The Mysterious Pulse
Alleyways on the first morning light.
A carriage stood tucked along the side of a narrow alley, its wheels angled slightly toward the wall as though it had eased itself there to rest. Snow dusted its roof and seat in a thin, uneven layer, just enough to pale the dark wood without burying it.
The carriage door opened, and a lone man in white Cleric robes stepped down onto the frost-bitten ground. His jagged boots struck the icy cobblestones with steady assurance, untroubled by the slick surface beneath his feet.
He drew his sheathed sword and, with deliberate taps and sweeping motions, knocked the snow from the carriage roof and bench. Powder fell away in soft cascades, scattering across the stones.
Once satisfied, he climbed onto the driver's seat and reached beneath it, his fingers locating a average built-in chest. The latch clicked open. From within, he retrieved a frozen watermelon, its rind glazed with a thin sheen of ice.
For a moment, he held it in his hands as if weighing a thought.
Then he brought it down sharply against the wooden seat.
The crack rang through the alley, sharp and clean. The frozen fruit split into three large pieces, red juiced exposed beneath the fractured rind, the shards resting vivid against the dark wood and lingering frost.
He sat and gathered the pieces into his lap. With a quiet sigh, he began to eat, the cold sweetness doing little to satisfy whatever hunger lingered beneath the surface.
From the mouth of the alley came the steady sound of hooves upon cobblestone.
Clop. Clop. Clop-clop.
A brown horse emerged slowly into view, its breath misting in the cold air.
Upon its back rode another Cleric robed in white, their garments cut from cloth much like the one seated on the carriage. The rider reined the horse in as they drew near.
The animals ears flicked forward at the sharp scent of fruit.
The man on the carriage had just lifted another dripping shard of watermelon to his mouth when the rider barked,
"Monaco! That's not for you!"
Monaco froze mid-bite, red juice slowly dripping out of his lips to his chin. He turned slowly, dignity wounded.
"Must I suffer hunger and cold in this forsaken carriage," he declared solemnly, "while you and Wildly breeze about freely, leaving me alone to wander in sorrow? Lioris forgive us… Vysett, why are we here to suffer?"
"Shut it, this is our post" Vysett replied flatly. She reached into her satchel and tossed a long, hard loaf toward the carriage. "I brought you breakfast. Now let go of Wildly's food."
Monaco caught the bread easily with one hand. He stared at it.
"A baguette…" he murmured, voice laden with tragedy.
Vysett, unimpressed, was already chewing on an identical loaf without difficulty. Monaco glanced from the bread to Vysett, then to the watermelon in his other hand.
Decision made.
With sudden urgency of his growling belly, he ignored the bread entirely and resumed devouring the watermelon.
"Hey! Stop that! You'll make Wildly angry!" Vysett warned as the horse began to toss its head, stepping closer and stretching its neck toward Monaco lap.
"Come, eat with me, Wildly," Monaco said generously, lowering a piece to the footboard. "She does not understand our suffering."
Wildly understood perfectly well.
With one decisive shove of its head, the horse sent Monaco tumbling sideways from the carriage seat. In the same swift motion, it devoured the remaining watermelon from the footboard and snatched the piece from his hand, then, with remarkable efficiency, seized the baguette as well.
Monaco tumbled to the ground in a flurry of white robes, scrambling back in alarm as the horse continued chewing with righteous satisfaction.
"Wildly! Why?" he cried, sprawled dramatically upon the cobblestones. "Must you defy me so? Wildly, my joy!"
Vysett merely took another calm bite of bread and looked down at him without the slightest urgency.
"What news did you gather while I was away?" she asked. "And stop your theatrical performance, Monaco."
Monaco pushed himself up, brushing snow from his robes with exaggerated dignity. He raised a finger as though about to deliver a great revelation.
"I have had a dream," he announced solemnly. "A dream of a warm fire… and a very comfortable bed."
Vysett stared at him.
"Enough, Monaco. That is not what I asked. Like you, I am also tired."
