Seren barrels down the corridor mid-thought, half praying, half cursing, while the small boy in her arms clings to breath like it’s some stubborn, thinning thread. Too light. Far too light. He feels as if someone already scooped out half his spirit and left only this fragile outline behind. Maybe six years old. Maybe younger. Hard to tell when fever blurs every edge.

  She keeps telling herself he’s still here. Still fighting. But each shaky rise of his ribs makes her wonder if she’s lying to herself again.

  The acolytes draw back as she passes, a ripple of robes and bowed heads. Nobody looks up. Typical. They behave as if eye contact might crack the porcelain quiet baked into these halls. It irritates her, how they hate this beautiful stillness, yet she moves faster, boots echoing as she is the one to break it. The boy’s mother scrambles at her side, breath hitching, muttering broken prayers that collapse into dry little gasps. Seren doesn’t blame her. If she were in that woman’s skin, she’d be doing the same.

  Morning light slants through the stained glass in those dramatic, cathedral-coloured stripes, amber here, a bruised purple there, creeping over Seren’s sleeves like the corridor’s trying to paint her. The boy burns against her chest, heat leaking through cloth. The quiet is stifling today, almost performative, like the building wants to insist nothing catastrophic ever happens inside it.

  By the time they reach the infirmary, her pulse is a drum. She sets him down on the narrow cot, the linen crackling like old paper. The boy’s chest flutters in uneven jolts, ribs jutting sharp under skin far too thin. Rows of empty beds glow under the sconce-light, steady flames, patient, maddeningly calm. She needs anything but calm.

  The mother’s voice splinters. “Please… please, he—"

  Seren raises a hand to stop her. "I’ll do everything I can," she says, and she means it, even if the words feel small compared to the weight in her gut.

  She kneels. Palms pressing to the boy’s burning chest, feeling each rattling rasp like a frayed piece of cloth scraping against stone. Already she’s diving inward, chasing the thing she knows better than her own heartbeat.

  And there it is. The flame, her Soul Fire, stirs the moment she calls to it, as familiar as an old friend who never bothers knocking. It sits deep behind her ribs, a pulse of heat that tightens when she exhales. She draws it downward, threading it through her arms, coaxing the current until it steadies into something sharp enough to matter, strong enough to reach him.

  She imagines clear air , crisp, almost cold , sweeping through his tiny lungs, sweeping out whatever darkness tried to settle there. Guiding her magic to find the purpose she needs for it and lets that image pull the last threads of her flame into something gentler, steadier.

  She is already mid-spell before she realises it. A shimmer loosens between her fingers, a quiet blue glint that reminds her of moonlight sliding over a pond. She urges it out slowly, almost shyly.

  The moment it touches the boy, she feels it drag her inward. She follows the magic as if she is threading herself through the narrow weave of a torn blanket. Fever everywhere. Heavy stuff that clings the way wet wool clings, all snarled around his breath and muddied pulse. She pushes against it. Little by little. Burning away each foul knot while it drags at her, as though her own ribs have to carry the weight of every strand she clears.

  The mess only gets worse as she digs in. Finding more and more of the sickness and begins to come up against how much power she can wield. Fatigue setting in.

  It clamps the tightest around his lungs. A thick knot that refuses to shift no matter how carefully she feeds the flame into it. Her focus slips, just a fraction, like stitching coming loose under fingers gone cold from the effort. The boy’s chest jerks. Then locks. A horrible wet sound rattles out of him and his pulse thins under her palms until it is almost nothing at all.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She pushes harder. Past the safe boundaries they taught novices to keep. Past the sensible limits. Suddenly, from somewhere outside herself, heat floods her arms and it feels like someone has shoved fire directly into her bones, bright enough that the light leaking between her fingers shocks even her. The knot fights her, bucking back so fiercely she nearly loses her centre. She grits her teeth. Sends more. All of it if needed. Each stubborn strand finally begins to break under her, and even though her chest feels squeezed by invisible iron and her skull hums with white fire, she keeps going. “Come on. Breathe. Just breathe” She mumbles under her breath.

  The fever seems to shriek as it gives way. His chest heaves once, again, and the knot finally snaps apart.

  She does not pull back immediately. She reins the fire in and lets softer warmth spill out behind it, a kind of steady glow that patches what the sickness tore open. She imagines clear air easing into his lungs, skin taking on colour instead of that awful grey. Her whole body aches now, like she has run uphill for hours, but she steadies her breathing anyway, grounding him with it.

  For a moment, she just listens. Waiting. Waiting too hard. Her own heartbeat is clamoring in her ears, stomping over the quiet of the infirmary like a clumsy giant.

  Then , there. A shudder. The boy’s chest gives a tiny, almost grudging rise, like he’s remembering how to breathe after forgetting for far too long. Seren’s breath stumbles in relief, tripping over itself. She presses her palm lightly to his sternum, feeling the faint, wavering thrum of life push back.

  It’s small. Fragile. But it’s back.

  The mother chokes on a sob behind her , the kind that sounds both grateful and terrified in the same breath , but Seren can’t turn around yet. Not until she knows the flame inside her isn’t going to lash out again. It’s still buzzing along her arms, too wild at the edges, like an untethered storm waiting for an excuse.

  She exhales slowly, grounding herself on the feel of the boy’s pulse. "Easy," she murmurs, though she isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or the fire or herself. Maybe all three , doesn’t really matter.

  The last of the heat drains from her hands, leaving her fingers tingling, almost numb. She leans back on her heels, shoulders sagging before she can stop them. Her hair, damp with sweat, clings to her temples. Her ribs feel like they’ve been beaten with an iron rod from the inside.

  But the boy breathes.

  That’s enough.

  She risks a glance at the mother, who’s collapsed against the foot of the cot, hands covering her mouth as if she’s afraid any sound might undo the moment. Seren doesn’t blame her; she feels the same , like the slightest shift might send the world careening in the wrong direction.

  “It’s… holding,” Seren manages, though the words come out uneven, scratchy. "He’s not out of danger yet, but he’s fighting again. He’s, he’s alive."

  The mother nods, a frantic little movement. Tears spilling down her face.

  Seren wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her limbs shake. She pretends not to notice.

  Because something is off. Deep in her chest, where the flame usually settles after a healing, there’s a pressure , too hot, too restless. Like embers that refuse to dim.

  She frowns, laying a steadying hand against her ribs. It’s probably nothing. Probably just the strain.

  Still… it lingers.

  And she can’t shake the feeling that the flame saw something inside the boy , something that angered it , it is not the first time she has faced a sickness like this, though not as bad.

  Her own breathing steadies the flame. In. Out. The Soul Fire hums in time with her pulse, calming, shrinking back into its quiet place.

  Seren pushes herself upright, brushing her palms on her robe out of habit more than anything. Her knees stiffen, muttering complaints she chooses to ignore. “He’ll sleep now,” she says, voice steady but thin around the edges. “The worst has passed. He’ll need food. Rest. Time. But he is alive and will make a full recovery.”

  The mother nods so hard it looks painful. “Thank you,” she whispers, drowning in it.

  Seren tries for a smile, tries, but it lands crooked, hollow, nowhere near her eyes. She turns before the gratitude can anchor itself to her shoulders. Before it can add its weight to the rest she already carries.

  Another miracle wearing my face, she thinks, but never truly mine. Still… the boy breathes. And for today, that’s enough.