him. Away from the jealous eyes of the Academy, he could finally breathe and grow. Perhaps one day, when he returned, it would be as a mature mage, confident and tempered by real experience.
Dennor's voice drifted over, soft and almost drowsy, "Get some sleep, Kelan. Tomorrow we'll cover more ground. The Imperial border is a few days off yet. After that, the real adventure begins."
Kelan murmured an assent. He pulled his cloak tighter and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he still sensed the gentle pulse of life in the night—the distant rustle of a small animal in the brush, the steady breathing of the mule, the slow, measured rhythm of Dennor's heartbeat beyond the flames. Comforted by those signs of life and the companionship of his mentor, Kelan let himself drift. His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was simple and sincere: I'm ready for whatever comes next. The stars wheeled overhead and the fire burned low, guarding the two travelers as the first chapter of their journey north came to its quiet close.
Chapter 42
Kelan awoke to the pale light of dawn and the sound of birdsong echoing through the trees. The air was crisp, dew clinging to the grass, and a faint mist hovered over the creek beside their campsite. He sat up slowly, stretching, and felt a slight soreness in his limbs from the previous day's travels. Nearby, Dennor was already awake, kneeling by the fire pit coaxing the morning's flames to life. The older mage had a way of rising early and soundlessly, a habit honed by years on the road. The comforting scent of simmering chicory root—brewing in a small pot for a bitter morning tea—wafted over to Kelan.
"Morning, lad," Dennor said with a nod as Kelan approached. "Sleep well enough?" He poured two tin cups of the dark brew and handed one to Kelan. The mule, hearing their voices, gave a soft bray and nosed at a patch of clover; Dennor had already seen to its water and a measure of oats.
Kelan accepted the warm cup, wrapping his fingers around it gratefully. "Well enough," he replied. He blew on the chicory tea and took a cautious sip. It was earthy and strong, chasing away the last traces of grogginess. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, painting the eastern sky in strokes of pink and gold. "Thank you," he added, raising the cup slightly. Simple courtesies had been drilled into him since childhood, and Dennor, despite his easygoing nature, seemed to appreciate them.
They ate a quick breakfast of dense barley bread slathered with a bit of butter and honey—supplies Dennor had packed from the capital. As Kelan chewed, he savored the sweetness, wondering when they'd get fresh provisions again. Likely at the next settlement. The road ahead was now leading them beyond the familiar farmlands of the Empire's heart. Yesterday they had passed the last of the large estates and grain fields. In their place had risen rolling moors and sparse woods. Today, Kelan expected, they would venture even further into the untamed lands that were home to the northern tribes.
They doused their fire, packed up camp, and set off once more. The morning haze lifted as the sun climbed, revealing a landscape that grew steadily wilder. The Imperial highway had narrowed into a country road and now that road became little more than a dirt track in places. Patches of weeds and wildflowers encroached on the path. It was clear fewer travelers maintained this route. Occasionally, they passed crumbling milestones of old imperial make, markers that once proudly bore distances to now-forgotten provincial towns. Most were weatherworn and illegible, cloaked in moss. Kelan could only guess at the names and distances. To him, it felt like stepping into a more ancient world, one not entirely under Imperial dominion.
By mid-morning, they crested a low hill, and Dennor paused, resting a hand on Kelan's shoulder. "Look there," he said, pointing with his staff. In the valley below stretched a broad river, its waters glinting in the sunlight. On their side of the river, the southern side, Kelan could just make out the remnants of an old stone fortification—a watchtower long collapsed into ruin. Only a portion of its mossy tower and some broken walls remained. On the far side of the river, dense forests of pine and fir covered the hills beyond. "That's the Korvis River. It marks the effective boundary of the Imperial heartlands. Beyond that, you'll be in the lands of the Rhen tribe."
"Rhen," Kelan repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name. He had read of them in passing—a large confederation of northern clans who were among those never fully subdued by the Empire. They weren't exactly at war with the Empire—there had been peace for decades—but they governed themselves by their own customs. Trade existed, as did occasional disputes. Early Germanic society, Master Zujan had once lectured, had thrived on kinship bonds and honor codes. The Rhen, and others like them, still lived much as their ancestors did in those early days.
Dennor began leading the mule down toward a shallow ford in the river. "I spent a year among the Rhen, long ago," he mentioned casually. "They have a rich culture—herbcraft, story-songs, and a fierce sense of honor. But be mindful. Outsiders are treated with caution until trust is earned. We'd do well to follow their customs where we can."
Kelan listened intently, curious and a touch nervous. "What sort of customs?"
"For one, hospitality," Dennor said. "If we're granted shelter or food, we show proper thanks—often a small gift or service in return. They're proud people, and courtesy goes a long way. Also, when greeting a headman or chief, it's customary to bow your head slightly but maintain eye contact—shows respect without subservience. And try to avoid speaking unless spoken to at first. Let me do the talking until we get our bearings." He flashed a grin. "Don't worry, you'll pick it up quickly. Just be observant."
They reached the river's edge. The Korvis was wide but shallow at this crossing, fanning out into pebbly rivulets. Dennor rolled up his trousers and led the mule into the water. Kelan did the same, wincing at the initial shock of cold on his calves. The river stones were smooth underfoot. Halfway across, the water rose to their knees and tugged at their steps, but they managed without incident. Kelan glanced back at the southern bank, realizing this was truly a point of no return. The Empire lay behind; ahead was something new.