Vysett swung down from the horse with a heavy thud, boots striking the ground.
Monaco clambered into the carriage, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold. He turned toward Vysett, who now stood before the carriage door, staring at him annoyingly.
"It is extremely important to my well-being, Vysett," Monaco insisted with grave seriousness.
Vysett pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a moment, as though negotiating with a court jester rather than a Cleric.
"…Fine," she said at last. "What is it?"
"Well," Monaco began, thinking very hard, "I was asleep. My eyes were closed, which limited my observations somewhat." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "However… I did sense something. A strange sensation. A tingling nip in the air and a dreadful growling from within…"
Vysett sighed the sigh of someone who had already where the question will lead.
"Don't say it was cold or you a hungry."
Monaco's eyes widened with delighted astonishment.
"How do you always know these things?"
"MONACO!" Vysett's shout echoed through the quiet alley, drawing the attention of a few idlers who glanced over at them with puzzled face.
"Heh. You are no fun, Vysett," Monaco chuckled.
"I have no desire to entertain you," she replied flatly. "But I do know fun, Monaco."
With that, she drew her sheathed sword and began prodding him repeatedly in the ribs.
"I yield! I yield!" Monaco cried, twisting away and attempting to parry the blows with little success. "You have cornered me, Vysett! You beast! You have no honour nor faith!"
"Is this fun for you?" Vysett demanded, jabbing him again and again. "Because for me, it very much is."
Monaco folded himself against the carriage seat, arms flailing defensively as the barrage continued.
Then, quite suddenly, both of them stopped.
As if some unseen thread had tugged at the same thought, their heads turned at once toward the far end of the alley, across the road.
There stood the wide building with its large wooden sign fade faintly in the cold air.
The Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store.
The very place they had been assign to watch.
The very reason they had spent the entire night and half the morning freezing beside this miserable alley instead of sitting comfortably at their clinic before a hearth.
Their task, according to the order, was simple in wording and troublesome in execution.
A child lived within that house.
A gifted child, said to possess divine abilities.
The Grand Elder of the Crescent Clerics had determined that such a child would be valuable to the order. If guided properly, the girl might one day stand among the believers of Lioris.
Yet there was a complication.
No one knew which god, if any, had truly laid claim to the child.
And in matters of divine favour, curiosity from rival faiths could quickly turn into something far less polite.
Thus Monaco and Vysett had been sent to watch quietly, observe carefully, and, if opportunity allowed, draw the girl gently toward the light of Lioris without attracting the attention of other devout eyes.
Monaco sniffed miserably and pulled his robes tighter around himself.
"A pulse of magic… something that soothed the heart…" Monaco murmured, his eyes narrowing toward the distant street. "What manner of magic was that?"
"It is divine magic," Vysett answered calmly.
Monaco straightened slightly. "A god-chosen child? By the mercy of Lioris… are we to witness another Chosen?"
"No," Vysett replied, shaking her head. "Not chosen. Blessed."
"A blessed child? How can one so young possess such faith as to be granted a blessing?" Monaco said in astonishment. His expression soon darkened. "I fear… could it possibly be… a damne—"
"Damned? No," Vysett cut him off firmly. "The Grand Elder, Raimond himself, judged her to be blessed. And I was there to witness its power."
Monaco let out a long breath and pressed a hand briefly to his chest.
"Praise be… then this is not a matter of termination." He lowered his voice thoughtfully. "Still, why are we the ones sent, Vysett? We are but a healing cleric. Matters of uncertainty are usually the domain of paladins or the zealots."
Vysett sighed quietly.
"I believe our order intends to poach the child for ourselves," Vysett said with an awkward smile toward Monaco. She knew it was against the Limelight law and the other faiths.
Monaco shifted uneasily along the carriage bench.
"I hate it, Vysett… I wish not to be here dealing with blasphemous acts… Lioris preserve me…"
"I understand," Vysett said. "You have kept watch long enough. It is my turn now. You may return."
