Chapter 44
Cool, drizzling rain greeted Kelan and Dennor the next morning, pattering on the thatch roof of the inn and misting the air with the smell of damp earth. Summer's warmth had definitively given way to autumn's chill. By the time they finished a simple breakfast of porridge and tea, the rain had lessened to a light sprinkle, though grey clouds still blanketed the sky.
They donned their cloaks and set out from the Bridge Inn, the mule trotting along dutifully with its load. Kelan felt surprisingly well-rested despite the prior day's ordeal. Perhaps his resolve, forged in that conflict, lent him a new steadiness. The aches in his body were minor, and his mind felt clear. Dennor seemed in good spirits too, humming a tune as they made their way along a soggy dirt road that wound northward.
Over the next few days, they passed through a series of small settlements and wild lands, gradually making their way deeper into the tribally governed region. The travel itself settled into a routine. They woke early, walked for hours at a measured pace, rested at midday, then continued until dusk. Each evening they found shelter—sometimes an inn or trading post if one was along the route, other times the hospitality of a village chief's hall or, on one occasion, a humble farmer's barn when no better lodging was available. Only once did they camp out again under the stars, when they had to cover a stretch of uninhabited woodland for a full day. By now, Kelan had grown accustomed to a traveler's life: his feet hardened to the miles, and he learned to relish small comforts like a warm fire or a dry blanket.
With each league north, Kelan observed the cultural shifts keenly. The villages spoke various dialects of the northern tongue, though most locals also understood enough Imperial to trade and converse with Dennor. The further they went, the scarcer Imperial influence became. Kelan saw fewer of the stone roads or tiled roofs typical in the south; here houses were timber and thatch, roads often mere tracks or ancient paths trod by countless generations. The people dressed in wool tunics, furs, and leather, favoring practical attire against the growing cold. They wore clan markings—brooches or woven patterns—indicating their tribal affiliations. Kelan learned a few: the boar emblem for one clan, the eagle for another, knots of red and blue thread on clothing for yet another group.
They also encountered more evidence of clan rivalries. In one village, the locals spoke in hushed tones of a blood feud reignited due to a murder at a summer festival. In another region, they found a barricaded hamlet where the men stood armed at the perimeter; Dennor's inquiries found that a neighboring clan had made threats over disputed grazing lands. Though Kelan and Dennor kept to neutrality, offering healing to a sick elderly man in that hamlet as a gesture of goodwill, Kelan could feel the tension in the air. These lands were beautiful—deep forests and golden meadows—but under the surface lurked old wounds and a readiness for conflict that flared up unpredictably.
One late afternoon, as they trekked along a narrow valley, the distant sounds of clashing metal and shouting carried on the wind. Kelan and Dennor cautiously approached, cresting a low ridge to see a skirmish unfolding in the valley below. A group of about fifteen warriors were engaged in battle—swords, axes, and spears flashing in the dreary light. It looked like one clan's war party had caught another by surprise near a small river crossing.
Kelan's heart pounded at the sight. This was not a raid on them, but an actual clan battle in progress. Smoke rose from a torched cart at the scene, and a few bodies already lay on the ground. Dennor pulled Kelan down behind a bush before they were spotted. They watched for a few tense moments. It was over almost as quickly as it began; one side, dressed in cloaks of grey and black, overwhelmed the others wearing russet tunics. The losing side broke and fled into the woods, leaving behind two wounded and one dead. The victors did not pursue far; they gathered around the cart, perhaps reclaiming whatever goods had spurred the fight.
Kelan felt sick and transfixed at once. He had never witnessed actual warfare, however small-scale. The moans of the injured reached even their hiding spot. He clutched the strap of his pack, knuckles white. "Those injured men… they'll die without help," he whispered.
Dennor's face was taut. "I know." He assessed the situation. The victorious war band was still there, likely looting. Approaching them could be extremely dangerous—they might not distinguish two neutral travelers from foes, or they might simply kill witnesses.