On the northern bank, the track continued, though it was more overgrown. They walked under the shade of towering pines that grew right up to the river's edge. The smell of pine resin and damp earth was strong. Kelan felt a slight tingling along his senses—a subconscious reaction to crossing into less familiar territory. He reached out gently with his scanning ability, not focusing on anything in particular, just opening up his awareness a notch. He sensed small creatures in the underbrush—squirrels or rabbits—ahead, a cluster of birds flitting through the canopy. Faintly, further away, perhaps the presence of larger life forms—could be deer, or people? It was hard to tell at this range. He didn't press; Dennor had cautioned him that stretching his scanning too broadly for too long could be draining and could even announce their presence to any other sensitive minds.
As midday approached, the forest opened into a clearing where an old stone well stood beside the road. It was likely a communal spot used by travelers or locals coming to water their horses. Dennor decided it was a good place to rest. They tethered the mule in the shade and let her drink from the trough filled by the well. Kelan drew up a bucket of water to refill their skins, and splashed his face to cool off—the day was warming as the sun climbed higher.
They shared a light lunch of dried apple slices, hard cheese, and strips of salted pork. While they ate, Dennor quizzed Kelan on a few herb lore basics, pointing at weeds around the clearing. "That one there, with the white flowers and fern-like leaves—what is it?" he asked.
Kelan followed his gaze to a cluster of wild plants by the well. He recognized the description from Zujan's lessons. "Yarrow, I think," he answered. He plucked a bit and sniffed its astringent scent. "Master Zujan said it's used to stanch bleeding and help wounds heal. Soldiers packed it in bandages in the old wars."
Dennor smiled approvingly. "Good. And that purple flower there, on the tall stalk?"
This one Kelan had to think on. It had bell-shaped purple blooms. "Foxglove?" he ventured. "Though… that one can be a poison in the wrong dose, if I recall. It affects the heart."
"Aye," Dennor said, impressed. "Also used in the right dose for certain heart ailments. You have a decent grounding in herbcraft, better than many who rely on pure magic." He stretched his legs out. "In these parts, herbal knowledge is as valuable as magic, perhaps more so. The villagers trust what they can see—a poultice, a tisane—more than unseen mind workings. We'll use both, as needed. Practicality, Kelan. Never forget that a wise healer uses all the tools at his disposal. If a simple herb tea can cure a fever, no need to waste your own energy on a healing trance, hmm?"
Kelan nodded, tucking that advice away. It resonated with his own sensibilities; he'd never thought magic should replace common sense. How often had he watched his mother in their coastal village use a mustard compress to relieve a cough, or a spiderweb to stop a minor cut's bleeding? Those simple remedies had their place, even alongside his scanning ability.
After resting, they resumed the journey. The path wound uphill now, leaving the lowland pines for hillier terrain speckled with birch and ash trees whose leaves were just beginning to turn gold at the edges. Summer was holding on, but autumn's touch could be seen in those hints of color and the occasional cool gust of wind.
By late afternoon, signs of habitation appeared: a split-rail fence running alongside the trail, marking a grazing field where shaggy cattle chewed cud; a small shrine by the roadside—a carved wooden pillar adorned with ribbons and crude symbols, perhaps an offering to a local deity or spirits of the road. Kelan eyed the shrine curiously but respectfully. In the Empire, the dominant faith was organized around a pantheon with temples and priests, but out here the beliefs were more animistic and ancestral. Everything here speaks of a different way of life, he mused.
Dennor stopped at the shrine briefly, inclining his head and murmuring a few words in the local tongue that Kelan didn't fully catch. It sounded like a short prayer or greeting. When he finished, he noticed Kelan watching and explained, "Just a courtesy to the local guardian spirits. Whether one believes or not, it shows goodwill. The Rhen do it, and so do I when I'm in their lands."
Not long after, they heard the distant bark of a dog, and then children's laughter carrying on the wind. Cresting the next hill, they saw the village. It nestled in a shallow valley: a dozen or so timber longhouses with thatched roofs, encircled loosely by a low earthen berm and wooden palisade stakes in sections. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, and beyond the homes were tilled fields ready for harvest—barley or rye swaying golden. A small cluster of people were visible near the center of the village, perhaps at a well or communal space.
As Kelan and Dennor approached, a pair of children who had been chasing one another near the fields noticed them. The little boy and girl, barefoot and flaxen-haired, paused their play. The boy shouted something in a language Kelan only half-understood—alerting the others of strangers. Almost immediately, two adult men emerged from a gate in the palisade, each holding a spear. They were tall and fair-haired, clad in simple tunics and leather vests. Not hostile per se—more cautious.
Dennor held up an open hand in greeting, palm out, and called in that northern dialect. Kelan recognized a few words—something akin to "traveler" and "peace" and "seeking shelter." The two villagers conferred briefly, then one broke into a grin and gestured for them to come forward. It seemed Dennor's familiarity with their tongue (and possibly the sight of a harmless mule and two weary travelers) put them at ease.
They entered through the gap in the palisade, and Kelan felt multiple sets of curious eyes upon him. Women paused in their work husking grain, and an elderly man squinting while carving a piece of wood looked up from his stoop. The village smelled of earth and livestock, but also of baking bread and an herbal tang from bunches of drying plants hanging under eaves. It reminded Kelan a little of home—simple and rustic—though the style of buildings and dress was different. A pang of nostalgia for his seaside village hit him unexpectedly: the calls of fishermen, the salt breeze. He pushed it aside; he had chosen a different path now.