Monaco stretched his stiff back. "Very well. I shall take the carriage then. Will you manage the walk?"
Vysett gave a small proud smile. "You know well I move faster on my feet."
"Indeed," Monaco said with a soft chuckle. "A combat cleric. No wonder the Grand Elder keeps you close. The High Infirmarer must grind his teeth whenever he sees it."
Monaco climbed down from the carriage box and stepped onto the footboard while Vysett prepared Wildly for the road.
When all was ready, the two turned briefly toward the street.
"I will return to the clinic then," Monaco said wearily. "May Lioris keep watch over you."
"And over you as well," Vysett replied with a faint smile.
Cloop— Cloop—
The carriage rattled away down the street, the steady hooves on cobblestone fading into the morning noise until it vanished entirely from sight.
Only then did Vysett slip a hand into her coat and pull out a small notebook. She opened it and read through the contents carefully, her eyes moving with quiet concentration. After a moment, she gave a small nod of confirmation.
The note contained a medical record.
Kimmber Mae Gustmill.
Patient of the clinic. Scheduled for a routine health examination.
Vysett closed the notebook, letting her gaze linger on the house. She thought of the child inside, of the bright light of magic she carried, and of the delicate, unseen threads that might bind her to one path or another.
A faint chuckle escaped her lips, quiet enough that only she could hear it, as she reminisced about the troublesome child in her care.
'An interesting assignment,' she thought again, but the weight of it hummed beneath her skin. She tucked the notebook back into her coat.
Through winters chill, they stalk unseen, one with faith, the other keen and mean.
Poor Memories
Doors opened one by one, and the townsfolk stepped from their houses into the brittle morning air, breath rising in pale clouds before them. And as the sun climbed higher and highest.
Shutters groaned as they were lifted from windows and shopfronts. Lamps were pinched out, their flames surrendering to the growing light. Slowly, almost reverently, the 17th Street awakened, stirring into quiet life beneath the widening day.
Within one such window of the Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store, Catherine stood watching the street below, with mortar and pestle on her hands.
A thread of irritation tightened in her chest.
Her plan to leave at first light had failed, and the thought weighed on her. She could not tell where it had gone wrong. Kimmi's antics were usually harmless, manageable even, until the very moment they were about to depart.
Whatever had stirred in Kimmi felt tied to magic, for magic demanded exceptional mental acuity and unwavering control, qualities her daughter, for all her brilliance, had never quite possessed.
The failure of casting a spell could invite dreadful consequences.
Magic could recoil on its caster, harming both mind and body. In mild cases, it caused dizziness or confusion. In worse cases, it could leave the caster gravely injured, even unconscious. The strength of the backlash often depended on the volume of magic the individual possessed.
Kimmi, however, had little magic of her own. Any backlash should have been minor.
Yet being completely drained of magic could be just as dangerous. Even a small reservoir, once emptied, might leave the body and mind weakened in its absence.
And Kimmi mind had always been very, veryfragile.
It was not merely a mothers anxious guess.
Catherine had learned as much from the healer Hartmann, who once explained with careful gravity that whatever muddle her daughters development might be tied to the magical flow within her body.
He believed that Kimmi's magic had been siphoned away or had gone mysteriously absent from her body. Whenever that occurred, he warned, it could leave her unsettled, prone to erratic behaviours.
Crrkk… Crrkk…
A steady sound of herbs crumbling under pressure of pestle filled the air.
Catherine glanced toward her daughter and shook her head. With a deep, weary sigh, she stopped her pestle and turned back to the counter, where more ingredients for a medicine had already been laid out. She set the mortar down and reached for the cutting board.
Tap Tap Tap Tap
She worked with ease, cutting a handful of dried herbs. The leaves crumbled beneath the blade, releasing a quiet fragrance. She gathered them into her palm and tipped them into the stone mortar, then pressed the pestle down, grinding slowly until the mixture became a coarse, green-grey paste.
