"I'm sure you know healing goes far beyond tending to people, right? You can heal plants, objects… and if necessary, you can destroy them as well."
Vela circled slowly around Aroha as she spoke, her voice lilting with amusement. It was clearly meant as intimidation, an attempt to make Aroha flinch or retreat. Instead, Aroha held her ground firmly, arms crossed, gaze unblinking. Vela's tactic had failed before; today was no different.
"We're not allowed to use that technique except in dire situations," Aroha retorted. Her usually soft expression was replaced with a sternness that closely resembled Gero's own. When he had taught them the technique, reluctantly, and only after catching them attempting it in secret, he had been painfully explicit about its dangers. It required a level of druid-mana control that even some of the pureblood Renoffs never truly mastered. Zhiyi had potential; she possessed the kind of instinctive finesse that made control appear effortless. Aroha, however, was not nearly as close. Had Zhiyi not been involved, Gero might never have bothered teaching Aroha at all. But two reckless prodigies experimenting unsupervised was far more dangerous than allowing them controlled practice.
"Oh, but you can use it," Vela pressed with a teasing smile. "The Death Palm. That means you two are more than qualified as professional healers… or should I call you warriors instead?"
The name alone carried weight. The Death Palm was the polar opposite of healing, it induced decay, unravelling life at the most fundamental level. Before Gero and Miya Renoff revolutionized their discipline, healers were taught a few defensive measures, but these proved nearly useless in actual warfare. On a battlefield, healers were indispensable yet fragile, valuable yet always vulnerable. It was out of desperation that Gero created the Death Palm: a weapon only a healer could wield, giving them, and the Croft Kingdom, an unexpected advantage. It was controversial, powerful, and feared.
"I can use it," Aroha admitted carefully. "But what surprises me is how you, a non-Renoff, can."
It was an honest observation, not an insult. Though the Grand Healer openly opposed the Death Palm and refused to confirm whether she herself could wield it, everyone assumed she could. Her control dwarfed even the Renoffs. Historically, however, only Renoffs had ever performed the technique successfully.
But Vela was different. A prodigy whose abilities surpassed every Renoff still residing in the capital. If she had been born into their lineage, rumours might have claimed she would one day outshine even Gero and Miya. Her mastery, achieved without living through the war that shaped those two legends, was nothing short of astonishing.
"Oh? I thought you didn't judge by family. I'm disappointed," Vela replied lightly.
Then, with a single gentle tap of her finger on the grass beneath them, the ground responded. A ripple of decay spread outward in a perfectly circular wave, and in an instant, every blade of grass around her withered into grey husks. Aroha and Zhiyi both jerked back, startled, the technique had been executed faster than they had ever seen. Even Gero, when demonstrating, always softened the effect for training.
Just as quickly, Vela lifted her finger, and verdant colour flooded back through the circle. Grass rejuvenated, standing tall as if nothing had happened.
Shock swept through the group. Even the guards accompanying Ara sucked in a breath. Only Ara himself remained calm, arms folded, expression unreadable. He had seen Vela do this trick before; she used it whenever she wanted to leave an impression. And it always worked.
"How did you do that? Teach me, please!" Zhiyi exclaimed, grabbing Vela's hand eagerly.
Aroha said nothing. Pride kept her silent, but she knew, painfully, that she couldn't replicate that level of skill. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Of course, Zhiyi. Anytime." Vela grinned before turning her gaze deliberately toward Aroha. "So, Aroha… what were you saying again?"
She already knew she had won this little exchange. Aroha's stiff expression confirmed it.
"Hmph. You were just lucky," Aroha tried to tease, but the edge of defeat in her voice betrayed her.
Vela only chuckled. Aroha's spirited resilience made her entertaining.
"All right, enough of that," Ara finally cut in. "Let's get on with why we came out here in the first place." Watching their competitive display had been amusing, but undeniably one-sided. He'd expected Aroha to put up more of a fight. Apparently, even she knew when she was outmatched.
They had barely walked a few streets away when the manor's head approached, surrounded by so many guards that he looked more like royalty than a steward. His appearance was immaculate: a red silk tunic, polished red leather boots, and his long purple hair flowing behind him like a carefully arranged banner. That hair was his pride, his identity, and he tended to it with obsessive care.
"Lord Alex," Ara said, bowing just enough to satisfy courtesy.
"Prince Ara," Alex Renoff replied with a shallow bow of his own. "My apologies for the inconvenience. The girls were not supposed to be out yet. I planned to escort them later today, but they slipped out before breakfast. Would you mind if they returned with me?"
He spoke politely, but the shift in his expression whenever his gaze drifted to Vela was impossible to miss.
Alex was Miya's cousin, the most talented Renoff left in the capital after Gero and Miya departed. Naturally, he had been chosen as the next head of the clan. But following the armistice, he abandoned healing almost entirely, turning his attention to politics and basking in the aristocratic lifestyle the Renoff name now afforded him.
"Is that so?" Ara replied smoothly. "We weren't even informed of their arrival in the capital. And apparently, even the Vice Grand Healer was unaware. Do you care to explain that?"
Ara rarely bothered hiding his dislike of the Renoffs. Many in the kingdom secretly despised how arrogant the clan had become since Gero and Miya elevated its status. But only Ara, protected by royal birth, could voice that resentment openly.
Alex stiffened, jaw tightening, though he maintained a veneer of composure.
"I wanted the girls to settle in before they decided whether to move to the Healers' Nest. Not permanently, of course. Once they experience the capital, I imagine they might choose something… better."
His gaze swept down Vela as he spoke, dripping with disdain. To him, healing was beneath the Renoffs now. The irony was lost on him; healing had been the very foundation of their rise.
"Wait, what do you mean you didn't send our letters?" Zhiyi cried. "Then why did you send for us?"
Alex had been their intermediary in Juza. He was supposed to send their applications and paperwork to the Healers' Nest. But clearly, he had done nothing of the sort, explaining why the Nest hadn't expected their arrival.
"You're blinded by that small village," Alex said dismissively. "I may not convince the old heads, but you young ones, you have too much potential to waste it there. Or at the Healers' Nest, for that matter. You're the highest of the purebloods. Gero and Miya's own children. You deserve more."
"More what?" Vela snapped before anyone else could speak. "Their parents were the greatest healers this empire has ever seen. And still are. You would dare say that, knowing the history of your family?"
She expected trouble for speaking out of turn, but she didn't care. The Renoffs owed everything to Gero and Miya. Hearing Alex diminish their legacy was unbearable.
"And who do you think you are to speak to me?" Alex retorted sharply. "Vice Grand Healer may be a high rank, but you're not a Renoff. Know your place, girl."
There it was, the discrimination Vela endured constantly. No matter how much she achieved, people like Alex would never acknowledge her worth.
"Uncle Alex," Aroha cut in quickly, sensing the rising tension. "We were on our way somewhere. Do you mind if we return later on our own?"
Alex huffed, flicked his hair back, and straightened his tunic. "Do as you like. Just don't take too long."
He turned sharply and strode off, guards scrambling to follow. But as he disappeared into the street, his composed façade cracked. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Don't you worry," he muttered under his breath. "It'll all be over soon."