A middle-aged woman with braided hair approached, wiping her hands on an apron. She spoke to Dennor, who responded respectfully. Kelan watched as Dennor pulled from his coat a small item—a packet of spice perhaps (he glimpsed the orange of saffron or turmeric)—and offered it to the woman. Her face brightened in delight. She called out, and soon they were being led to a longhouse near the center of the village.
Inside, the longhouse was dim at first, lit by the hazy afternoon light through a smoke hole in the roof and small windows. As Kelan's eyes adjusted, he saw it was a communal hall. A long fire pit ran down the center, though now only embers glowed as cooking had likely finished earlier. Benches and tables lined the sides. They were invited to sit. The villagers, perhaps eight or nine adults and a gaggle of children, gathered around curiously but politely, keeping a small distance. It was clear not many outsiders came by.
Dennor introduced himself and Kelan in the Rhen dialect, then switched to Imperial for Kelan's sake, translating as needed. "This is Kelan, my apprentice," he said to the villagers. "We are travelers heading north, and we seek only a night's shelter by your hearth." In turn, the villagers introduced themselves—the woman who welcomed them was named Halda, one of the elders here. Her husband, a broad man named Gerich (one of the spear-bearers from before), nodded and made a sign of hospitality: touching his forehead then his heart.
They were graciously offered space near the central fire and shared food. Soon Kelan found himself with a wooden bowl of hearty stew made from lentils, wild mushrooms, and bits of smoked mutton. It was richly spiced with herbs—different from the Academy's refined fare but deeply satisfying. As they ate, one of the younger women brought round a jug of mead, pouring the golden honey-wine into clay cups for a toast. Dennor drank with easy familiarity, and Kelan sipped carefully—he wasn't used to strong drink, but the mead was sweet and warmed his belly.
Language was a bit of a barrier for Kelan, but Dennor helped interpret. They exchanged news: Dennor told a lighthearted tale of a festival in the Imperial city, and the villagers in turn shared that the summer had been good, though one of the clan's outlying herding camps lost a few sheep to wolves last month. Kelan listened, gradually picking up meanings from context and gesture. He noticed how animated the Rhen were when speaking—using their hands and tone in a lyrical way. Even without every word, he felt the sense of what was said.
During a lull in conversation, Halda brought forward a girl of about ten years, shyly hiding behind her skirt. The woman spoke softly, and Dennor translated quietly for Kelan, "This is her daughter, Lisbet. The child has had a cough that won't go away, and fever at nights." Halda's eyes were full of concern and hope. She likely heard they were healers, Kelan realized—perhaps from Dennor's earlier introduction or reputation.
Kelan immediately felt a tug of responsibility. He set aside his bowl and smiled gently at the girl, crouching a bit to be more at her eye level. In Imperial (as he wasn't fluent in Rhen), he spoke soothingly, "Hello, Lisbet. May I see how you're feeling?" He wasn't sure she understood the words, but his tone and expression were meant to reassure. The girl glanced at her mother, who nodded, then stepped forward.
Kelan placed a hand near, but not on, the girl's shoulder, and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. He let his scanning sense flow outward, enveloping the child in gentle probing warmth. Immediately he picked up on the heat in her chest and throat—the telltale signature of an illness lingering in the lungs. It felt like the remnants of a pneumonia or severe cold that hadn't fully cleared. Her breathing was a touch labored even now; likely fluid still rattled in her lungs at night.
He also sensed fatigue in her small body, the toll of weeks of illness. Thankfully, he felt no mortal danger, just a stubborn infection. Normally, one might treat this with rest and herbal teas—perhaps thyme or coltsfoot to loosen the phlegm, willow bark for fevers. But Kelan could do more. With a calming exhale, he turned his focus to the inflamed tissue in her lungs. He visualized cool, healing light flooding that space, easing the inflammation. Carefully, he guided energy to bolster her body's strength, encouraging the phlegm to loosen and dissipate. It was delicate work, nudging the sickness out without overwhelming her small system. In his mind's eye, he saw the congestion melting away like spring frost under the morning sun.
After a few minutes, he withdrew his power gently. The girl breathed in suddenly, then let out a small cough. Kelan opened his eyes and smiled. "She should feel better now. Though some willow-bark tea tonight would help as well," he advised, knowing Dennor would translate.
Dennor relayed the message. Halda's face broke into open relief and gratitude. She felt her daughter's forehead and spoke rapidly—perhaps noting that the fever had broken, or that Lisbet's breathing already sounded clearer. The child herself managed a timid smile and then, to Kelan's surprise, she gave him a quick, shy hug. Kelan's cheeks flushed, and a soft laugh rippled through the gathered villagers at his bashful reaction.
"Healing earns friends quickly," Dennor said quietly in Imperial, clapping Kelan on the back. "Well done."
Throughout the rest of the evening, the atmosphere was markedly warmer. Word had spread fast of the healing; even those who might have been wary of magic gave Kelan appreciative nods or smiles. One old grandmother pressed a carved wooden charm into Kelan's hand as a token of thanks—an amulet shaped like a tiny bird, said to ward off ill spirits.
