By the time Meiran reached the village, dawn had already climbed into morning, painting the thatched rooftops in amber. The snow was melting in slow, glistening rivulets, trailing down the slanted eaves and pooling in the muddy streets. She could smell chimney smoke, hear the low hum of daily life—familiar sounds that made her heart loosen. After the forest's silence, the world felt mercifully loud.
Her boots left dark, wet prints as she crossed the narrow bridge into the healer's district. The small hut at the end of the lane stood crooked and welcoming, its walls packed with herbs drying from every beam. This was where she'd spent most of her days these past years—fetching, grinding, learning. Soon, she would live here fully as an apprentice under Master Ruoyu's guidance.
The door creaked open before she could knock.
The man who spoke was short, wrapped in thick robes of faded blue, and crowned with hair white as the first frost. His eyes, bright and liquid as ink, softened at the sight of her. Old Man Ruoyu—village mage, healer, and, to many, eccentric miracle worker—had the perpetually distracted air of someone whose mind was always three thoughts ahead of his mouth.
"Ah, Meiran," he said in his warm, creaky tone without turning around. "I was beginning to wonder if the snow took you whole this time."
Before she could answer, a sharp voice cut in from the far side of the hut. "If it did, it would serve her right for wandering off again!"
Sir Baosheng stood by the doorway that led into the storage room, arms crossed over his chest, his build broad and his expression fierce. His dark hair was tied back neatly, a faint scar visible over his jawline—a relic from his mercenary days. Despite the scolding tone, Meiran could sense the concern buried in his eyes.
Ruoyu chuckled softly and finally turned, his eyes glimmering with the wisdom—and mischief—of an old mage who had seen far too much. "Baosheng, don't scare the girl. She's here, alive, and by the looks of her, she's managed to bring us something good."
Meiran stepped across the threshold like a homing thing. The hut's interior was a small universe of glass jars and drying bundles, of copper basins and a low stool that had been worn to a smooth curve by a hundred hands. A hearth glowed, and the air held the warm, sharp tang of dried mint, powdered bark, and something sweet that might have been honey. She felt, quite irrationally, as if she'd stepped back into the belly of the world she wanted to belong to.
He leaned forward eagerly as Meiran produced a small pouch and placed it on the counter. When he opened it, the fragrance of the herbs filled the room—fresh, earthy, and potent despite the winter chill.
"Mm, winterroot and frostleaf both," Ruoyu hummed approvingly. "You've done well, Meiran. Keep these with you for now. We'll brew them later, once the snow settles again."
Ruoyu straightened and patted her head, his wrinkled hand leaving a faint dusting of powdered leaf on her hair. "You've done well, little moonweed. Keep these with you for now. They'll dry better in your new room anyway."
Meiran blinked. "My… new room?"
Ruoyu smiled, eyes crinkling. "Of course. You're almost of age, aren't you? The orphanage can't keep you forever. Besides, I'll be needing an apprentice soon — someone to inherit my trade. Baosheng can only make so many potions without turning them into sword polish."
Baosheng shot him a glare. "You're lucky I love you, old man, or that remark would have cost you an eyebrow."
Ruoyu only winked, and Meiran giggled.
Her laughter faded, though, when Baosheng followed her into the back chamber later. Her new room was small but warm — shelves lined with dried herbs, a narrow bed tucked under the window, and a desk cluttered with quills and bottles. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and parchment.
The old knight's boots echoed heavily against the wooden floor as they reached Meiran's small chamber—a room just large enough for a bed, a trunk, and a single window facing the frozen lake. He crossed his arms again, posture like a general ready to deliver orders.
"You're nearly eighteen now," he began. "Old enough to marry, and to take responsibility for yourself. A young lady shouldn't be traipsing into the forest with no weapon, no escort, and no sense of fear."
Meiran smiled faintly at the lecture. She'd heard versions of it a hundred times before, but Baosheng's tone—somewhere between fatherly and exasperated—always made her feel oddly safe. "I didn't mean to stay out so long," she murmured. "The snowstorm caught me."
"And what if something worse than snow had caught you?" Baosheng retorted. "You've got skill, I'll give you that, but skill without caution is as good as wind without direction." He turned to the trunk near her bed and opened it with a creak. "You still keeping that old practice sword of yours?"
