Neutral territory had a way of stripping things bare.

  The road narrowed as Toradol faded behind them, stone giving way to packed earth and wind-worn grass. No banners marked the boundary. No guards stood watch. The land simply… changed. Less ordered. Less forgiving.

  Sei felt it immediately.

  “This is where things happen,” Eva said quietly as they rode. “And no one answers for them.”

  The words lingered longer than the morning mist.

  They hadn’t gone far when the smoke appeared.

  Thin at first, curling against the pale sky. Then thicker. Blacker.

  Eva was already moving before Sei spoke. “That’s a caravan.”

  They left the road cautiously.

  What they found wasn’t an ambush in progress. That would’ve been simpler.

  Two wagons lay overturned, wheels splintered. Crates were smashed open, goods trampled or stolen. Blood darkened the dirt in wide, ugly arcs. Whoever had done this hadn’t lingered.

  They’d taken what they wanted.

  And left the rest behind.

  “Survivors,” someone called.

  Sei was already kneeling.

  There were three.

  Two conscious, wounded but stable enough to cling to life. The third—

  The third was dying.

  Sei recognized it instantly. The shallow breaths. The pallor. The way the man’s abdomen barely rose.

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  Internal bleeding.

  Bad.

  Sei worked without thinking, hands moving on instinct. Pressure. Positioning. Stabilization. His world narrowed to the rhythm of breath and pulse.

  Too fast. Too weak.

  Healing magic stirred faintly at his fingertips—hesitant, unreliable. It brushed the surface and slipped away, like water through cracked stone.

  “Come on,” Sei muttered. “Stay with me.”

  It wasn’t enough.

  He knew it.

  Back home, with tools and time, this would’ve been survivable. Here, on the dirt, with nothing but hands and failing magic—

  Eva crouched beside him. “How long?”

  Sei didn’t answer at first.

  Then, quietly: “Minutes.”

  She didn’t ask the next question.

  She didn’t have to.

  Sei sat back on his heels.

  He stared at his hands.

  Healing won’t stop this, he realized. Something has to be destroyed.

  The thought made his chest tighten.

  This wasn’t mending. This wasn’t restoration.

  This was choosing injury over death.

  Eva’s voice was low. “Is there anything else?”

  Sei closed his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  He opened them again.

  The heat came slowly.

  Not roaring. Not wild. It gathered tight against his palm, controlled to the point of terror. His hand trembled as he placed it carefully, precisely, where the damage lay hidden beneath skin and bone.

  “Hold him,” Sei said.

  The heat surged inward.

  The smell hit first.

  Sharp. Acrid. Wrong.

  The man’s body jerked once, a broken sound tearing from his throat before he went still.

  For a heartbeat—one terrible heartbeat—Sei thought he’d gone too far.

  Then the bleeding stopped.

  Not healed.

  Sealed.

  The pulse steadied, fragile but present.

  Alive.

  Barely.

  Sei pulled his hand back like he’d touched fire.

  He staggered away, breath coming hard, stomach twisting. His hands shook uncontrollably.

  He hadn’t felt powerful.

  He felt sick.

  Eva watched him closely, eyes sharp, searching for something—anything—that suggested loss of control.

  She found none.

  Just weight.

  “You didn’t choose power,” she said quietly. “You chose not to let him die.”

  Sei didn’t answer.

  Nearby, one of the caravan survivors stared at him. A merchant, judging by the torn vest and trembling hands. The man didn’t thank him. Didn’t accuse him.

  He just asked, softly, “What do we call what you just did?”

  Sei looked at the dirt.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  The man nodded once, as if that answer mattered more than any other.

  They moved on after arrangements were made.

  The caravan would limp back toward safer roads. The wounded would live—some with scars that wouldn’t fade.

  The road stretched on, indifferent.

  Sei walked quieter than before.

  He had crossed a line he could never unsee.

  Not into cruelty.

  But into responsibility.

  And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones—

  There would be more moments like this.

  And next time, the choice would come faster.

  Whether he was ready or not.