Later, as night settled and the villagers drifted to their homes, Halda insisted they remain in the longhouse rather than pitching a tent outside. Hospitality, once granted, was fulsome here. She provided them with fur-lined blankets and showed Kelan where to find the wash basin to freshen up. Dennor chatted softly with Gerich by the fire about the road north, gathering information on any dangers or notable events. Kelan caught snippets—mentions of increased robber activity near the old bronze mines on the eastern hills, and a clan moot (meeting) happening soon, which meant various tribes could be on the move.
When at last Kelan lay down on a pallet near the gently crackling fire, he felt the weight of the day settle on him. His limbs were pleasantly tired from travel, and his mind hummed from the healing work and new experiences. This village was unlike his home, yet the kindness of its people and the simple comfort of a roof for the night made him feel safe in a strange land. He reflected on how, just a day's journey from the Empire, life already felt very different. The formal manners and rigid structures of the Academy were far away. Here, life was communal, immediate—people survived by helping one another and meeting challenges with their own hands and traditions.
Staring at the flicker of fire shadows on the wooden beams above, Kelan thought of the little girl's lungs healing even now, of the thankful faces around him after he used his gift. This is what he had always wanted—to heal, to help without fear or politics muddying the deed. Yet Dennor's words of caution echoed: not all would welcome such power. Tonight had been a fortunate meeting with good folk. The world beyond might not always be so kind.
On the edge of sleep, Kelan heard Dennor's voice, very low, from where he sat keeping a last watch by the door. "Today you did only good, Kelan. Cherish that—and remember it, when the time comes that using your power might not feel as clean. There will be harder choices. But for now, rest easy." Perhaps Dennor knew Kelan's thoughts, or perhaps it was simply wisdom from a man who had seen much.
Kelan didn't respond aloud, but in his heart he acknowledged the truth of those words. He must enjoy this pure success, while also steeling himself for future trials. Cradled by the warmth of the fire and the gentle sounds of the sleeping village, Kelan closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was a lullaby-like hum from Dennor—an old northern tune—standing guard over their dreams. And so the second chapter of their journey closed in peace, under a thatched roof, with the promise and uncertainty of the road ahead waiting in the coming dawn.
Chapter 43
A cool wind rattled the drying leaves of the birches as Kelan and Dennor departed the village of the Rhen at first light. The villagers had seen them off with well-wishes, Halda pressing a small bundle of travel food into Kelan's hands—loaves of dense rye bread and a bit of hard cheese, a generous gift for travelers. Kelan had bowed his head in the Rhen manner, touching his forehead then heart in thanks, earning him a beaming smile from the elder.
Now, as they left the cultivated fields behind, the path led them into denser woodland. Autumn was more evident with each passing hour: the birch and maple leaves turning yellow and orange, some already dancing down with each gust. The morning sky was a pale blue, streaked with high clouds. Kelan felt a faint ache in his shoulders from sleeping on a pallet, but otherwise he was refreshed. He'd risen early to check on little Lisbet one more time—finding her eating breakfast porridge with a healthy appetite, her cheeks rosy and fever gone. The joy in Halda's eyes as she met Kelan's gaze that morning was something he would carry with him. This was why his gift mattered.
"Alright, lad, eyes sharp now," Dennor said, bringing Kelan back to the present. They navigated around a fallen log on the trail, dew still glistening on the moss clinging to its bark. "Gerich mentioned something about robber activity along this stretch. Possibly deserters or outcasts from one of the clans. They've been waylaying lone travelers and small merchant trains."
Kelan nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel. Instinctively, he extended his scanning sense a little, probing the woods ahead for any hints of human life. At the moment, he sensed nothing beyond the scurrying of a fox in its burrow and the flutter of bird wings. "I'll keep a lookout," he said quietly. This was a new kind of vigilance for him. On Academy grounds, the worst threats had been academic failure or a fellow student's mischief. Here, one could truly come to harm from strangers.
They pressed on through the woods throughout the morning. Dennor occasionally quizzed Kelan on mind exercises as they walked. One exercise was to have Kelan list every distinct sound he could hear at that moment—a drill to increase awareness. "Birdsong, the creaking of tree branches, our mule's hooves on the leaf litter, your cloak brushing against shrubs, my own breathing…" Kelan recited softly. The task, oddly enough, helped him remain alert and grounded.
Another exercise was more challenging: maintaining a subtle telekinetic grip on a pebble and floating it alongside him as they moved. Kelan picked a walnut-sized stone from the path and set it to levitate at shoulder height. Walking while keeping it steady in the air tested his focus; if he paid too much attention to placing his feet on uneven ground, the stone wobbled, but if he focused too much on the stone, he might stumble. It became almost a moving meditation—splitting his awareness in two. Dennor watched with an appraising smile but also kept an eye on the surroundings.
After an hour, Kelan's mind began to tire. Telekinetic strain manifested as a dull pressure behind his eyes. Eventually he let the stone drop, catching it in hand to pocket for another time. "Not bad," Dennor remarked. "We'll work up to doing that with two stones, or with heavier weight. The goal is to make such efforts second nature, not consuming your full concentration. In a fight, you'll need to move and act while wielding your talent seamlessly."
The mention of a fight hung in the air as they continued. Kelan glanced at his mentor. "Have you… had to fight often, Master Dennor?"