Meiran bit her lip. "I left it behind."
He grunted. "Thought so."
"I thought I taught you better than that," he said, quieter now but no less stern. "What use is all the sword practice if you wander into danger unarmed?"
Before Meiran could brace herself for another admonition, Baosheng turned and walked to a chest by the wall. He opened it with a theatrical motion and produced a long, slender package wrapped in oilcloth. Meiran's pulse skittered.
"What's this?" she whispered.
Baosheng unwrapped the cloth carefully. Revealed there was a blade, its form simple and elegant: a short sword with a plain iron guard, a hilt wrapped in dark leather, the steel shining with a soft, clean polish. Along the spine, near the pommel, a faint maker's mark was etched — a small mountain with a river curling at its foot.
Meiran's fingers itched to take it, but Baosheng was already slipping the sword into a scabbard and, with an almost ceremonious seriousness, fastening it to her belt so that it sat balanced at her hip. His hands were large and warm, and for a moment the world narrowed to the careful business of leather and metal.
"This isn't a toy," Baosheng said, his tone softer now. "Forged in Yongling, two towns east. Steel from the southern mines, rune-carved by a smith who owes me a favor."
Meiran stared, awe widening her eyes. "You're… giving this to me?"
She laughed—a quiet, breathy sound that filled the little room. Carefully, she lifted the sword, feeling its balance, the cool weight of it in her palms. It felt right somehow—comforting, familiar.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Baosheng ruffled her hair, the stern façade cracking for just a moment. "Don't thank me. Just promise you'll keep yourself alive, yeah? Can't have Ruoyu's new apprentice getting into trouble."
As he left the room, Meiran lingered by the window. Outside, the village was waking—children laughing, the baker calling out for help with flour sacks, the morning fog curling over the rooftops.
Yet beneath it all, she felt it again—the strange warmth in her chest, pulsing faintly in rhythm with her heartbeat.
A whisper brushed her mind, faint and unfamiliar, like embers crackling in the dark.
"You shouldn't have been there."
Meiran froze, eyes darting to the door. But the room was empty, save for the gentle hum of the morning wind.
She pressed a hand over her chest. The warmth lingered, quiet and alive.
The world shifted in darkness — soft, shapeless, and strangely warm. Meiran stood in the middle of it, bare feet pressing against something that wasn't quite earth but not quite air either. There was no sky, no sound, no scent of pine or hearthfire — only a muffled hum, low and even, like the steady breathing of something vast and sleeping. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, caught in the syrupy pull of a dream.
Somewhere beyond the fog, a voice called out.
"...Hey."
Meiran turned, her heart leaping. The mist parted briefly, but no one was there. The voice came again, closer this time.
"Can you hear me? Meiran?" it asked, the name landing in the dream like a pebble in still water.
She blinked in the dark of sleep. The voice felt impossibly near, not from above or below, but from all around—close as breath. It was placid, young-sounding, somewhere between a boy's and a man's cadence; there was an easy humor in it that made her want to smile despite the residue of fear. "Yes?" she answered, because answering seemed the only thing to do.
A soft chuckle, not unkind. "Are you Meiran? Or did the old mage pronounce your name wrong last night?" The voice sounded almost amused at the idea.
The voice sounded young—about her age, maybe a little older. Smooth and composed, but with that particular warmth that made her think of sunlight breaking through frost. It carried an easy confidence, the kind that was disarming despite the strangeness of it all.
Meiran took a step back. "Where am I? What is this place?"
"Hmm. I suppose this would look strange to a human," the voice mused. "You're dreaming. Though, to be fair, I didn't plan to talk to you here."
Her breath hitched. "Who are you?"
"Good question." The voice seemed amused, as though he were smiling somewhere in the fog.
Her heart thumped, voice cracking despite her attempt to sound composed. "Am I… being visited by a spirit?"
The voice hummed thoughtfully, as though considering the question. "Not quite." A pause. "Though I suppose that wouldn't be the worst comparison. Let's say I'm… nearby."
That didn't make sense. The dream wavered around her, the fog curling into faint glimmers of blue light. "Nearby? What do you mean, nearby?" she asked, unease threading her voice.
