Chapter 9: Magic Isn't Magic

  Raven groaned, wincing as pain flared across his ribs. His entire body ached like he’d been trampled by a damn elephant. Pushing himself up, he slumped against the wall, taking shallow breaths to keep from aggravating his bruised—if not broken—ribs.

  "Fuck… that hurt."

  His thoughts were sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, but something nagged at the edge of his mind—a pull, subtle yet insistent. It wasn’t physical, but something deeper, something lodged within his very being. His Grimoire.

  It called to him.

  With a grimace, Raven lifted his hand, and the book materialized in his palm with a faint pulse of warmth, as if relieved to be acknowledged. He flipped it open, his eyes immediately drawn to the crest.

  The pictograph stared back at him—the simple image of a man walking into a wall.

  Raven frowned. He had dismissed it earlier, but now, something about it gnawed at him. He traced a finger over the design, studying the way the figure leaned forward, arms relaxed, stride confident.

  "Wait…"

  A spark of realization struck like a lightning bolt.

  "He’s not walking into the wall… he’s walking through it."

  The moment the thought clicked, the page turned. On a new page, the pictograph formed at the top, and bold, inky script emerged beneath—as if the book had been waiting for him to understand. On a new page, a pictograph formed at the top, and bold, inky script appeared beneath—as if the book had been waiting for him to understand.

  Skill Acquired: Phase.

  Raven stared. His mind blanked for a long second before his brain caught up.

  "I can do magic, I have magic."

  The words left his lips in a breathless whisper, equal parts wonder and disbelief.

  A scoff echoed through the room, light and mocking, breaking through Raven’s stunned revelation.

  "You can do magic, but you don’t have magic," a musical voice corrected, carrying the distinct air of someone calling out an idiot.

  Raven’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto the source of the voice. Standing a few feet away, leaning against a dusty counter with arms crossed, was a woman unlike any he had ever seen. Her light cyan hair cascaded past her shoulders, catching the dim light in an almost ethereal way. She had an amused smirk, golden eyes studying him as if he were some fascinating experiment that had just yielded unexpected results.

  Raven blinked, his brain catching up a second too late. Where the hell did she come from? He was sure there had been no one in the room when he fell through the roof. His adrenaline-fueled instincts kicked in, his muscles tensing as he shifted to a guarded position.

  "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, wariness creeping into his tone. "And where did you even come from?"

  The woman rolled her eyes, pushing off the counter with lazy grace. "Typical," she muttered. "No thanks, no appreciation, just immediate suspicion. You’re welcome, by the way."

  Raven scowled. "Thanks for what exactly?"

  "For teaching you the difference between having magic and using magic, dumbass."

  Her smirk widened at the twitch in his jaw.

  Uri sighed, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "I suppose I should show some mercy to the clueless," she muttered before gesturing vaguely at the air around them. "Listen up, because I won’t repeat myself. What you’re sensing, that tingling in your skin, the pull in your chest? That’s ether, not magic."

  Raven’s brow furrowed. "Ether? So… I don’t actually have magic?"

  Uri clicked her tongue. "Exactly. Magic is just a word for what happens when you shape ether into something useful. What you just did?" She pointed at the spot where he had fallen through the ceiling. "That wasn’t magic. That was you panicking and accidentally manipulating ether in the most primitive way possible."

  Raven bristled at the smugness in her tone. "So you’re telling me I don’t have magic, but I can do magic? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

  Uri smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Not as dumb as almost getting your skull caved in because you forgot to check what your grimoire actually does before running off into battle." She took a step closer, golden eyes glinting with something between amusement and exasperation. "Your Grimoire represents the way you interact with ether. It gives you access to skills, but it’s still up to you to use them properly."

  Raven’s fingers clenched around his book. "So what, I can just… decide to phase through walls now?"

  "More or less," Uri replied with a shrug. "Assuming you don’t phase yourself straight into solid stone and die like an absolute moron."

