Chapter 3

When Caden finally woke, the world was still white with pain. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — smooth plaster arched with lanternlight instead of sky. His body felt heavy, stiff, and swaddled in a dull throb that ran from shoulder to hip. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, until a voice cut through the haze.

“You’re awake,” a voice said.

She was curled sideways on the next bed over, silver hair mussed and cloak bundled beneath her head like a pillow. A book sat open on her stomach, though she clearly hadn’t been reading it. When she saw his eyes open, she stretched lazily, then slipped off the mattress with practiced ease, moving to a cabinet at the foot of the infirmary. Caden stared at her beauty until he snapped back and blushed as he looked at the window.

This was his muse, the one who had pulled him back from desperation and inspired him to fight back against fate.

"You're—um..." Caden scrambled his memory and sulked as he had pathetically forgotten his muse's name.

"Zoelle... I'm Zoelle Meinhart," she said with a giggle, "You have to remember names if you're to graduate here."

"Tell me about it," he said as he budged on the bed.

Zoelle giggled, "Given the fact that you got humbled by the prince himself, it seems to be a thing with you."

"That was an uncaring teacher's fault."

"Eterport?" Zoelle said.

"So he's famous?"

"Um, kind of. I get he's kind of aloof—"

"Aloof, you say?" Caden said, eyes frowning, "More like absent-minded."

"On the bright side, you'll have a lot of freedom in class."

"Ok..." he said.  

Caden tried to push himself upright, but a sharp stab in his ribs made him wince. The movement earned a frown from her.

“Don’t strain yourself,” she said matter-of-factly, already rummaging through glass vials and linen wraps. “You took quite a thrashing. If you twist the wrong way, you’ll undo the stitches.”

Caden blinked. “Stitches?”

“Mm-hm. The prince didn’t hold back.” She returned with a small tray of supplies — rolls of bandage, a pot of salve, and a pair of gleaming scissors. Setting them down on a nearby stool, she gave him a look that was both gentle and firm. “Shirt off. I need to change the wrappings.”

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Wait, who are you?"

"Ow. Short-term memory, the hit was worse than I thought," she said, dismayed.

"I meant to ask if you worked here."

"Oh no, this is the place where I can sleep as much as I want," she said as she placed her tools on the bedside table. "A few weeks around here observing the doctor earned me some medical knowledge. I should have the skills of a nurse now."

"A few weeks?!"

"What can I say? I've got steady hands," she smiled, "Now, off with your shirt!"

"Wait, ack!" he complained as his movements were too slow to stop her.

"Now now, nothing personal... what's your name?" she asked as she eyed his wounds and bruises.

"Caden... Caden Tassad."

"Where are you from, Caden?" Zoelle's eyes were now on picking the right materials.

"Um... Western provinces..."

"Oooh, that's Patrician territory, so your parents like ports and trade a lot."

"That's... a general misconception. I come from the grasslands."

"I come from the other side of the realm, where nobles call themselves Counts and the cold is wet and muddy."

"Oh?"

"Yep... you see? We're friends now, so I can treat you like a friend."

"Do friends see each other naked? Ack! Watch it!"

"Don't move, let me do this," she said, disregarding his question.

Heat rushed to Caden’s face. His body felt like nothing more than pale skin stretched over fragile bones, painted with bruises and burns. To be seen like this — by his muse of all people — was almost worse than the pain.

With the detached focus of someone who’d done this a hundred times, she slid the fabric over his shoulders and set to work. Her hands were deft, brushing cool salve across angry welts, winding fresh linen around his ribs with a snug pull. She hummed softly as she worked, not quite a song, more the absent tune of concentration.

Caden clenched his jaw, half from the sting of the medicine, half from the embarrassment prickling at his ears. Every touch felt impossibly close, every shift of her breath reminding him she was there, tending to him as if he were a helpless child.

“Relax,” she said at last, catching his blush with a sideways smile. “I’ve patched up worse. You’ll live.”

"O-ok..." Caden exhaled slowly, trying not to flinch as her fingers wound the bandage tighter around his ribs. 

Her touch was efficient, not cruel—gentle in its own way, though the sting of salve and cloth pressed against bruised flesh made his nerves sing. He tried to focus on anything but the closeness, his gaze drifting to the neat pile of notebooks stacked beside her bed, their spines cracked and ink bleeding at the edges.

