After Aelar left the house, Elena turned to Icariel with a soft smile, the kind that tried to mask an old sadness. "Sit at the table for a moment," she said. "I'll get you some of Aelar's clothes and something to eat."
"Thank you," Icariel nodded politely, then sat at the long moonwood table—its polished surface still bearing the ghost-heat of family meals and unspoken words.
"I'll be back soon," Elif said, standing up. "I need to go change—wait for me, okay?"
"I will be right here."
He sat alone beneath the glow of the hanging lanterns, their light like dripping honey over carved roots and hollowed bark. The air was still, thick with peace that felt foreign on his skin. It was the kind of peace that made him flinch.
"Really comfy…" he muttered, voice nearly swallowed by the silence. It was the discomfort of being somewhere safe. Somewhere he didn't have to fight to exist.
Soon, Elena returned. "Go change in the room on the left," she said, her tone gentle as falling rain. "Your clothes are in there."
Inside the room, Icariel found a set of black garments folded with care: a long-sleeved shirt that reached his thighs, trousers that slid too far down his legs, and a pair of brown shoes with pointed tips sharp as blades. They belonged to Aelar, and they wore the quiet stiffness of clothes once moved in by war and grace.
After dressing, he stepped out just as Elena approached.
"How do they fit?"
"A bit too big," Icariel admitted, tugging the sleeves. They hung off him like shadows too large to own.
"Hm. I guessed as much," Elena mused. "Aelar is taller… leaner. I'll get better-fitting ones later."
"Thanks," Icariel said with a small smile—one that flickered and died quickly.
They sat at the table. Elif joined them soon after, now wearing a soft green dress embroidered with the elven symbol: a sword without an edge, without a handle. It looked like a wound that forgot how to heal.
Her light steps gave her the air of a wandering spirit—too quiet to be a child, too old in the eyes.
"This food is called Jeprak," Elena said, setting down a large wooden plate of green leaf-wrapped balls. "It'll taste good."
"I remember," Icariel said, grabbing one. "Aelar shared some with me."
They ate in silence. Only the clink of wood and the chew of plantflesh filled the quiet, like nature itself was holding its breath.
Eventually, Icariel leaned back. "I'd eat another if my stomach allowed it."
"Glad you liked it," Elena smiled.
Elif looked up. "Where did Father go?"
"I assume he went to meet His Highness," Elena replied.
Elif's expression changed. Not fear. Not worry. Just a pause, like a thought trying to form and failing.
Soon after, the door creaked open again. Aelar stepped inside, his face shadowed by fatigue—or maybe the weight of thoughts that hadn't finished weighing him down. But when his eyes found his wife and daughter, he smiled. And something human returned to him.
He turned to Icariel. "My wife wasn't too hard on you, was she?"
"Not at all," Icariel said. "The opposite. She really knows how to cook."
Aelar chuckled. "Glad you liked it. Now—wait for me outside. Warm up a bit. I'll remove this armor and join you."
"As you say." Icariel stood and stepped into the air beyond the door.
Outside, the breeze touched his skin like fingers of invisible silk. He drew a slow breath, feeling the rhythm of life in the world's bloodstream.
"The mana here…" he murmured. "It's so calm… and there's just so much of it. They really are blessed."
Then the door opened again. Aelar stepped out, no longer armored. He wore the same black elven clothes—but they obeyed his shape like a second skin.
"You look ridiculous," Aelar said with a grin, eyeing the oversized sleeves and loose pants.
"I feel ridiculous," Icariel answered dryly.
"Cut them."
"…What?"
"Yes. Cut them. Fit them to your size."
"But… I thought I was just borrowing—"
"Hah!" Aelar laughed. "I've got dozens. Tear them up."
So Icariel did. With swift rips and careful adjustments, he shortened the sleeves, tightened the pants. When he moved again, it felt like stepping out of another man's skin.
"Much better. Now I can actually move."
"Good. Now come." Aelar's voice shifted, low and sharp. "It's time to begin your first day of training."