Yet Kelan's conscience was shouting that he should do something. In the past days, he had been training more diligently than ever—honing his telekinesis by lifting heavier stones or helping villagers raise a barn beam, refining his scanning by diagnosing small ailments among people they met, even practicing controlled, harmless disruptions on plants (he found he could make a flower wilt by adjusting its life force, then revive it). He felt more confident in his powers than he ever had. And now, seeing people hurt…
"I have to help them," Kelan said, urgency in his tone. "At least the wounded. I can't just watch them die."
Dennor put a restraining hand on his arm. "Steady, Kelan. Rushing in could get us killed too. Those men might not want outsiders meddling, especially not to aid their enemies." He peered again. The war band was hoisting the goods from the cart and preparing to withdraw; a few warriors were arguing over something, perhaps the fate of the injured prisoners.
"We can't fight a dozen armed men," Dennor cautioned. "If they've a mind to harm us, our magic might not be enough at close range against that many. But perhaps…" He trailed off, calculating.
Kelan bit his lip. If they waited for the war band to leave, it might be too late for the wounded. One appeared to be crawling, trying to get away, only to be kicked down by a warrior. That made Kelan's blood boil. "They're going to kill those men or leave them to die slowly."
Dennor nodded grimly. "Likely. One is clearly dead already, the other two are at their mercy. Perhaps we can tilt their mercy." He motioned for Kelan to follow him along the ridge through the cover of brush, circling to get a better vantage closer but still hidden.
From their new position behind a thicket, Kelan was maybe thirty yards from the scene. He could see one wounded man clutching his leg, an arrow shaft protruding from it, his face contorted in pain. Another lay on his back, blood staining his side, coughing weakly—life slipping away.
Dennor whispered, "I'll create a distraction, something to spook them away. You be ready to run to the injured once they clear out. Understood?"
Kelan nodded, steeling himself. He gathered his focus, anticipating he'd need to sprint and then do fast healing triage under precarious conditions.
Dennor closed his eyes briefly. Kelan sensed a welling of power in the older mage—a focused illusion or auditory trick, perhaps. Suddenly, from the far side of the valley, opposite their location, there erupted a terrifying cacophony: the thunderous rumble of hooves and the echoing blast of a horn. To the warriors below, it would sound like another war band or cavalry charging over the hill. The effect was immediate: the war chief barked orders, and the raiders hastily grabbed what loot they could and fled, fearing reinforcements of their enemy or perhaps an Imperial patrol (though none was actually nearby). They disappeared into the treeline, leaving the skirmish site eerily empty except for the fallen and dying.
Kelan was already moving as the phantom noise still rolled. He dashed down the slope, Dennor at his heels. Reaching the first wounded man—the one with an arrow in his thigh—he slid to his knees. The man, a sandy-haired youth really, barely twenty, looked up in alarm and confusion. He was Rhen or from a similar tribe, eyes glazed with pain and fear. Kelan spoke calmly in Imperial first, then tried a few Rhen words, "Peace, I'll help." The youth, perhaps recognizing the intention if not all the words, went limp, nodding faintly.
Kelan placed his hands above the arrow wound, scanning quickly. The arrow had pierced deep, likely nicking an artery given the dark blood pulsing out. The man was in danger of bleeding out. Kelan concentrated, reaching in with his mind to constrict the blood vessel, slowing the hemorrhage. "This will hurt, hold on," he murmured, then carefully pulled the arrow out with a quick yank, immediately pressing his palm to the wound. He poured healing energy in, knitting torn flesh and sealing the vessel. It took several intense moments, during which the man groaned and then gasped in relief as the pain receded. Kelan's head throbbed with effort, but he managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize the injury. He bound the leg with a strip of cloth for good measure, though it was already closing.
Dennor, meanwhile, had rushed to the other man—the one coughing blood. Kelan swiftly joined him. This warrior was older, a stout man with a fierce beard, now matted with his own blood. A gaping wound in his side indicated he'd been run through by a sword. The blood bubbled at his lips—lung puncture. His eyes were unfocused, shock setting in.