“You sleep here often?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Zoelle chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, um, more than I should admit. When you spend nights chasing ideas, the infirmary’s beds become… convenient during the day.” She patted the mattress she had risen from, the sheets rumpled and smelling faintly of herbs and ink. “Besides, the doc knows me. I help out when she's too busy. She... doesn't mind if I collapse here now and then.”

“You mean you work all night? Is the second grade that hard?”

“It's hard, but not that hard... No, I do... research, experiments—call it a hobby.” She shrugged, moving to fetch another roll of gauze. “Coffee keeps me vertical. Naps during the day make up the difference. Mostly.”

"And... what are you experimenting on?"

Her tone turned thoughtful, more serious as she unwrapped the gauze. “I’m trying to prove mana can be stored in devices. Not in the way enchantments do—but raw magic, contained and administered with a simple trigger. Imagine it: a soldier without casting talent could carry a vial and release healing magic at the flip of a switch. Or a patient too weak to channel could still receive treatment.”

Her eyes gleamed with quiet fire. “Some people say it's crazy. Dangerous. I don’t care if others think it’s reckless. If I can make it work, it could save lives... Sorry, I got carried away.”

Caden listened, his heart tightening at the conviction in her words. She was only a second-year, yet she spoke with the weight of someone shouldering a burden far greater than grades or accolades. Compared to his flailing attempts to even stand in a fight, she seemed radiant—bruised by exhaustion but still burning brighter than he ever had.

Before he could answer, the door creaked open.

“Still alive, I see,” came a deep, familiar voice.

Gael strode in, towering as always, with Zara trailing behind, her arms folded and expression sharp as a blade.

Caden stiffened. “What are you two doing here?”

“Checking if you still breathe, you're welcome by the way. Gael carried you here from the training grounds.” Zara said coolly before turning to Zoelle, "Are you... You're not a nurse."

"Zoelle Meinhard, second year," she said, "I assist the doctor here from time to time."

"Forgive my manners!" Zara said, "Zara Chaulet, first year."

"You're good, nice to meet you."

Caden turned to Gael, "Thank you."

"Nah, dude, you're as light as a feather, it felt like carrying my bag of books."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Uh, no, not really... dude, you're in trouble."

“We're delivering a warning," Zara said, concerned, "You’ve managed to earn the prince’s animosity, to say the least. Not many humiliate him in front of a crowd and walk away without consequence." 

"Humiliate him?" Caden said angrily, "He sent me to the infirmary with terrible burns while he got a numb arm!"

"Yeah, but, dude, seriously, he's the prince. You kind of caught him off guard with that sneaky move of yours."

"It's not what you did as much as when and where you did it," Zara explained, "The whole classroom saw the duel, and that included Valery Sarashen.”

"Ah yes, they don't seem to be on good terms," Caden said.

"You know nothing, Tassad," Zoelle remarked as she threw away stained leather.

Zara's tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Caden... The class has already begun to split. On one side, the prince. On the other, the duchess. Most won’t align yet, but…” Her eyes narrowed.

“But?” Caden echoed, intrigued.

"It's a matter of time," Zoelle said somberly. "Everyone needs to pick a side sooner or later."

“Yes, unfortunately, so that means that causing the Prince's ire means gaining favor with the Duchess. I would capitalize on gaining some protection from her or else... I can't picture your first year well with the Prince breathing on your neck...” 

Zara turned after saying that, already heading for the door. Gael patted him—half-encouragement, half-punishment—and followed. “She’s right. Abelard won’t forget today."

Caden swallowed hard, the weight of their words settling on him. He glanced toward Zoelle, who had gone quiet, watching. Her conviction lingered in his mind—her willingness to burn herself down for something greater. He couldn’t afford to keep staggering forward as he was.

“…Gael,” he said finally, forcing the words through cracked lips, “train me.”

The giant blinked, then barked a short laugh. “Train you? Dude, your body will never look like mine. You’d snap in half under my weights.”

“I don’t need to look like you,” Caden said, meeting his eyes. “I just need to keep up with the strongest. With people like you... You know?”

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Gael’s grin split wide, white teeth flashing as he flexed an arm like a mountain of corded steel. “Now that, I can respect! Fine! You won't regret asking!”

Zara rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. I’ll be sure to notify the infirmary to keep a bed ready.” 

The infirmary grew quiet again.

