Maybe… if I sleep, I’ll wake up from this dream.

  The thought felt thin even as it formed, but exhaustion weighed heavily on the body. I let my eyes close, keeping my breathing slow and shallow.

  Someone murmured softly near the bed.

  “He’s exhausted.”

  “Let him rest.”

  Footsteps moved away. The presence in the room thinned, leaving only the quiet and the steady pressure in my chest.

  I didn’t fall asleep right away.

  When I was certain I was alone, I opened my eyes.

  The room hadn’t changed. White stone walls traced with gold, tall windows half-veiled by pale curtains. Light spilled across the floor in soft bands. Everything was too real to dismiss.

  The pressure in my chest remained—but it was different now. No longer chaotic. No longer tearing outward.

  Contained.

  Voices drifted in from beyond the door. Low. Careful.

  “…the mana fluctuations have stopped.”

  “Stopped?”

  “Not stabilized. Contained.”

  A pause followed. Long enough to make the air feel heavier.

  “That shouldn’t—”

  The rest was swallowed by silence.

  I stayed still, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t meant for me. Not yet.

  Eventually, the voices faded. The corridor returned to quiet.

  Exhaustion crept in again, deeper this time. I hadn’t meant to let go—but my thoughts dulled, edges softening, and sleep claimed me without ceremony.

  —

  The Duke’s Office

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  The duke’s office was silent save for the low crackle of the hearth.

  “If it were truly that condition,” the physician said, hands folded, “the boy would not be alive.”

  The duke did not respond at once. His gaze remained fixed on the window.

  “There are no survivors,” the physician continued. “None in any recorded case.”

  The duke finally spoke. “Then this is not that.”

  A pause.

  “It does not fit,” the physician said carefully.

  “Good,” the duke replied. “Because if it were, this matter would never stay contained.”

  “How shall it be recorded?”

  “As a severe instability. Nothing more.”

  —

  I woke to warmth.

  A hand rested lightly against my hair, fingers moving with careful familiarity. The scent in the air was faint and floral, comforting in a way that made my chest tighten.

  I opened my eyes.

  A woman sat beside the bed, her posture composed, her expression carefully calm. Her eyes, however, betrayed her—red-rimmed, shadowed with days of worry she hadn’t allowed herself to show.

  “You’re awake,” she said softly.

  Recognition came without effort.

  Mother.

  Someone shifted near the foot of the bed.

  A boy stood there, a head taller than me, posture stiff as if unsure whether he was allowed to move. His ash-silver hair caught the light faintly, a shade darker than my own. He watched me the way one might watch something fragile.

  “You scared everyone,” he said. His voice didn’t waver, but his hands were clenched at his sides.

  “I know,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”

  My mother’s fingers tightened slightly in my hair.

  “I know,” she said. “You don’t have to explain anything right now. You just need to rest.”

  “You’re not allowed to disappear again,” my brother added.

  It wasn’t a joke. It sounded like a rule.

  I nodded once. “I won’t.”

  Not long after, a servant entered with a covered tray. The smell reached me before the lid was lifted—warm, simple food.Nothing heavy.

  I expected nausea.

  It didn’t come.

  I ate slowly at first, waiting for pain that never arrived. My mother didn’t look away until I swallowed. Only then did her shoulders ease, just slightly.

  “You couldn’t finish half a bowl before,” my brother said.

  He wasn’t accusing. Just observing.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” I replied.

  That was the truth.

  The tray was taken away soon after. Quiet returned, but it no longer felt empty.

  The physician arrived before the light outside had fully shifted. He didn’t announce himself, simply stepped into the room with the assurance of someone who had already memorized it.

  “Any pain?” he asked.

  “No,” I said after a moment. “Just pressure.”

  He nodded and reached out. Mana brushed against me—precise, restrained. I felt it move through me, tracing paths that should have been damaged, then pause.

  The physician withdrew his hand.

  He said nothing.

  But his brows remained faintly drawn, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.

  Hours passed that way.

  Water. Broth. Then something heavier again. Each time, my body accepted it without protest. The pressure in my chest eased gradually, receding into something distant enough to ignore.

  By the time night settled over the manor, I was no longer confined to the bed.

  I stood.

  Then took a step.

  Then another.

  There was no sharp pain. No dizziness. The pressure lingered, but it no longer ruled me.

  A servant hovered near the door. The physician watched in silence. My mother said nothing at all.

  I walked the length of the room on my own.

  Whatever had once been breaking this body had stopped.

  I understood that my recovery wasn’t a miracle.

  It was a deviation.