  Raven inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing down the frustration bubbling in his chest. He was exhausted, his body ached, and now he had to deal with her? The mysterious, insufferably smug woman who had appeared out of nowhere, talked down to him like he was a child, and acted like he should be grateful for the lecture.

  "Who the hell are you, anyway?" He asked again, jaw tight.

  Uri considered him. She saw a spark—something that reaffirmed her suspicions that he might be worth something. "You can call me Uri. You are?"

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  Raven exhaled sharply, his exhaustion clawing at the edges of his patience. "Raven," he said grudgingly, disliking the way she looked at him with that ever-present air of superiority.

  Uri hummed as if tasting the name. Raven’s lip twitched at the sound—dismissive, like she was already judging him and finding him wanting.. "Well, Raven, it's good to see you’re at least capable of basic introductions."

  Raven barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. As much as he wanted to argue, time was slipping away. A gnawing sense of urgency gripped him—Darryl. He had been unconscious for too long, and Darryl had been left alone in a shop, poisoned and defenceless.

  His breath hitched. Shit.

  "I'm done with this conversation," he said abruptly, pushing himself fully to his feet. Pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it, forcing his body to move. "I have somewhere I need to be."

  Without waiting for a response, he turned and limped his way out of the room, making his way to the staircase leading to the ground floor. He paused only briefly at the doorway, scanning the street below. It was quiet—too quiet. The usual sounds of distant chaos still echoed through the city, but this block seemed oddly abandoned.

  Raven stepped into the doorway. He peered into the alley, eyes scanning for movement, a dull ache in his ribs reminded him just how badly he had been beaten. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his limbs, and though his injuries throbbed with each breath, the pain was different now—less sharp, more of a lingering bruise than the breaks he had initially feared.

  Ignoring the exhaustion weighing down his limbs, Raven pushed forward, forcing himself to move. He focused on one thought—finding Darryl. Ignoring the way his chest ached with each breath and staying low, he slipped out the back entrance of the building, each step measured, purposeful. As he retraced his path through the dimly lit streets, his heart pounded harder with every step, an urgent drumbeat driving him forward.

  Uri followed.

  She didn't speak. She didn’t offer help. She simply watched; her gaze unreadable as she kept pace with him. Raven ignored her, the growing weight in his chest making it hard to focus on anything but reaching Darryl.

  When he finally arrived at the spot, dread settled like ice in his veins.

  Darryl was pale—too pale. Raven’s stomach tightened as he took in the sight, a spike of fear lodging in his chest before he even reached for him. His skin, once weathered and tough, now looked clammy, a sickly sheen of sweat covering his brow. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest slow and uneven. Raven felt his stomach drop as he knelt beside him, his hands gripping his godfather’s shoulders.

  “Darryl?” he called, shaking him lightly. “Hey—wake up, old man. Come on.”

  No response.

  Frantic, he pulled at the bandage wrapped around Darryl’s wound. The fabric was damp with sweat and streaked with darkened blood, but it wasn’t the wound itself that made Raven’s blood run cold—it was the lines.

  Black, spidering veins had crept further across Darryl’s chest, now spreading past his collarbone, inching toward his heart.

  “No, no, no,” Raven muttered, pressing his fingers against Darryl’s neck, searching for a pulse. It was faint—barely there—but it was still beating. “You’re not dying. You’re not dying.”

  A whisper, almost too quiet to catch, slipped from behind him.

  “Thrak venom.”

  Raven’s head snapped around. His sharp gaze locked onto Uri, who was watching Darryl with an expression he couldn’t quite place—something between detachment and reluctant understanding.

  “What did you just say?” he demanded, voice harsh.

  Uri hesitated, and for the first time since meeting her, Raven saw a flicker of conflict cross her golden eyes.

  She exhaled through her nose, then repeated, “Thrak venom.”

  His gut twisted. “The hell is a Thrak?”