Kelan's heart clenched. This was a grave wound. "Together," Dennor said, and for the first time, Kelan watched his mentor engage in healing magic. Dennor was a mind mage, but not primarily a healer like Zujan or Kelan. Still, two minds were better than one for such a massive trauma.
They worked in concert: Kelan scanned and found the exact tear in the lung and artery inside; Dennor used a firm hand to put pressure on the external wound and added a steady flow of calming psychic energy to keep the man from thrashing or panicking. Kelan then directed his will deep—this was far more complex than the child's cough or the bandit's heart rhythm. He visualized the torn lung tissue weaving back together, the ruptured blood vessel sealing off. He could feel Dennor lending him mental support, like additional strength channeled into the task.
The man's breathing was ragged, fluid filling the lung. Kelan guided the expulsion of that fluid, causing the man to cough violently, expelling blood onto the grass. Then, gradually, the bubbling in the wound ceased. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Color that had drained from the warrior's face began to return, and his eyes blinked, a bit more alert now.
It took perhaps ten minutes of intense focus, though it felt longer. By the end of it, Kelan was swaying on his knees, sweat pouring down his brow. He had closed the wound internally enough that the man would not die on the spot, though he was still weak and would need rest to recover fully. Dennor tore a piece of his own cloak to wrap around the man's middle as a temporary bandage once the bleeding was controlled.
The younger warrior with the leg wound struggled to sit up, groaning. He looked at Kelan and Dennor with an expression of astonishment. In halting Imperial, he said, "You… saved us?"
Kelan managed a smile between heavy breaths. "Yes. You'll be alright for now. But stay still." He realized that they needed to move these men or get them further help. The other clan might return once they realized the horn and hooves were a ruse.
"Who…?" the older man tried to ask, voice raspy.
"Friends," Dennor said gently. "Travelers. We mean you no harm. Can you walk or shall we carry you?"
The man coughed but sat up with Dennor's assistance. He was weak, but conscious now. "Carry the chief," the younger one said, switching to his tongue. He pointed to the older warrior—apparently their leader. "I can limp."
So the two of them slung the chief's arms over their shoulders and carefully lifted him. Kelan marveled at how he found the strength; likely he was running on pure adrenaline and residual magic energy. The younger warrior hobbled along, leaning on a makeshift crutch—a broken spear shaft.
They moved off into the woods, away from the site of battle. Not long after, through the trees, they saw small wooden structures: a wayside shrine, and beyond it a hidden camp of sorts—a couple of huts. It turned out to be a foresters' shelter, currently unoccupied. They brought the injured inside one hut and laid them on straw pallets.
Dennor fetched water from a rain barrel outside, and Kelan used it to clean the chief's wound more thoroughly and rinse his mouth of blood. He also gave both men a quick drink from his flask of herbal tonic (an infusion of willow bark and mint he had made at a previous village) for pain and fever prevention.
The chief, propped against a log wall, spoke a few strained sentences in Rhen. Kelan understood enough now to get the gist: he was thanking them and asking who they were that they would risk themselves for strangers, even clansmen not their own.
Dennor answered for them, explaining they were simply travelers and healers, owing allegiance to no clan, thus having no quarrel. He added that no life should be left to perish if they could save it. The chief nodded, a glint of respect in his tired eyes. He introduced himself with a weak voice: "I am Arald, of Clan Haerulf." The younger man was his nephew, Toren.
Kelan recognized the clan name from an earlier village—Haerulf had been in feud with Wulmar clan (likely the attackers they saw, if he recalled the heraldry). He did not press for details.
Arald insisted that if he survived, he would see to it that their deed was not forgotten. "Our halls… open to you, any time," he managed. Kelan smiled and simply said they were glad to help, urging him to rest now and not speak.
They ensured both men were as comfortable as possible. Toren's leg was much improved already under Kelan's healing—he'd walk with a limp for a while but likely recover fully. Arald's wound was still serious; Kelan advised Toren on keeping it clean and the need for rest. Dennor found some yarrow and comfrey growing wild near the hut and had Kelan prepare a poultice to place over the stitched flesh for additional healing boost.
