Chapter 8: The Sister's Letter

The morning light filtered through the high, arched windows of the dormitory common room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Bima sat at the scarred oak table, his hands trembling as he stared at the wax-sealed envelope resting on the wood. It was from home. It was from his mother.

"Just open it, Bima," a voice rasped. It was Elian, his roommate, who was busy sharpening a wooden training blade. "You’ve been staring at that seal for ten minutes like it’s going to bite you."

Bima didn't look up. "You know what’s in there, Elian. It’s either good news or it’s not news at all. If it’s from home, it’s usually the latter."

"You’re always so bleak, mate," Elian sighed, sliding his blade into his belt. "Maybe your sister’s finally doing better? The season’s changing, right? That usually helps with the respiratory ailments."

"Lila’s condition isn't affected by the weather," Bima said, his voice tight. "It’s the mana-sickness. It eats away at her constitution. The healers said it only gets worse without a steady influx of high-grade, purified energy."

"And you’re here, at the Academy," Elian said, his tone softening as he sat down opposite him. "Learning how to blast holes in dummies instead of learning how to fix people."

Bima finally picked up the letter. He broke the wax seal, the sound loud in the quiet room. His eyes scanned the familiar, cramped handwriting of his mother.

Bima, my dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your studies are progressing, even if the road is hard. I write to you because the silence feels heavier every day. Lila is... she is fading, Bima. The apothecary says the herbs are no longer enough to suppress the tremors. She asks for you often. She tries to smile, but her breath is so shallow now. We need the support, but more than that, we need a miracle. If you have learned any way to aid her, please, let us know. We are praying for your success, but please, do not lose yourself in this place.

Bima dropped the letter. The paper fluttered, landing face-up on the table.

"Well?" Elian asked, his eyes wary. "What’s the damage?"

"It’s not just the tremors anymore," Bima whispered, his throat closing up. "She’s fading, Elian. She’s literally fading away. The mana in her blood is turning stagnant."

"That’s bad," Elian murmured, leaning back. "That’s really bad, Bima. You need to talk to the infirmary staff. Maybe one of the professors could write a referral or send some supplies?"

Bima shook his head, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "And tell them what? That the 'Nothing-Ball' boy needs high-grade medicine for his sister? They’d laugh me out of the building. To them, I’m the one who can’t even ignite a match."

"You’re not the same person you were a week ago," Elian pointed out. "I saw you in the yard. I saw how you handled the stabilizer. You’re changing, man."

"It’s not enough," Bima said, his voice rising in intensity. "It’s not fast enough! Everyone here plays with their power like it’s a toy. They don't understand that for some of us, this is the difference between a life and a memory."

"Okay, look, take a breath," Elian said, reaching out to pat Bima’s shoulder. "What are you going to do? You can’t just walk out of the Academy gates."

Bima grabbed the letter and crumpled it into his fist. "I’m going to master it. I’m going to master the restoration flow, and I’m going to do it before the week is out."

"Bima, wait," Elian said, his eyes widening. "You’re talking about the Advanced Mending curriculum. That’s for the third-years. That’s dangerous stuff. If you mess up a conduit alignment during a mending cast, you don't just fail; you draw energy from your own heart to bridge the gap."

"Then I’ll be careful," Bima snapped, standing up so abruptly his chair clattered to the floor. "I’ve spent three years being careful. I’ve spent three years being 'safe' and 'useless.' It hasn't saved her, has it?"

"You’re losing your head," Elian warned, rising to follow him. "This isn't about being useless. It’s about not dying. If you push that hard, you’ll burn out. You’ll be the one in the infirmary."

"Then at least I’ll be there for a reason!" Bima walked toward the storage locker, his mind reeling with the diagrams he’d seen in that strange, ancient book.

"Bima, stop!" Elian blocked the door, his face stern. "Think for a second. You don't have the catalyst anymore. That silk thing? You said yourself you lost it to the guards. You’re back to using your own core. Is that really safe?"