Dennor shrugged one shoulder. "Often? No. But more times than I'd like. Most folks are decent, or at least not looking for trouble. But on the road you inevitably meet some who only understand force. You saw how quickly healing earns friends—" he paused, stepping over a snag of roots, "—well, unfortunately, wealth or desperation can make you a target just as fast. Bandits, brigands, or even a drunken brawl in an inn: a mind mage must sometimes use his art to defend himself or others."
Kelan knew this theoretically, but hearing it unsettled him slightly. "At the Academy, the dueling exercises were controlled. There were rules, healers on standby. Out here, I suppose there's no such safety net."
"Correct," Dennor said, his tone sober. "That's why I push you with these drills. If danger comes, there's no time to think from scratch—you'll react as you've trained. Better that reaction be effective." He offered a reassuring look. "Remember, using force doesn't erase your goodness. It's how and why you use it. You can protect life through strength as much as through mercy."
Kelan absorbed that quietly. He understood the logic, but a part of him still recoiled at the idea of harming anyone. He hoped, perhaps unrealistically, that any bandits they might meet could be scared off or dissuaded without serious injury.
They trudged on, and by noon, the forest began to thin. They emerged onto a stretch of open heath—rolling hills dotted with heather and gorse. The wind picked up over the open land, carrying a faint hint of rain. In the distance, Kelan spotted what looked like abandoned works: a series of low mounds and a dilapidated wooden lift, perhaps the "old bronze mines" Gerich had mentioned. It was a bleak-looking spot, and Kelan could imagine that if bandits lurked anywhere, it would be around such a derelict place where few honest folk tread.
His nerves tautened. The path curved around one of the grassy mounds. Dennor and Kelan walked a bit closer now, side by side, and the mule flicked its ears, perhaps sensing the uneasy tension in its companions.
Just as they neared a cluster of boulders by the path, Kelan felt a sudden prickle at the edge of his scanning range—faint, but distinctly human life force, off to the left beyond the boulders. Multiple sources. His heart quickened. "Master—" he began softly, but he didn't need to finish.
Dennor had already stopped, his posture shifting. In a low voice he said in Imperial, "I sense them." There was no one visible yet, but the trap was sprung a moment later.
Three figures leapt out from behind the rocks and scrub—two in front on the left, one on the right—each brandishing weapons. They were rough-looking men clad in piecemeal leather armor and wool, with unkempt hair and hard eyes. Bandits, no doubt of it. One had a rusted short sword, another a spear, the third an axe. Behind them, Kelan caught a glimpse of a fourth emerging further back with a bow—an arrow already nocked and drawn, aimed their way.
"Ho there, travelers," called the swordsman, a gap-toothed grin on his face. "Leave your packs and that mule, and maybe we'll let you walk away." The casual way he spoke did not mask the menace in his tone.
Kelan's mouth went dry. His heart hammered against his ribs as adrenaline surged. He instinctively stepped nearer to the mule, one hand on its harness to steady the nervous animal. The mule huffed and danced a step, sensing danger. Four of them. Possibly more unseen. The odds were not good.
Dennor raised his walking stick slightly, a nonthreatening gesture that nonetheless showed he wasn't completely defenseless. "We're just travelers with little of value," he said evenly in Imperial, and then with a glance at the bandits' mix of features, repeated the sentiment in the local dialect. "No need for bloodshed. We can give you some food if you're hungry, a few coins if that's what you need."
The axe-wielder hawked and spat on the ground. "Think we're beggars? We'll take all you've got, old man." He eyed Kelan and sneered. "Your boy there can run home in his stockings."
Kelan felt a flush of fear and anger. There was no running home from here. He caught Dennor's subtle hand sign: two fingers tapping the side of his leg—prepare. Kelan drew a breath and centered himself as best he could. The world seemed to sharpen; he noticed the tremble in the spear-point aimed at them, the shifting eyes of the bowman finding his target.
Dennor's voice dropped, meant only for Kelan's ears, "I'll handle the bowman and one. You, the others. Disable if you can." The calm in his tone steadied Kelan somewhat. They had trained for moments like this, though simulation was never quite like reality.
It all happened in the span of a few heartbeats. The lead bandit with the sword grew impatient and lunged forward to grab the mule's rein, presumably to seize the animal first. At that very instant Dennor thrust out his hand toward the archer lurking behind. With a wordless cry, the bowman suddenly jerked as if struck—Dennor had sent a focused mental blast. The arrow went wild, sailing off into the heath, as the man dropped his bow with a startled yelp, clutching his head.
Simultaneously, Kelan reacted to the swordsman lunging near. With a surge of will, he flung out his mind like an invisible wave. A force slammed into the attacker's midsection, a telekinetic shove that sent the man reeling back. The bandit landed hard on his rear, surprise written plain on his face.
The spear-wielding robber charged from the left, yelling, perhaps thinking Kelan an easier target while Dennor was occupied. Kelan turned to him, heart in throat. The spear's tip thrust toward Kelan's side, and in reflex Kelan threw up his left hand. He felt a flare of panic and instinctively latched onto the only thing he could—the man's body. With his scanning gift, Kelan's awareness dived inwards, gripping the bandit's vital rhythms. In a desperate push, he willed disruption: a twist in the flow of signals that kept heart and lungs in tandem.
The effect was immediate and shocking. The spearman's eyes went wide; he staggered mid-stride and collapsed to his knees, weapon dropping. He gasped like a fish, hands clawing at his chest. Kelan, horrified by what he'd done, quickly released the hold, but the damage was done. The man keeled over, unconscious or worse. Kelan's stomach lurched—he hadn't intended to strike so viciously, but fear guided his power more than precision.