Crrkk… Crrkk… Shrrk…
The kitchen filled with soft sounds, the steady knock of pestle and mortar, the soft boil of water on the stove. A faint scent of earth and mint lingered in the air.
Kimmi sat silently on the chair, her gaze fixed on the window, steps farther than the table itself.
Her eyes caught the drifting snow outside the window, moving in slow, wandering motes.
Her thoughts floated with them, as her dreamy memories fading, while the urge inside her wondered what it might be like to catch one of those falling flakes and taste their brief, cold sweetness.
Delicious.
Slowly she drools, quietly.
Catherine her mother had asked her to sit while she prepared the medicine, and she obeyed.
Swish… Swish… Swish…
From the corner of her eye, Catherine watched her, the ladle moving in slow circles. The room felt hushed, held together by warmth, as if one careless sniff might disturb it.
Kimmi meant to tell her mother about the mysterious vision or dream she had, yet when she opened her mouth, its details vanished, leaving only the image of endless emptiness—the void.
It unsettled her deeply.
She never thought she had a memory that's of a fish, vanishing the instant it passed them. Everything she experienced seemed to dissolve in moments, leaving her grasping at echoes.
Kimmi lifted her hand, and examine the bite mark, then poking at it with her curious finger while carefully not attract her mother attention who was now occupy with trying find something in the cabinet.
With every stab of pain, fragments of memory clawed their way back. She saw the void. She saw the old mad mender. She saw the curious mimic creature. But as quickly as they arrived, the memories slipped through her fingers, dissolving with the fading ache.
"Was that… a glimpse of a nightmare?" she whispered. "Or some terrifying illusion…"
They were almost the same, she thought—both twisted and distorted the mind.
The difference lay in their cause.
One arose from the senses being deceived, the other from the pressure, strain, and turmoil within the mind itself. Both unsettled consciousness, but one was external, and the other entirely internal.
Yet she could not declare it an illusion, for she had experienced the void within her mind, within her dream.
And still, she could taste pear on her lips. She could feel the weight of her once long hair, which had never truly existed.
'It felt so real, it felt alive.' Kimmi shivered.
She swallowed hard as a reckless idea took shape. Her gaze fixed on her arm, determination tightening her expression. She considered squeezing the wound where the bite mark lay, just to see if the memories would return, and this time, perhaps, remain.
'It could work…' she smiled eerily.
Her hands closed around her arm with desperate intent.
The pain exploded. The memories returned, sharper than before, flashing faster, looping endlessly, over and over, until the world narrowed to nothing but sensation and recollection.
Until Catherine hands seized hers, pulling her hand away with force. The pain vanished—and with it, the memories, leaving only flickering in flash before fading.
"Stop that, Kimmi!" her mothers voice cracked, sharp and furious.
Kimmi looked up. Anger blazed in Catherine eyes, and for a moment, fear gripped her chest.
"I… I'm sorry…" she stammered.
Catherine's face softened into a weary, almost fragile smile.
"Don't ever do that again… understand?"
Kimmi swallowed hard, nodded, and felt the ghost of the pain and memories still lingering, whispering at the edges of her mind.
"I… I remembered that dream again," Kimmi said softly.
Catherine listened, nodding without quite looking up as she wiped a smear of blood from Kimmi hand with a damp towel.
"I was deep in the darkness," Kimmi went on, her voice thinning. "In the void." She swallowed, searching and reshape her memories. "I think I stayed there for a long time… floating with one strange person!"
She spoke of the old man, the mender, of the mimic creature that wore her face, of eyes swirling endlessly in the void. Her words tumbled out unevenly, like puzzle missing one of it pieces.
At first, Catherine had listened only in passing. Now she slowed. Her hands paused. Her attention settled fully on her daughter.
"And… there was something else," Kimmi murmured. "Something that creature kept calling me…" Her brow furrowed. "It said something, but I can't…"
Catherine waited.