There was a warmth then — faint at first, then blooming beneath her sternum, like the pulse of a small fire deep within her chest. Her vision shimmered, the mist lighting up with streaks of cobalt. The voice spoke again, still mild, still maddeningly calm.
"You should probably wake up soon," it said. "You've got a great deal more mana now. I'd be careful if I were you."
"Mana?" she repeated, startled. "That's impossible. I— I don't—"
But the voice only gave another small, airy laugh — like wind slipping through reeds. "You'll see soon enough."
The light flared — and the dream dissolved in a blinding wash of heat and color.
Meiran jolted awake to shouting.
Something cold gripped the inside of Meiran's throat — fear or wonder, she could not tell — and then the dream unraveled. The glass broke into a million soft lights and the warmth that had anchored itself to her ribs slid away with a small, petulant tug.
She opened her eyes to someone's breath on her face and the world was too bright and too real for the memory of glass and cobalt to hold. For half a second everything was slow and wrong: the angle of the sun, the sound of people moving, the weight of fabric against her skin.
Her head spun, and she gasped for air as the world came into focus. Her hands were cold, her fingers numb—and then she realized she wasn't in her bed.
Someone was holding her.
"Meiran!" The voice was sharp, commanding—Sir Baosheng's. His strong arms were braced around her shoulders, steadying her as she blinked blearily up at him. His face was pale with shock, snow dusting his hair and cloak. Behind him, the early dawn sky burned faintly blue—too blue.
"What happened?" she croaked. "Why am I—where are we?"
He let out a breath, his grip tightening briefly as if to make sure she was real. "You tell me, girl. We found you walking out of the forest barefoot before dawn, sword in hand, and the trees behind you were on fire."
Meiran stared at him, eyes wide. "What?"
The truth was blunt and unbearable: the sword was in her hands. She could feel its hilt fit into her palm, the leather warm and sticky with frost-melt. Heat—not the sting of a fire that burned away, but a humming current—ran from the center of her chest through her arm and into the metal. It felt like something waking inside her: a hollow filled, a still place suddenly full of river.
Ruoyu opened his eyes slowly. They were wide in a way that made Meiran's stomach pinch. "This is not simple," he said, voice low and careful. "This is not a trick of wind or a stray spark. This—" he glanced at the sword, then back at the girl, "—is filled with mana. Not a little. A great deal for a village child."
"I—my mana—?" She stopped because the word landed heavily. Meiran had never spoken 'mana' aloud like this, not to anyone who had seen the sparseness of her attempted spells. Not since old man Ruoyu had laughed and muttered that she had the heart for healing but the core of a candle. "No, it couldn't be—"
"Baosheng," Ruoyu said quietly, eyes narrowing as he examined the glow along the blade. "Protect her. For now, hold her. There's a signature to this flame—foreign. Not the fire of our rites. I—" He swallowed, uncertain. "We need to see whether the surge has left a trace. If her core has truly expanded—"
Meiran's mouth felt dry as a kiln. "I didn't—" she began. The protest was immediate, reflexive, and true. In the back of her mind the dream's last words pulsed like a stubborn ember: you now have a bunch of mana. She had always known, with that keen, private knowledge she kept like a pebble in her pocket, that her mana core was small—too small to do more than boil a pot or light a candle. The idea that she could have conjured a blue blaze made her stomach roll.
The hut was loud now, the small room filling with footsteps and voices. Ruoyu bustled in one moment, his face linen-smooth with astonishment and excitement; the next he was crouched at Meiran's side, fingers brushing her wrist, then hovering near the sword that lay across her lap like a thing waiting to be woken.
Meiran's hands shook. The sword hummed like a living thing; its flame licked the snow in silent blue that did not melt the way normal fire did. The warmth in her chest throbbed in time with it, insistently, as if a heartbeat had been added to her own.
Meiran's voice was barely a thread. "But I—I never left the hut."
"You did," Baosheng said, and the accusation was gentle only in that it could not be harsher while still containing the fact that he had carried her back into the village. "We found you on the track out by the alder copse. You were walking, barefoot in places, and the sword was alight in your hands. The blue fire chased the snow back—it burned, Meiran, it burned trees. The patrols saw it and chased it off. If they'd been closer, you might have been burned to cinder."