He had no time to dwell on it. The third bandit, the axe man, seeing his fellows down, came roaring straight at Kelan now, axe raised to cleave. Kelan stumbled back a step, throwing up a hasty telekinetic barrier. The axe hit something invisible inches from Kelan's face—a brief shimmer in the air as Kelan's will held it back. The strain was immense; he felt as though he were physically holding off a strongman. His knees nearly buckled.
Before the axe wielder could press through Kelan's shield, Dennor intervened. With surprising agility for his age, Dennor had closed the distance from the right. He whirled his stout oaken walking stick and struck the axe man solidly at the base of the skull. The bandit crumpled, knocked out cold by sheer force.
Sudden quiet fell over the heathland clearing. The only sounds were Kelan's ragged breathing and the mule's nervous stomping. Four bandits down: one unconscious from Dennor's mental attack, one sprawled and groaning with bruises from Kelan's telekinetic shove, one possibly in cardiac arrest, and one out cold from a whack to the head.
Kelan found himself trembling all over. He swallowed bile as he looked at the spearman lying motionless. Rushing to the man's side, he fell to his knees and laid a hand on him, scanning frantically. The man's heart fluttered erratically—on the verge of stopping. Without hesitation, Kelan channeled healing energy, the same power he'd used to cure a child's cough, now to undo his own violent act. Live, please live, he urged silently, focusing on stabilizing the heart's rhythm. Gradually, it steadied, beating normally. The bandit gasped and coughed, then began breathing, slipping from dire peril into a deep, stunned unconsciousness.
Kelan sagged in relief, heart pounding nearly as hard as the man's had been. He realized his face was wet—whether from sweat or tears, he wasn't certain. The thought that he might have killed the man had ripped through him with guilt and fear. Even now, he'd likely inflicted serious harm to cause such a near-fatal arrest. Too close. Much too close.
Dennor approached, placing a firm hand on Kelan's shoulder. "Easy, Kelan," he said softly, voice both reassuring and grave. "Breathe. It's over. You did what you had to." He looked down and nodded at the still-alive bandit. "And you pulled back. That's what matters."
Kelan drew in a shaky breath and got unsteadily to his feet with Dennor's help. His legs felt weak. He surveyed the scene: the archer Dennor struck was now curled into a fetal position, moaning and clutching his head but alive. The swordsman he had knocked down was trying to crawl away, his sword lost in the tussle. The axe man remained unconscious but breathing. And the spearman lay as if sleeping, heart beating normally now under Kelan's influence.
Dennor quickly moved to collect their weapons, kicking them far out of reach. He pulled a coil of thin rope from the mule's pack. It was stout twine used for tying gear, but it would serve to bind hands. Together, they hastily tied the wrists of each bandit behind their backs, disarming and neutralizing the threat as best as possible. The swordsman weakly protested, but a stern glare from Dennor silenced him. They pulled the bandits together to one side of the road. Dennor's expression was hard, and Kelan realized this was likely not the first time his mentor had dealt with brigands.
"What now?" Kelan managed to ask, voice low. He half-expected Dennor to suggest some grim fate for the robbers after such a brazen attack. His own heart still ached from what he'd almost done.
Dennor took a deep breath, surveying the four tied men. "We leave them," he said quietly. "We're not executioners. But neither can we babysit them. The locals know these parts; maybe someone will find them." He stepped closer to the conscious swordsman, who glared up at them with hatred and a hint of fear. Dennor spoke to him in a cold, clear tone, switching to the local dialect. Kelan only caught pieces, but it sounded like a warning: if they troubled travelers again, next time they might not be left alive. Dennor's normally warm countenance was stern as carved stone.
Under that gaze, the bandit looked away. Perhaps he had heard of mages or now realized what he'd attacked. Certainly after witnessing invisible force and mental attacks, he knew they weren't ordinary wayfarers.
Kelan found his voice softer, almost pleading as he addressed the group, "You could have killed us… and we you. Let this be the end of it." He didn't know if any would heed, but he felt compelled to say it.
One of the men—maybe the archer—gave a faint nod, eyes avoiding Kelan's. The others were silent.
The mule had fortunately not bolted; the faithful creature stood a few yards off, shaken but obedient. Kelan soothed it with gentle strokes and quiet words, and it calmed, nudging his hand. That small gesture of trust from the animal was oddly grounding.
Before leaving, Kelan insisted on one more thing: he retrieved a waterskin and unstoppered it, then brought it to the spearman whose heart he had nearly stopped. He carefully propped the unconscious man's head and trickled a bit of water into his mouth—hopefully to be of use when he awoke. He set the waterskin within reach. Dennor watched but did not interfere; a faint sad smile tugged at his lips.
They departed the site, Dennor urging Kelan to mount the mule for a while since he looked pale. Kelan normally would have protested—he wasn't used to riding and the mule was more for carrying packs—but right now he was shaky enough to accept. He climbed onto the mule's back, and they led the animal on, leaving the disgraced bandits bound amid the heather and stone.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind soughing through the grass and their boots crunching the gravelly soil. Kelan's mind churned with the memory of those frantic moments: the flash of the spear, the surge of power he'd unleashed, the image of the man collapsing. He replayed it, wondering what he could have done differently. Perhaps he could have just shoved that one too, or tried to disarm him telekinetically rather than attack his heart. But everything had happened so fast.