He stood close, eyes narrowing slightly, the weight of a mentor coiling around his words.
"Elif told me you've never been trained before. Not by anyone."
"Yes. No person has trained me," Icariel replied simply.
That was enough. The elves didn't need truth to be spoken—they could smell it in the silence between words. And this one rang clean. Because it was true.
Aelar crossed his arms. "Then you're a true genius," he said, eyes studying Icariel like he might unmake him. "I won't ask how you learned. That belongs to you. But Elif suspects something else. She wondered if you have the Infinity Body. After seeing you myself… I know now."
"You're right. I don't," Icariel said.
"Good." A pause. "You're rare, but not cursed."
Then Aelar's voice shifted again, cold steel hidden in cloth.
"I can teach you many things—combat stance, mana reinforcement, nature spells, healing. But where do you want to begin?"
"Healing," Icariel said without even blinking. "Nothing else."
Aelar stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded. "I won't brag—but I'm one of the best. Healing is the only reason I rose to Warleader. If you want to learn, I'll give you everything."
"I'm thankful," Icariel said softly, the words slipping from him like a vow.
"Show me, then. The spell you used before. Try casting it again."
Without hesitation, Icariel sat, summoned flame into his palm, and let it scorch his skin.
But Aelar's eyes didn't widen at the burn.
They widened at the light that came after.
Icariel pressed his other hand to the wound. He didn't guide the mana—he called it. And from somewhere in the marrow of his soul, the desire to survive burned louder than the fire on his skin.
A soft green glow pulsed from his palm. It shimmered, flickered, then held. When it faded, the burn was gone.
Aelar stared in stunned silence.
"You can cast it at will…" he whispered. "Not like in the forest, where you sacrificed every drop of ambient mana around you—but still… For a human to use a spell like ours… that's not just rare. That's sacred. I guess for that to happen, you must really value your own life."
Icariel opened his eyes slowly. "Above everything," he said.
"That was a basic healing spell," Aelar said. "But the one you used before—that was high-tier. Maybe even top-ranked. I think your survival instinct tore down every barrier. The mana responded not to control, but to need. And it obeyed."
"Maybe," Icariel murmured.
"Since you can already cast it like this," Aelar said, "I've only got one thing left to teach."
Icariel tilted his head slightly. "What is it?"
"The ability to cast while moving. While bleeding. While killing. No calm. No stillness. Just chaos and healing."
"Is… that even possible?"
Aelar smirked. "How do you think I became Warleader? I used to be a lunatic. Heal one wound while giving another. Never stop moving until they stopped breathing."
"And you'll teach me that?" Icariel asked, almost disbelieving.
"It's nothing," Aelar said, "compared to what you did for my daughter."
But then the smirk vanished. Replaced by something older. Colder.
"There's something I need to ask you."
Inside the elven home…
Elena sat at the table, lantern light curling through her silver hair like strands of smoke.
"Elif," she said softly, "why did your father bring that human boy here to live with us?"
Elif frowned. "I don't know, Mother. He just said he wanted to ask Icariel. When we met him, he offered it without hesitation. Maybe… because he saved me?"
"I thought so too," Elena whispered. "But he could've given him a reward. Coins. Tools. Anything. He didn't have to bring him here. Didn't have to speak to him like that. Didn't have to train him. There's something odd here."
Elif smiled faintly. "If it's about being odd—that boy has it all."
Elena's eyes widened, as if something finally clicked.
Back outside…
Icariel stood beneath the weight of Aelar's gaze.
"What is it?" he asked.
Aelar crossed his arms again, looking not at Icariel, but past him—toward a truth he hadn't yet put into words.
"It's been bothering me," he said. "I've never met someone like you. So tell me, Icariel…"
His voice dropped, quiet as a knife before it sinks in.
"How is it possible that you can cast flame, cast healing spells like that… when you don't even possess a mana core or magic circles?"
[End of Chapter 31]