The bandage and ointment were already prepared for Kimmi's wound, yet she did not move. She remained still, allowing her daughter to finish her words. In that quiet pause, worry slowly settled into her eyes.
Kimmi stared at her mother, silent.
"What is it, dear?" Catherine asked gently.
Kimmi did not answer. Instead, she lifted both hands to her face, cupping her cheeks as if to warm them—like a squirrel waking from its torpor, tail wrapped over its head against the freezing winter, struggled back toward fractured thought.
As Kimmi attempt to pry more of experience from her dream, a dull pain began lingered on her forehead for a short moment.
'What is that tingling pain? Was it you—the urge, or the unseen being?' she wondered.
"What's wrong, dear?" Catherine asked again, softer still but clearer.
"I forgot," Kimmi said, her voice breaking in disappointed. "I can't remember… again…"
Her eyes drifted, slowly, toward her wounded arm. "When it hurts," she whispered, "the dream comes back. Maybe if I touch it a little more…" she explained.
Catherine reached out at once, resting her hands over Kimmi laps.
"Kimmi," she said, her voice calm and soft, like a gentle warm breeze. "Listen to me, my sweet girl. You are here now. That is what matters."
She met Kimmi eyes, unwavering.
"A dream that clings only through agony," Catherine continued, her voice steady, "is not a dream worth holding onto, but one meant to fade."
"But what if it's important?" Kimmi protested, her words tumbling over one another. "What if it's a clue? I can't just let it go. I can't just let it go poof."
She made a small, frantic gesture, tapping her forehead as if the memory were trapped inside.
"No, no, no…" she muttered, trying desperately to remember.
Catherine stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her tightly.
"What could be so precious," Catherine asked solemnly, "that you cannot bring yourself to forsake it?" She hesitated, then asked, "Do you seek Roa still?"
"Was Roa there, my dear?" Catherine went on. "In that endless dark? Did it call to you?"
Kimmi froze.
"Roa?" she exclaimed. Her eyes brightened suddenly, as if struck by a spark. "You know Roa?"
She leaned forward, excitement spilling into her voice. "That's it! That's the thing! It's right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't say it. I can't remember it… I know it's there, right here." She patted her head.
She smile at her mother, breathless, waiting for an answer.
Catherine saw the change at once and understood. Kimmi tantrum had finally broken. Yet even as the storm passed, she could see that her daughter still drifted at times, lost in thought, chasing questions with no answers to be found.
"I don't know where to look for Roa," Catherine said softly. "Or what could it be."
"No Roa?" Kimmi frowned. The word meant nothing to her, yet an urge giggled in her mind, as if mocking her.
Roa Hide!
Roa Found!
Roa Here and There!
"You've been searching for it," Catherine said, she pulled and hold firm Kimmi wounded arm straight quickly began applying salve and herb, paying little mind to the jittering. "You've been searching for it everywhere…."
"Roa… Roa… Roa…" Kimmi muttered, as a jolt of pain flared through her arm and fragments of the dream drifted back to her.
Catherine sighed as Kimmi ignored her, then let her gaze drift around the room.
The kitchen was a wreck, as though something had torn through it in a wild frenzy. Cabinets hung open, their contents spilled across the floor. Pots and wooden spoons lay scattered like fallen debris. A chair lay overturned on its side, as if it had been shoved aside in anger.
Kimmi had been on the run the entire time Catherine tried to catch and hold her.
The child darted into cabinets, crawled beneath the bed, and slipped through her grasp whenever she was finally seized. And when Catherine did manage to catch her, Kimmi would struggle fiercely and bolt away again.
What frightened Catherine most was the bite.
Kimmi kept nipping at her own arm over and over, as if it were just another toy she could gnaw.
Lost in thought, Catherine nearly missed Kimmi's quiet attempt to poke at her wound again.
But she quickly caught Kimmi finger and gently nudged it away before finally binding and wrapping Kimmi wound with cloth.
She shook her head in a firm but familiar warning.
Leave it alone.