Eventually, Dennor broke the silence. "How are you holding up?" he asked, tone gentle once more. They had entered a patch of sparse woodland again, oak and beech this time. The path sloped upward, and Dennor slowed so the mule wouldn't be strained.
"I'm… I'll be alright," Kelan answered, though he didn't entirely feel it. Honesty compelled him to add, "I nearly killed that man."
Dennor nodded gravely. "Yes. You nearly did. But you pulled back in time. And you saved him." He glanced up at Kelan. "This was your first real fight, wasn't it?"
Kelan let out a shaky breath. "First that wasn't just a practice duel or a tavern scuffle, yes. I've never been truly attacked like that. Never had to hurt someone." He clenched the mule's reins, knuckles white. "When I felt his heart… I— I just reacted. It was so quick, like my fear took over and lashed out for me. It was terrifying."
Dennor placed a hand on the mule's flank, effectively also touching Kelan's foot reassuringly. "The first time is always the hardest, Kelan. The shock of realizing what you can do, what you might do when pushed. It shakes you to the core." He sighed. "I remember the first time I killed, or nearly did. I was not much older than you. Bandits as well, ironically. I lost my temper when my caravan guard friend was cut down and… well, I won't burden you with the details. But it haunted me for a long time."
They continued slowly up the hill as Dennor spoke. Kelan listened intently, surprised that Dennor would share something so personal. "How did you… get past it?" Kelan asked quietly.
"I don't know that one ever completely does," Dennor admitted. "But I came to understand this: power itself isn't evil. Nor is using it to harm, if that harm prevents greater harm. What matters is your intent and your control. You didn't seek those men out to hurt them. They attacked you. You defended us—me, yourself, an innocent mule even," he added with a faint chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "Your intent was protection. Your control… well, that needs refinement, clearly, since you almost overdid it. But this is why we train. So that next time, you measure exactly what force is needed and no more."
Kelan absorbed that. Intent and control. The mantra repeated in his mind. It was similar to things Master Zujan had said, yet now it held far more weight after today's reality. "I wish I could have resolved it without anyone getting hurt," he murmured.
"As do I," Dennor said kindly, "but they gave us no choice. If we'd been ordinary travelers, we might be dead on the roadside. Keep that in mind. We actually likely spared lives—our own certainly, and perhaps those of future victims. Think of the village folk we met. If these bandits waylaid one of them, do you think they'd show mercy? Unlikely."
Kelan recalled the children in the village, the kindly elder Halda. He imagined those brigands attacking a farmer from that community and felt a surge of protective anger. When framed that way, stopping the bandits seemed almost a duty.
They reached the top of the hill, and Kelan dismounted, insisting he was fine to walk again. Truthfully, his strength was returning, and he preferred walking to clear his head. The path was visible winding down through another broad valley ahead, dotted with pockets of forest and meadow. Dennor said their next landmark to aim for was a river crossing by a wooden bridge, which might have an inn or trading post nearby, frequented by both tribespeople and any Imperial merchants daring enough to come this far. That would be a good place to rest come evening.
As they walked, Dennor gently turned conversation back to training. It was his way of helping Kelan process. "Tell me, when you gripped that fellow's heart, what exactly did you do? And how did it feel?"
Kelan winced at the memory but answered, "I… I extended my scan into him, but instead of healing, I sort of seized onto the rhythm of his heartbeat and lungs. I disrupted it—like giving a muscle a confusing signal to make it spasm, but on the scale of the heart. It was disturbingly easy." He looked at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. "It felt hot, and—sharp, if that makes sense. Like twisting a delicate mechanism the wrong way until it almost snapped. I hated it." He paused. "But I was so scared, Master Dennor. He was coming at me with that spear—I reacted before I could think."
Dennor pursed his lips. "You tapped into a purely destructive aspect of your ability, likely one you've never intentionally used. It is disturbingly easy, unfortunately, especially for someone with your talent for the biological side of magic. Healing and harming, as you've now seen, are two faces of the same coin." He picked a stalk of long grass and twirled it pensively. "The fact that it came unbidden in fear means you have the potential, but you lack practice in controlling it. We'll have to train that as well. Not because I want you going around stopping hearts at will," he said with a slight grimace, "but because if—no, when—you face similar danger, you must be able to choose your level of response consciously. Without panic guiding you."
Kelan knew he was right. If today he had chosen a less severe action consciously, perhaps a painful stun instead of a near-killing blow, it would have been better. He had this power whether he liked it or not. Master Zujan had warned him, albeit gently, that he would one day need to accept all aspects of his gift. Healed or hurt by the same hand.
"I will learn it," Kelan said quietly, resolve creeping into his voice as the shock of the encounter slowly hardened into determination. "Not to use it recklessly, but to know it—so it doesn't control me by accident."
Dennor nodded approvingly. "Good. That's the attitude of a responsible mage. And don't think I won't still push your healing skills—there's much more finesse to learn there too. But at least you've experienced the edge of the blade now. It'll make you wiser."
As afternoon wore on, they spoke intermittently, lapsing into thoughtful silence at times. Kelan found himself going over small improvements he could have made in the fight, almost like mentally drilling. It surprised him; a day ago he wouldn't have imagined pondering tactics of conflict. Yet here he was, replaying how to disarm a foe without lethal force. It wasn't that he wanted to become a warrior—far from it—but he began to see Dennor's point: knowledge of destruction was necessary to truly protect and heal in a world where danger lurked.