Baosheng's knuckles whitened on the hilt of the sword. For a long moment he said nothing, only breathed, as if gathering the right mixture of anger and protectiveness. Around them, curious villagers had begun to gather, breath fogging, whispers crackling like dry straw. Fingers pointed at the charred path leading from the treeline: a darkened smear across the snow where the radiant blue had touched white and left it glassy and brittle. Small blackened tufts of grass jutted like broken teeth from the path, and the bark of a nearby sapling bore a pale, iridescent scar, as if the very wood had been rewoven.
A hush fell. Some of the crowd whispered of omens; others merely stared, knives of worry carved into their faces. Meiran's mind refused to fold the pieces into any sensible shape. Her memory of leaving the hut was a blank, a pool with no bottom.
Meiran watched the blade for a long time. The blue fire along its edge licked without consuming the air; it looked like water caught in a shaft of moonlight, both beautiful and alien. Her hands trembled not only from cold but from the strange, thrumming life that had settled beneath her ribs. The voice's last, casual line — you've got a great deal more mana now — rang through her like a bell.
The morning light slanted low over the rooftops, spilling through the frost in gold ribbons. The village of Qingliang, small and quiet under the northern hills, was stirring from its uneasy night. Smoke rose from chimneys, children clung to their mothers' skirts, and whispers chased between the houses like wind in reeds. Word of blue fire and Meiran's strange awakening had already reached every doorstep.
But this was not a cruel village. It was a place where everyone knew each other's names, where Ruoyu's medicines had healed their burns and Baosheng's sword had scared off wolves. They did not speak the words witch or curse here — in Yunyang, magic was a blessing, a divine art tied to the veins of the world itself. And yet, even blessings could frighten those who did not understand them.
When Meiran stepped outside the healer's hut, wrapped in a borrowed cloak, the people looked at her with wary concern. No one spat at her or fled. Instead, they bowed their heads slightly, pity softening their eyes.
"The poor child," muttered Auntie Xiu, who ran the bakery. "She's barely seventeen. To wake up with power like that… the heavens must be testing her."
"Ruoyu will teach her," another villager said. "Or the capital will. She's a good girl. Never raised her hand to anyone."
Meiran kept her gaze down. The air was sharp, and she could still smell the smoke of the burned alder beyond the woods. Her heart thumped in uneven rhythm — each beat warming her ribs, as if something inside was alive and restless.
Then a sudden commotion broke the calm.
A man stumbled from the forest's edge, his hair tangled with twigs, clothes torn and soaked from the creek. He was shouting even before anyone could recognize him.
"There! There she is!" His voice cracked with rage and wine. "That girl—she's a spirit, a vile thing wearing human skin! She attacked me!"
The villagers turned, startled. Someone whispered, "It's Old Zhong again," with the weary sigh of one used to his outbursts.
Baosheng immediately stepped between Meiran and the drunkard, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You'll keep your distance, Zhong," he warned. "You reek of wine and poor judgment. You accuse a child of spirit-possession? At dawn?"
Zhong staggered forward anyway, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "She burned the woods! I saw it! Blue fire! It came from her hands—" He jabbed a trembling finger at Meiran. "She came at me when I approached! You all think she's some sweet little orphan, but I tell you she's not human! A demon in human skin, that's what she is!"
A few villagers exchanged uneasy looks, but no one moved to approach. Meiran's heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. She took a step back, but Baosheng shifted immediately, placing himself between her and the man.
"That's enough," he said flatly. "You'll not speak of demonhood in this village. You forget—magic is a gift from the heavens, not a curse."
"She attacked me!" the drunkard roared again, but his footing slipped, and he nearly fell face-first into the snow.
"More like you scared her," an elderly man called from the back. "Who else would be in the forest at midnight, eh? You probably stumbled into her and thought the moonlight was a curse!"
Meiran stood frozen, unsure whether to cry or faint. But then, just as the tension began to ease, the warmth in her chest pulsed again. A sharp, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat that wasn't hers. Her breath caught—and then she heard him.
"He's the one who should be ashamed," the voice said, rich with disdain. "Sneaking up on a girl in the woods at midnight. If I hadn't burned the air between you, he'd have done something far less honorable."
Meiran's head snapped up. Her eyes darted around—toward the treeline, the rooftops, the crowd—but there was no one. Just Baosheng, the villagers, and the faint blue steam still curling off the blade in her hands.