After finishing the dressing, Catherine studied Kimmi antics. Her daughter was watching the bandage with quiet curiosity.
"Does it still hurt?" Catherine asked warmly.
Kimmi only shook her head.
Kimmi had already seized the chance to trigger memories through pain, pressing the name against each flicker of memory, as though fitting pieces into place. Like a lock chasing the right combination, she hoped one would align, that something would finally click.
But nothing matched.
Nothing held.
She did not even know what Roa was meant to be.
She did not fully understand what Catherine meant by finding Roa—but that did not matter.
Roa was irrelevant to her.
"Just tell me if it does," Catherine added, her eyes lingering with worry watching her daughter continues daze.
Catherine moved her hand and applied the remaining salve to her forehead, where Kimmi had struck her with a toy.
Her action did not go unnoticed. Kimmi's eyes widened, filled with fear and sadness.
Catherine saw it and offered a gentle smile. "Listen, dear, this isn't your fault," she said warmly. "It's just that Mom… forgot where Roa is hiding. I'm sure Roa will come back soon."
She felt a quiet happiness at seeing how deeply her daughter cared for her.
Kimmi had always been blunt in the ways she showed affection—protective, fierce, even rough. She would lash out at anyone who got too close or threatened what she considered hers. Catherine remembered long ago at the park, Kimmi growling at any child who came near, guarding her space in the only way she knew.
But Catherine also remembered how she had gently encouraged Kimmi to give a toy to the other children, just to open a bridge to them. Somehow, it had worked. Kimmi would chase after the children, sometimes in absurd, clumsy ways, only to hand them a gift. And slowly, the children had begun to warm to her, even if they still treated her a little differently.
It was a small step, but a meaningful one.
Kimmi felt all her energy drain from her body. An urge rose within her, compelling her to collapse to the floor and wriggle like a worm, inching slowly toward her mothers feet.
She felt at fault.
She was in despair.
She did not fully understand what had happened before, or even what was happening now, but an overwhelming anxiety gripped her again, especially when she looked at her mother. A mere glance from Catherine sent her heart racing and her sweat running cold. At first, she thought it was fear—but no. What she felt was guilt.
Summoning what courage she could, Kimmi forced herself to lay her eyes on Catherine, searching for any detail, any clue. And then she noticed something that made her chest tighten.
A faint red scratch marked her mothers neck, and a slight redness lingered across her forehead. Kimmi's muscles twitched with tension, her anxiety spiking as flashes of memory surged back without warning.
She remembered striking her mothers head with a bird figurine. She remembered racing through the house like a maniac.
'What was that? Was that me? Did I do that? No… I was sitting on the stair like a good girl… wasn't I? Was that you?'
Kimmi's mouth fell open as she watched her mother. Her eyes tracked the marks like a hawk, shifting whenever Catherine moved.
"Why did we do that…? She's our mother!" Kimmi muttered silently, her words chittering over each other. "We're not supposed to do that! That's bad, bad, bad!"
'Was she not our mother?'
The thought shifted, sharpened.
'Was she… our enemy?'
Kimmi worry thinned into suspicion, replacing guilt with a fragile, dangerous doubt.
The urges inside her seemed to shrink at those thought, growing quieter, almost timid, as if trying to hide itself from responsibilities and shame.
Catherine noticed that her daughters gaze was fixed on her forehead.
"It's alright, dear. Mom isn't angry. Really, it's alright…" Catherine said softly, hoping to calm Kimmi.
Catherine voice soothed Kimmi heart. The weight of her anxiety eased, falling away like a balloon slowly deflating. She felt relaxed, almost at peace.
At last, Kimmi gave her mother a sincere smile.
'Still our mother, then.'
She was calm by her mothers words.
Catherine handed Kimmi the toys she had once used to hit her with. The toys, broken moment ago, had been carefully mended together.
Kimmi pressed them to her chest and hugged them tightly, holding them dearly.