Bima looked at his friend, his expression cold and detached. "I don't need the silk to know the flow. I know the rhythm now. I can feel it in my sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the meridians. I see the lines. It’s all there, Elian."

"You sound like you’re obsessed," Elian whispered.

"I am," Bima admitted. "And if you want to help, get out of my way."

Elian sighed, stepping aside with a look of profound regret. "I’m going to tell Halloway if you end up collapsing, you know that?"

"Tell him whatever you want," Bima said, grabbing his satchel and shoving his books inside. "Just don't get in my way."

Bima left the dorms and headed straight for the secluded alcove in the library’s basement. It was a place he’d discovered during his long, lonely nights—a spot where the mana signatures were thick and unmonitored.

He sat down on the cold stone floor, pulling the ancient book from his bag. The cover was worn, but as he touched it, the leather pulsed with that same familiar, rhythmic thrum.

"All right," he whispered to the empty, shadowed space. "I need to bridge the gap. I need to take the energy of the room and force it into a concentrated pulse."

He opened the book to the final, most complex page—a sequence of runes he had previously deemed impossible for a student of his rank. The lines were jagged, sharp, and looked like they were designed to cut rather than heal.

"This is the High Restoration sequence," Bima muttered, tracing the symbols with his trembling finger. "It’s supposed to be a mass-mend for battlefield injuries. If I compress it… if I focus it entirely on a single target… it should be enough to jump-start a dying core."

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the gnawing, cold ache in his gut. He thought of Lila—her pale, sunken cheeks, the way her hand felt like parchment in his own.

"For you, Lila," he whispered.

He started the incantation. The air in the room grew heavy, the ozone tang spiking sharply. His mana began to pool in his chest, a swirling, chaotic vortex that felt far larger than he had ever experienced.

"Too much," he hissed, his muscles tensing. "Slow it down. Pull it back."

He tried to weave the energy, to force it into the shape of the runes, but the mana fought back, surging against his ribs like a tidal wave. It was aggressive, sharp, and hungry.

"It’s not healing energy," Bima realized with a jolt of panic. "It’s life-force. It’s drawing from everything."

The shadows in the room began to leach away, as if the spell were devouring the very darkness itself. Bima’s vision blurred. His heart rate skyrocketed, each beat sounding like a drum against the silence of the room.

"I can't let go," he gasped, his teeth clenching until they ached. "If I break the sequence now, the backlash will tear me apart. I have to finish it."

He pushed, his veins glowing with a faint, dangerous light beneath his skin. He was no longer trying to control the mana; he was barely surviving the torrent of it.

"Just one more," he whispered, his consciousness starting to fray at the edges. "Just one more turn of the flow."

He slammed his palm against the floor, forcing the entire weight of his concentration into the final rune.

The room erupted in a silent, blinding flash of white light. A shockwave, potent and precise, tore through the air, vibrating the very foundations of the library. Then, absolute, suffocating silence.

Bima slumped forward, his forehead hitting the cold stone. He was panting, his lungs burning as if he’d inhaled a hearth fire.

He looked at his hand. It was raw, the skin angry and inflamed, but there was a faint, lingering warmth—a residual glow that wasn't his, but something ancient, something he had managed to pull from the very fabric of the spell.

"Did it work?" he croaked, his voice barely audible.

He looked around the room. The stone floor where he had touched it was now covered in a thin layer of crystalline frost, as if the spell had drained every ounce of heat from the immediate vicinity.

He hadn't mastered it. He had barely survived it.

Bima closed his eyes, his head swimming. He could hear voices in the distance—the frantic footsteps of the library wardens checking for the source of the surge.

"I’m getting closer," he whispered, a grim smile touching his lips. "I’m getting closer, Lila. I promise."

He stood up, his legs shaking violently, and stuffed the book back into his satchel. He didn't wait for the guards. He slipped into the shadows, a ghost in the halls, his mind already calculating the next, even more dangerous, iteration of the spell.

He was going to save her, even if it meant tearing the entire Academy down around him to do it.