Her lips parted. "Who—" she whispered, but the voice only hummed in quiet amusement.
"Ah, you heard me properly this time. Good. Don't look around like that—you'll only make them think you've gone mad."
Her pulse raced. She wanted to respond, to demand answers, but she dared not speak aloud. So she whispered inwardly, almost thinking the words rather than saying them. "Who are you?"
Zhong's face twisted, and he turned to argue, but Baosheng pushed him back toward a group of men who quickly restrained him. "Go sober up, old fool," one muttered, "before you wake the magistrate with your nonsense."
Meiran swallowed, the voice's earlier scoff still bright inside her skull. "He'd been leaning toward me. The intention was not noble. If this turns sour, say it was self defense."
She kept her lips pressed together, though the counsel felt like a foreign coin warm in her hand.
Ruoyu's gaze flicked to the sword and then back to Meiran's face. He exchanged a look with Lady Liang; both of them were people who had known the thin line between miracle and danger for long enough to step over it carefully.
The crowd began to thin after that, voices soft with sympathy as they passed her. No one spat curses or called for exile. Instead, they offered kind smiles, small bows, words of comfort. One of the women from the orphanage even pressed a steamed bun into her hand. "Eat, child," she said gently. "You must be frightened."
Meiran nodded mutely, unsure how to respond. She wanted to tell them she wasn't frightened—only confused—but that would have been a lie.
Baosheng and Ruoyu guided her back toward the healer's hut, their conversation hushed. The old mage cast a final glance toward the smoldering patch of earth where the flames had once burned, and his lips tightened into a thin line.
When they arrived, Ruoyu gestured for her to rest on the cot while he and Baosheng stepped outside to speak with the elders. Meiran obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed. But her curiosity—always her worst vice—got the better of her. She edged toward the window, careful not to make a sound.
"…the energy surge wasn't natural," Ruoyu was saying. "Her core expanded overnight—perhaps tenfold. That shouldn't be possible without a catalyst."
"Can she control it?" one of the elders asked.
"Not yet," Baosheng replied. "But she's no danger to anyone. She's a good girl. Still… we can't handle this here."
"We must decide quickly," Lady Liang said, voice low but firm, and she turned to the murmuring elders as Ruoyu explained what he had measured—nothing precise yet, only the bloom of warmth and the telltale signature in the steel. "The capital has scholars. They examine sudden surges and guide a young one before she draws attention she cannot yet bear."
There was a long pause, followed by the low murmur of agreement.
"It's for her safety — and ours," Ruoyu answered gently. "The capital mages can handle surges like hers. If she learns, she'll be an asset to us all."
At that, Meiran's heart leapt. Yujing City — the heart of the Yunyang Empire; a place she'd only read about in borrowed books. She pressed a hand to her mouth, barely holding back a gasp. Formal training… she could really become a healer now. A real one.
Meiran's heart fluttered. The capital? The idea filled her with both excitement and fear. The thought of learning magic properly, of standing in a marble hall instead of a snow-covered hut—it was more than she'd ever dared to dream.
Then, faintly, a sigh echoed inside her mind — the same voice as before, only quieter, edged with disapproval.
"That's… troublesome," it murmured. "If you move away, it'll be harder for him to find me."
"Who?" Meiran asked inwardly, desperate for answers. "What do you mean? Who's looking for you?"
Silence. Not even the faintest flicker of warmth.
Then, a roar cut through the darkness. Not a distant wolf or a bear, not the scrape of the wind over the pines, but a deep, resonant roar that rolled across the ridges surrounding the village, rattling windows and sending flurries of snow skittering over the rooftops. Meiran froze mid-breath, hands stilling on the edge of the table.
And then, from within her chest, that familiar voice spoke again — calm, unhurried, as if commenting on the weather.
"Ah. Perhaps my worries were unfounded after all," the voice mused. "Seems I've been found rather quickly."
"What—found? By what?" Meiran whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. But before she could ask further, the bell in the watchtower began to toll, its sharp clang ringing through the village square.
"The magistrate calls for evacuation!" someone shouted from the streets. "A worldly dragon has been sighted! A worldly dragon—above the southern ridge!"