Before parting, Kelan left a small packet of herbs and instructions (he drew a little pictogram to overcome language gaps): how to boil willow bark for fever, how to change the bandage. He felt a pang leaving them, but lingering could be dangerous if the conflict reignited, and they had to move on their journey.
Toren looked at Kelan with a mixture of gratitude and wonder, perhaps unused to such kindness from an outsider or the marvel of magical healing. He clasped arms with Kelan in the local gesture of friendship. Arald, still pale but stable, mustered a salute as well. Dennor gave them a quiet blessing for safety, and with that, the travelers slipped away from the hut, disappearing back into the autumn woods like a pair of wandering spirits.
They walked in silence for a while, putting distance between themselves and the site of battle. Finally, when they felt securely away, Kelan blew out a long breath. "That was… intense." He felt the wave of weariness that comes after the adrenaline fades. Healing such a grievous wound had taken a toll; he felt as if he had run miles.
Dennor looked equally drained but content. "It was the right thing to do," he said softly. "And you were brilliant, Kelan. Truly. I doubt I could have saved Arald alone. Your skill outstrips mine in healing by far. You might have given those men decades more of life."
Kelan flushed with equal parts pride and humility. "I'm just glad we got there in time." He swallowed, remembering the sight of warriors killing each other. "Though it's sobering. We saved them to perhaps continue a feud another day. But at least while they live, there's hope for resolution."
"Perhaps," Dennor conceded. "Or at least we've shown them that mercy and help can come from unexpected quarters. That might change them in ways we can't foresee."
They decided to take a short rest by a stream to recover some strength before continuing. Kelan ate a bit of bread and dried fruit to regain energy, and Dennor made a small fire to boil water for tea, using some nettle and chamomile they had gathered. As they sat on rocks sipping the warm infusion, Kelan reflected on the paradox of what he'd experienced: one day he was forced to harm to protect, the next he was using that same power to heal those harmed by others.
It struck him deeply how intertwined those aspects were. If he had shied away from learning the destructive side, he might also lack the resolve to act in crises. If he embraced only destruction, he'd be no better than the war band. Balance was the key—Modesitt's protagonists often find a balance between creative and destructive, order and chaos (like in Recluce). Here Kelan was finding his own balance.
He voiced some of these thoughts to Dennor. "All my life I thought I should only heal, because causing harm was wrong. But seeing how the clans fight, and the bandits… If good people won't fight or at least use power to counter evil, then evil wins by default. I think I finally accept that I have to cultivate both sides of my gift. Not to revel in the ability to hurt, but to ensure I can choose either path when it's needed."
Dennor listened with a proud, almost fatherly look. "That's all Zujan and I ever wanted you to realize, Kelan. Power is a tool. A hammer can build a house or it can crush a skull. It's the wielder and the intent that matter. Now, having the strength to do either gives you true freedom to shape outcomes. If you refused to harm at all, your only choice in some situations would be to allow harm to continue unchecked. And that, too, would be a kind of moral failing, would it not?"
Kelan nodded slowly. "It would. I see that now."
The rain had fully stopped and the clouds were beginning to break into strips of late-day sunlight. They decided to push on a couple more hours of travel before dusk. According to locals' directions, they were only a day or two from a notable northern town where many clans traded—a place where they planned to winter. Kelan was eager to reach it, but also found that each day of travel was adding invaluable experience. He had learned more about himself in these rough weeks than in years at the Academy.
That evening, they reached a small village nestled at the foot of stony hills. The village was under the jurisdiction of Clan Haerulf, they discovered. When word preceded them (likely via a rider who had found Arald and Toren), the villagers welcomed the strangers with open arms. It turned out Arald was a respected chief of the clan, and his survival was paramount to preventing all-out war with their rivals. Kelan and Dennor were treated almost like heroes—given the best corner by the hearth in the mead hall, plied with roasted game, fresh bread, and honey mead. It was a bit overwhelming for Kelan, who wasn't used to such fanfare. He blushed at the toasts raised to their health.
