Chapter 25: The Things That Begin to Mend
The healer did not ask if it was true.
The moment Seraphina Valecrest said the words, Mirelle felt it in her bones.
"He has awakened aura."
For a fraction of a second, Mirelle's mind rejected the sentence outright. Not because it was impossible—but because of when it had happened. Aura did not awaken in bodies that were still broken. It did not form while muscles were torn and bones ground against one another. A core required balance, stability, a body capable of holding power without tearing itself apart.
Aren had none of those things.
And yet—
Mirelle inhaled slowly, letting her own senses sharpen.
There it was.
Faint. Unstable. Barely holding together.
Aura.
Low-core.
Newborn.
Her breath left her in a sharp exhale.
"…where is he?" she asked.
Seraphina pointed toward the medical tents. "Unconscious. Alive."
That was all the confirmation Mirelle needed.
She turned and ran.
Snow sprayed beneath her boots as she cut through the camp, cloak snapping behind her. Soldiers barely had time to step aside as she passed, her expression focused, jaw set hard.
"Healing team!" she shouted. "Move!"
Two assistants scrambled after her as she barked orders without slowing.
"Hot water, constantly refreshed."
"Bring the silver resonance needles, not the iron ones."
"And find the stabilizing salves—the thick ones, not the fast-acting paste. If they're frozen, melt them slowly."
She reached the tent and shoved inside without ceremony.
Aren lay where he had been placed.
Still.
Wrapped in layers of cloth and padding, chest rising and falling shallowly. His face was pale, lips cracked, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. Bandages covered most of his torso, tight enough that Mirelle could already see swelling pressing against them.
She stopped just inside the entrance.
And listened.
Not with her ears.
With her aura.
The faintest pulse answered her attention.
Irregular.
Unstable.
But there.
Her hands tightened slowly.
"…you absolute fool," she murmured, not in anger, but in disbelief.
She crossed the tent and pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was stronger than the night before, but uneven. She moved to his neck, then hovered her hand just above his chest.
There.
The core.
Barely formed, trembling like a candle flame in wind.
If left alone, it would burn itself out.
Mirelle straightened and turned to her assistants.
"Two days," she said firmly. "That's how long it will take."
One assistant swallowed. "Two… on his own?"
"No," Mirelle replied immediately. "On his own, he'd tear himself apart trying to heal too fast."
She rolled up her sleeves, exposing forearms marked with old scars.
"But with help," she continued, voice steady, "he'll live."
She took a seat beside Aren and placed her hands carefully along his sides, fingers spread to avoid pressure on broken ribs.
Then she began.
---
Healing an aura user was not a matter of pouring power into them.
That was how you killed people.
Aura amplified everything—recovery, pain, exhaustion. If guided poorly, it accelerated damage just as easily as healing.
Mirelle worked slowly, coaxing Aren's aura into motion rather than forcing it. She used her own aura sparingly, threading it into his system in thin, controlled strands, reinforcing damaged pathways and smoothing jagged flows.
Her breathing slowed as she worked, each cycle measured.
Aren stirred faintly, brow tightening, lips parting as a low sound escaped his throat. Pain flared through his system as bones shifted microscopically, muscles knitting together under pressure they were not yet ready for.
"Easy," Mirelle murmured. "You don't get to rush anymore."
She adjusted immediately, easing the flow, letting his body catch up.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Outside, the camp lived—orders given, fires tended, soldiers resting—but inside the tent, time became breath and pulse.
After the first hour, sweat dampened Mirelle's collar.
After the second, her hands trembled.
She paused frequently, letting Aren's core stabilize before continuing. Every correction required attention. Every mistake would echo through his body.
Aren groaned once, fingers curling weakly as pain rippled through him.
Mirelle waited it out.
Night fell.
She did not stop.
She slept in short bursts, slumped against a crate, waking every time his aura wavered too sharply. Each time, she corrected—never pushing, never pulling, only guiding.
By dawn, his breathing had deepened.
By midday, the erratic tremor in his core smoothed into a steadier rhythm.
By the second night, color returned to his face.
Mirelle leaned back at last, exhaustion crashing into her all at once.
"…you're going to be trouble," she told the unconscious man quietly. "I can feel it."
---
Aren woke slowly.
Not in pain.
Not in panic.
Just… aware.
The first thing he noticed was warmth.
The second was weight—bandages, blankets, the dull ache of a body that had been broken and stitched back together piece by piece.
He opened his eyes.
Light filtered through the tent fabric, steady and warm. His chest rose without sharp agony. His fingers moved when he told them to.
Alive.
"…you're awake."
Rovan's voice was close.
Too close.
Before Aren could respond, the tent flap was pulled aside and suddenly the space was filled with people.
Corin's grin was wide enough to hurt.
Lethan laughed, sharp and unrestrained.
Someone clapped Aren's shoulder and immediately apologized when he flinched.
"You look like hell," Corin said cheerfully.
"That's improvement," Lethan added.
Aren swallowed. His throat was dry. "You're… loud."
That earned laughter.
They stayed longer than they should have.
They told him everything slowly, carefully, filling in gaps he hadn't known existed. About the enemy commander. About Seraphina's red aura. About the clash that shattered the field. About the victory that followed.
Aren listened without interrupting.
When they finished, Rovan cleared his throat.
"You need rest," he said. "Actual rest."
One by one, they left, smiles lingering even as they forced themselves away.
The tent grew quiet again.
Later, the flap shifted once more.
Seraphina entered.
No armor.
No helmet.
She studied Aren carefully, gaze sharp but… different.
"You're awake," she said.
"Yes."
"You awakened aura," she continued.
"So I've been told."
"You shouldn't have," she said. "Not like that."
Aren exhaled slowly. "I didn't plan it."
Silence stretched.
"You did well," Seraphina said at last.
The words landed heavier than any praise.
She left shortly after.
Aren lay back.
Then the system surfaced.
[Congratulations to the Host.]
[Condition Fulfilled: Aura User (Low-Core)]
[Reward Granted.]
[Exclusive Breathing Technique Acquired.]
[Name: Deep Meridian Circulation]
[Effect: Optimized Mana Intake. Improved Core Stability.]
Another notification followed.
[Favorability Increased.]
Aren closed his eyes.
He was alive.
He was healing.
And the war was not finished.
But for the first time—
He felt ready to continue.