Yet in the corner of her mind, a storm of emotions swirled—trouble, shame, and anger wrestled with one another. She did not know what to feel, except disappointment in herself, for her uncontrolled impulses.
Catherine stood, leaving Kimmi on the chair to her own thoughts. She moved to clean the kitchen, still scattered from earlier chaos, her mind deep in thought, planning the tasks for the day ahead.
But for Kimmi, what mattered most was how her mother saw her.
'We are good children, and Cane is our mother, and we must never hurt her,' she muttered softly.
A faint whisper seemed to intervene deep in her mind.
We are together, We do better.
Kimmi blinked, inspired by the urging voice.
"Mother…" she said softly.
Catherine turned, giving her daughter her full attention. "What is it, dear?" she asked.
"Hand," Kimmi whispered, offering her small hand.
Catherine leaned down and took it gently.
"A good child tends her mother's heart, and we can play our better part," Kimmi said in a melody.
"Oh?" Catherine murmured, unsure she understood.
"Flair of the Mender… First Aid…" Kimmi announced softly, her eyes shimmering into silver eyes.
Catherine felt a sudden jolt run across her hand.
She did not pull away. She would not risk hurting her daughter.
For a brief, suspended moment, she simply stared. Then understanding dawned.
Kimmi had used magic on her.
Slowly, Catherine lifted her free hand to her forehead. The ache was gone. The redness had vanished.
She touched her neck where the scratch had been—smooth skin met her fingers. Even the calluses that had long hardened her hands felt softened, as though years of wear had been gently erased.
Her breath caught.
She turned toward Kimmi and stare deeply at her silvery eyes.
Fear flickered behind her composure. Divine or not, magic was still magic. And magic always demanded a price.
For a heartbeat, she considered scolding her sharply. The instinct rose swift and fierce.
But she chooses to restrained herself.
"No, dear… please," Catherine said gently. "Don't use magic. Magic is far too dangerous for you."
Kimmi frowned, puzzled.
To her, magic was not a threat. It was a tool. Something useful. Something that solved problems. Something that made things better.
If it was dangerous, then the solution seemed obvious.
She simply needed to learn to use it properly.
"In what way?" Kimmi asked, tilting her head.
"In many ways," Catherine replied carefully. She did not elaborate. She knew her daughters talent for mayhem all too well.
Catherine remembered the day Kimmi had learned to strike flint just by watching her. The child had sprinted through the house in wild excitement, scraping sparks against walls and wooden beams, nearly setting the place ablaze.
In the end, Catherine had been forced to confiscate the flint entirely, hiding it far beyond Kimmi's reach.
Now Catherine herself had to summoned fire with magic, and Kimmi watched every time, eyes bright with longing. It had become yet another thing her daughter yearned to wield.
"In many, many, many ways?" Kimmi echoed solemnly, nodding as though she grasped the full gravity of it.
She did not remember much of her past, but she knew this; she had a habit of hurting herself and other.
The urge sometimes pushed her toward things she could not explain. Yet in her mind, they always seemed reasonable. She believed that as long as she remained in control, nothing truly terrible could happen.
Though the urge still lingered, whispering that she should try something else.
"Yes," Catherine said, a tight smile touching her lips. "In numerous ways."
"Understandable," Kimmi declared with surprising ease. She lifted a finger. "But—"
Catherine moved before the word could finish. Her hands settled firmly on Kimmi's shoulders.
"No but," she said, her voice low and resolute. "It is dangerous. Do you understand?"
Kimmi nodded repeatedly.
'Cane angry!' she thought at once.
But then Catherine suddenly paused, tilting her head as if a new thought had struck her.
"My dear Kimmi… can't you use healing on yourself?" she asked, curiosity threading through her tone.
Kimmi went still, staring deeply into her mothers face. It was a fair question—she could heal herself. She had done it before, in the infirmary, when her wounds had been severe.
Yet... she did not want to.
Her hand twitched with unease, a restless urge simmering beneath her skin. Catherine's gentle suggestion felt almost like a command, and the desire to obey battled with her own stubborn will.