  “A type of spider,” Uri said, her voice almost too casual. “Nasty little things. Their venom doesn’t kill instantly—it weakens, cripples. If left untreated, the heart fails within a day.”

  A day?

  Raven’s vision blurred at the edges, a deep, suffocating panic sinking its claws into his chest. “You knew,” he snarled, fists clenching. “You knew what was happening to him, and you said nothing?”

  Uri’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze shifting away.

  Raven’s anger exploded. “You—you know how to fix this, don’t you? There’s a cure, right? Right?!”

  Silence.

  Uri didn’t move, didn’t flinch. But she didn’t answer, either.

  That was answer enough.

  Raven took a step toward her, his whole body shaking with fury. “If you know how to help him and you’re just choosing not to—”

  “I can’t help him.”

  Her words cut through his rage like a blade. The way she said it—it wasn’t indifference. It was something heavier. Final.

  Raven’s breath hitched. "Why?"

  Uri’s expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze darkened. “I just can't.”

  She was forbidden, she had always been forbidden.

  His fists clenched. “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s the truth,” she said quietly.

  Raven didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Darryl was dying in front of him, and this bitch—this woman who knew what was happening—was just standing there, doing nothing.

  Fury crackled like wildfire in his chest. It burned hot and bright, but beneath the rage, helplessness festered—a cruel, silent truth he couldn’t punch, shoot, or scream away. “Then what good are you?” he spat. “What’s the point of you being here if you won’t do anything?”

  Uri looked away.

  Raven saw the guilt in her expression.

  And that was what made it worse.

  Because she wanted to help.

  But she wouldn’t.

  His nails dug into his palms, breath coming in sharp bursts. The world felt too small, too tight—like it was closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. His entire body trembled with rage, with helplessness, with something deeper, something colder.

  A sound broke through the fog of his fury.

  A breath.

  A final, shallow inhale.

  Then—nothing.

  Raven turned sharply, his heart plummeting into his stomach.

  Darryl’s chest had stilled.

  His lips parted, as if he were about to say something—but no sound came.

  No breath.

  No movement.

  Just silence.

  The world froze, the sounds outside seeming to fade for a moment.

  Something inside Raven cracked, then shattered.

  He reached forward, shaking Darryl’s shoulder. “Darryl?” His voice was hoarse, broken. “Come on, old man—wake up. Please.”

  Nothing.

  The void that had opened inside of him yawned wider, threatening to consume everything.

  Raven’s breathing was shallow, uneven. His hands felt numb. His chest felt hollow.

  Something had died in that moment.

  And it wasn’t just Darryl.

  Uri watched in silence.

  Her golden eyes locked onto the boy kneeling beside the fallen man.

  Something shifted in him. She had seen many things in her existence, had witnessed countless moments of loss, grief, and suffering—but what she saw in Raven was different. It wasn’t just the weight of despair that settled in his shoulders, nor was it the raw, aching pain that contorted his face. No, it was something deeper, something colder.

  The death of something innocent.

  A stillness formed in his soul, a chilling, hollow emptiness that even she, an angel who had spent centuries observing, felt uneasy witnessing. She had suspected from the moment she laid eyes on him that he was different. That he could be guided onto the path. That perhaps, just perhaps, he could be what her god had sought all along.

  But in this moment, she feared.

  She feared that this was the moment where he would stray.

  Where he would step away from the path entirely.

  She had seen men break before, had witnessed countless mortals crumble under grief. But this... this was different. The air around him felt... wrong. A shift. A fracture. And though she had done nothing to cause it, a weight settled in her chest, whispering that she had.

  Guilt coiled in her stomach like a snake.

  Had her presence caused this? Had her refusal to act pushed him over the edge?

  She wanted to tell him that she hadn’t chosen to let Darryl die—that it wasn’t indifference, but powerlessness that bound her.

  But what good would that do?

  Uri tightened her grip around her arms, forcing her expression into something neutral. She could do nothing now but watch—and hope that his soul would recover before it became tarnished forever.