They reached the wooden bridge by late afternoon. It spanned a rocky stream that gurgled down from northern hills. True to rumor, there was an inn not far off the road—a low stone and timber building with a thatched roof, nestled under towering elm trees. Smoke curled from its chimney and a weather-beaten sign out front depicted a bridge, likely giving the place its name.
Upon approach, they saw a couple of horses tied outside and an ox-cart. The inn served as a waystation for traders and travelers along this route. Kelan felt a sense of relief; after the day's excitement, the prospect of a secure rest under a roof sounded wonderful.
Inside, the common room was modest but welcoming. A burly innkeeper polished a mug while eyeing the newcomers appraisingly. Dennor greeted him in a friendly manner, asking in both Imperial and then the northern tongue about rooms. The innkeeper responded in broken Imperial that they had a room available and space in the stable for the mule. A few patrons at a corner table looked up—two looked to be merchants by their dress, and one a guard with a spear propped nearby—but seeing that Dennor and Kelan were just travel-worn folk, they returned to their quiet conversation.
Soon, Kelan found himself seated at a table near the hearth with a bowl of hot pottage and a slice of fresh brown bread. The stew was thick with barley, root vegetables, and bits of bacon, fragrant with rosemary. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first spoonful warmed him from within, easing knots of stress he'd been carrying. Dennor poured them each a small cup of ale from a jug the innkeeper provided—a light, home-brewed ale that tasted mildly of herbs.
They ate mostly in silence. Words felt unnecessary for a time, as the simple acts of eating and sitting safely were comfort enough. A trio of musicians—likely local farmhands earning extra coin—began to play a gentle tune on lute and flute in the corner, adding a pleasant backdrop of music.
As Kelan mopped up the last of his stew with bread, he glanced to Dennor. The older man was gazing into the fire, a distant look in his eyes as though replaying memories of his own. Perhaps the events had stirred recollections in him too. Sensing Kelan's eyes, Dennor offered a slight smile. "Better?" he asked.
Kelan nodded. "Yes. Thank you—for everything today. I wouldn't be here eating this fine stew if it weren't for you."
Dennor chuckled. "We survived because we worked together. And luck, perhaps." He lifted his ale in a tiny salute, and Kelan did the same.
A comfortable lull passed. Eventually, Dennor pulled out one of the worn books from his satchel and slid it across to Kelan. "Since we have candlelight and a roof, perhaps some reading before bed. This one has a chapter on defensive mental techniques—shields, deflections—that will complement today's lessons."
Kelan accepted the book. Its leather cover was cracked and the pages yellowed. The script was in Imperial, thank goodness, though an archaic dialect. The title read On Mind and Matter: Volume II. He flipped to the indicated chapter: "Forms of Aegis in Psychic Art." The letters swam a bit in the low light, and he blinked away fatigue. He would definitely study it—tomorrow when his mind was fresher.
For now, he closed the book and said, "I will. But I think I need rest more than theory at this moment." He managed a small grin.
"Of course," Dennor said, rising and stretching. "We both do. Let's tend to our beast and then ourselves."
They saw to the mule's comfort in the small stable out back, giving her a measure of oats and fresh water. Kelan stroked her flank, grateful she too had made it through the day unharmed. The mule flicked her ears and crunched contentedly, oblivious now to the earlier danger.
Back inside, they headed to their room—a simple affair with two straw-stuffed beds and a single narrow window shuttered against the evening chill. Kelan washed his face and hands in the basin of cool water left for them, noting faint bruises on his forearms where he'd tensed against the telekinetic recoil and perhaps from scrambling during the fight. They were minor and he let them be; a little soreness would remind him of the lesson.
When he finally lay down, the events of the day still whirled in his mind. In the quiet darkness of the room, he whispered, "Dennor? Are you awake?"
A rustle from the other bed. "Yes, Kelan."
"I just wanted to say… I think I understand much more now what Master Zujan and you have been trying to teach me. About responsibility. I used to think power was straightforward: healing good, hurting bad. But it's… it's more complicated."
Dennor hummed softly in agreement. "The world is painted in shades of grey, my boy. Rarely in black and white. But one thing remains true: you have a good heart. Hold on to that, and you'll navigate those greys just fine."
Kelan let out a breath, feeling some of the guilt lift at those reassuring words. "Good night, Master Dennor."
"Good night, Kelan," came the gentle reply.
Kelan stared at the ceiling's dark outline. He could faintly hear the muffled music from the common room below, and an owl hooting outside. His mind drifted to the faces of the bandits—particularly the one he'd nearly slain. He wondered what choices led them to such a life. Desperation? Cruelty? A mix of both? There was sadness in it. Perhaps, in its own way, his intervention might spur them to rethink their path. He could hope so, at least.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame overthinking. His eyelids grew heavy, and he let them close. The day had tested him harshly, but he had come through it. With each challenge, he was changing—growing, he hoped, into the kind of mage who could truly make a difference. As sleep swept him under, his last conscious thought was a promise to himself: I will master both the gentle hand and the fierce, so that fear never rules me again. In that resolve, hard-won by trial, Chapter 43 of his journey ended, giving way to the quiet redemption of rest.