Kimmi chest tightened. She was almost in tears. She did not want to heal—the pain in her arm was tied to something anomalous within herself, a clue that might help her solve the riddle of her condition. To erase it now would be to lose the chance to remember, to understand.
Catherine eyes narrowed slightly with worry, sensing her daughters hesitation but unable to guess its cause.
Finally, Kimmi spoke, her voice trembling but determined. "I need… a roll of paper and ink. Just for me."
Catherine found the request unusual, but she simply nodded. She went to a locked drawer, retrieved a piece of brown folded paper—normally used for wrapping goods in the store—and offered it to Kimmi.
The paper was rough, hardly ideal for writing, but sufficient. Catherine did not give her ink and quill; instead, a single stick of soft charcoal, wrapped carefully with a tiny rope to fit her fingers, was all she provided.
She waited patiently for Kimmi to draw. But Kimmi paused, as though she had already forgotten what to do. Her silver eyes shifted toward her mother, then dropped to the bandaged arm.
Catherine understood immediately what had been troubling her daughter. She allowed herself a small, gentle smile.
"You said you fell into the void," Catherine began softly, "where nothing clung, nothing endured, no hope remained. There you met an old eccentric elder who offered food and drink. You spoke of life, of what once was—but he did not remember, just as you could not. And as you both waited for a calling, a creature appeared, trying to harm you. You tried to run, but there was no escape; everything was eternally empty. The creature changed shape… and became you. Until finally, you were called back, returned to where you belong."
Catherine recalled Kimmi's stories exactly as her daughter had told them, over and over again. Yet somehow, Kimmi had forgotten every retelling.
At first, Catherine had dismissed it lightly. But as she considered her daughter's repeated words, a shadow of fear crept into her chest.
"Lioris protect…" she whispered in a prayer, sensing that her daughter was not merely recounting a dream, but perhaps revealing a true sign—of her illness, or something deeper.
Kimmi was shocked. Carefully, she wrote down everything Catherine had said onto the rough brown paper. When she finally finished, she began to read it back, and for the first time, she realized she had not forgotten a single word.
Her brow furrowed—then slowly, a bright smile blossomed.
'This is it! A solution to a problem! An answer to my… Amnesia!' She paused, thinking, 'Amnesia? What's that… no! I'm going to write that too!'
With that, she scribbled furiously, barely pausing to breathe.
"Look, Cane!" she exclaimed, holding the paper out with pride.
Catherine took the paper and gazed at it with admiration. 'My daughter can write!' she screamed in her heart, tears prickling her eyes. Though the letters were uneven and some shapes clumsy, the meaning was clear.
"You did amazing, dear," Catherine said proudly, her voice warm.
"But Cane, do you understand it?" Kimmi eyes shone, full of curiosity.
"I do understand it, my sweet, but the deeper meaning… even Mother cannot yet grasp," Catherine replied gently.
"Oh… yes. Me too… I don't understand any of it," Kimmi admitted with a small sigh, though her eyes were still bright with excitement.
"As any dream should be, my sweet dear… do not linger on it," Catherine murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Kimmi face.
Kimmi nodded. She did not care much for the meaning now. What mattered was that it was written, noted, and preserved—a small triumph in the midst of uncertainty.
With that conclusion, she pointed to her bandaged arm.
"Flair of the Mender—First Aid!"
A sudden jolt ran along her nerves, followed by a warm, burning sensation across the bandage. She could feel her arm healing.
Her gaze lifted to her mother, bright and hopeful.
"Are we going to leave now?" Kimmi asked, tilting her head innocently, as if nothing had happened.
Catherine watched her uneasily.
Doubts gnawed at her. 'Was it truly safe to bring Kimmi outside?' She could not shake the fear that her daughters illness might return, perhaps in the crowd where she would have no control.
Catherine smiled at Kimmi, careful not to reveal her thoughts.
Through fractured dream and fleeting fear, the words once lost remain still clear.