Zoelle resumed her work, retying the last knot in his bandages. “You certainly don’t make your life easier, do you?” she murmured, though her smile betrayed amusement.

“I wish it were intentional, at least. Unfortunately, the game was rigged from the start,” he said, dismayed. 

"Yeah... It does seem to be that way, but why so gloomy?"

"I wish I had more time... I could do many things..." 

Zoelle looked at him, both confused but at the same, strangely relating to that. She checked his temperature and then stood in front of him, considering him.

"W-well, just as Miss Chaulet said, I'll have a bed ready for you, so feel free to come whenever you're injured or just too tired of being harassed by the Prince's followers, because believe me, he'll have followers."

"S-sure, I appreciate that." Caden said, blushing at Zoelle's tender eyes and smile.

Caden managed a laugh, weak but genuine. Then, with sudden clarity, he looked at her—not just at her diligence, her tired eyes, her ink-stained fingers, but at the warmth that seemed to linger beneath all of it.

“Zoelle,” he said, more firmly this time. “Would you let me help you? With your research, I mean. Why not show me what you’re working on? You know? When my lightning magic activates—it reacts strangely. Maybe it could be useful?”

Her hands stilled, surprise flashing across her features.

“…You want to be my junior?” she asked at last, skeptical but not dismissive.

Caden nodded. “If it means surviving the next six months, then yes. But more than that—I want to see what you’ll create.”

For the first time, she didn’t answer right away. She only studied him, and though her life was unbalanced, sleepless, tethered to fragile hopes—her presence was undeniably radiant.

Caden felt the heat rise in his cheeks again.

Zoelle tilted her head, the faintest trace of a smile lingering before it faded. “No,” she said simply, binding the last strip of cloth against his ribs.

Caden blinked. “No?”

“You’d just get in the way.” She stood and began gathering her notebooks into a neat stack, her motions brisk, her tone clinical. “You don’t have the grounding. You don’t have the patience. And—” she shot him a sidelong glance, “you don’t have the strength. You barely survived a training spar. I don’t need another body on my conscience when one of my devices misfires.”

Her dismissal stung more than Abelard’s strikes had.

He swallowed, the words pressing at his chest like thorns. “You don’t understand. I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. Talking wouldn’t change her mind. What would he say? The truth? 

So instead, he reached for the nearest thing at hand: a spoon resting on the tray of salves and tinctures. He held it flat in his palm, closed his eyes, and let his breath slow.

The familiar tingling rose along his skin, faint arcs racing across his knuckles. The spoon rattled faintly against his hand as a crackle of blue light danced along its surface. Not fire. Not heat. Just charge—clinging to the metal, humming softly, a spark that lingered even after he opened his eyes.

Zoelle froze mid-step.

Caden held it out to her, the spoon buzzing faintly with static. “You said you wanted to store mana. Well, my lightning—” he gave a thin smile, “—it doesn’t fade when I stop casting.”

For a heartbeat, only silence filled the infirmary. Then, carefully, Zoelle set down her books and plucked the spoon from his hand. The static nipped at her fingers, raising the fine hairs along her arm and tensing her silver hair up in the air.

“…Impossible,” she muttered, eyes narrowing as she turned the spoon over. The sparks sputtered, then steadied, clinging to the curve of steel like it had a will of its own. “Mana dissipates once it’s released. It’s law. And yet…”

Her lips parted, caught between disbelief and wonder. Then her gaze snapped back to him, sharp and calculating.

“You’re serious about this? You’d work? You’d follow instructions, even the dull ones?”

“Yes,” Caden said without hesitation.

She studied him for another long moment, then let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Fine. You can start today. Don’t regret it when you’re fetching reagents and scrubbing glassware until your fingers ache.”

Caden smiled despite himself, wincing as the bandages tugged at his ribs. “If that’s the price, I’ll pay it.”

Zoelle placed the spoon down gingerly, the static still crawling faintly over its surface. Then she pushed her hair back and picked up her stack of notebooks again.

“Tomorrow evening, come to Lab Six in the east wing. Don’t be late. And don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

Caden nodded, determination flickering in his chest like a kindled flame.

As she turned to leave, Zoelle and Caden muttered to themselves, “If this works, then maybe… maybe six months won’t be wasted after all.”

"What?" he said.

"What?" she said.

They looked away and just pretended nothing happened.