An elderly herb-woman of the village approached Kelan after dinner, offering him a small pouch of her finest dried healing herbs as a gift. "You have a healer's soul, young one," she said in a wavering voice, which Dennor translated softly. She showed him a mix of marigold, sage, and comfrey in the pouch. Kelan thanked her deeply and they exchanged a few tips through Dennor's interpreting—comparing northern and southern plants. It was a gentle, enriching conversation that reminded Kelan that healing was a universal language of compassion.
Despite the warm welcome, Kelan felt the exhaustion of the day's exertions, so he retired earlier than some. In the quiet offered to him in a side chamber of the hall, wrapped in furs, he reviewed mentally the surge of magic he'd wielded to heal Arald. It was the most complex healing he'd ever done. Back at the Academy, such a feat might have been worthy of a Master's rank exam. He was surprised at himself, yet it had felt natural in the moment, spurred by necessity. He realized a truth often revealed in Modesitt's stories: necessity and real-world application push mages to new heights more than any classroom exercise.
He also felt a growing inner strength—each serious use of power seemed to expand his limits a bit. His telekinesis now could lift larger stones with less strain; he'd practiced on a heavy log that morning, managing to budge it. His scanning range felt wider; sometimes while walking he could sense a deer in the forest a hundred yards off. As for destructive power, he hadn't had to use it again since the bandit fight, but he didn't fear it now; he acknowledged it like a sheathed blade at his side, hoping not to draw it but knowing he could.
Before sleep, he stepped outside briefly to get a breath of air. The sky had cleared, revealing a scatter of stars between drifting clouds. The air smelled of wet leaves and chimney smoke. Kelan pulled his cloak tighter and watched as a distant peak on the horizon shone faintly with snow under the moonlight—winter's herald on the high places. They would be in the town before the snow reached the lowlands, he hoped.
Dennor joined him, quietly coming to stand beside him in the dark. They didn't need to speak much. Both student and mentor had forged a deeper bond through their trials. Dennor eventually just said, "One more day, perhaps two, and we'll be at Northhaven." (That might be a name for the northern town, a common tongue name perhaps.)
Kelan nodded, gazing at that snowy peak. "I look forward to it. A place to stay put for a while… and train."
Dennor chuckled softly. "You're sounding like Zujan now, keen on studies. But yes. We'll train hard this winter. You've grown strong, Kelan, but there is always further to go. And who knows what spring will bring? The Empire, the clans… your destiny likely lies entwined with both."
Kelan took a deep breath of the cold air and released it. Destiny—a word thrown around often, but tonight he felt it. He felt on the cusp of something significant. "Whatever comes, I'll be ready," he said quietly.
Dennor simply placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of pride and companionship, then guided him back inside to the warmth of the hall. The chapter of wandering conflict and cultural discovery was drawing to a close; ahead lay a season of consolidation and growth.
As Kelan drifted to sleep that night, he did so with a clear conscience and a heart that bore the weight of newfound wisdom lightly. He had embraced the healer and the warrior within, and that balance gave him peace. Tomorrow, they would reach the town and another chapter would begin, but for now, amid the gentle snores of the villagers and the crackle of a dying fire, Kelan slept the deep, dreamless sleep of one who has done well and found his path a little more each day.
Chapter 45
Fat snowflakes swirled in the air, kissing Kelan's cheeks with cold as he and Dennor trudged the last mile toward Northhaven. It was late afternoon, and the winter storm had blown in faster than anyone expected, turning the world white. The northern town came into view through the veil of snow as they crested a final ridge: stocky timber walls encircling clusters of peaked roofs, thin plumes of smoke rising from dozens of hearths. Beyond the town, the broad valley opened to distant dark forests and, further north, mountain ranges capped in snow, now obscured by cloud. Northhaven was well-situated—a crossroads market town where various clan territories met and traded, and an outpost of sorts for Imperial merchants who ventured this far.
Kelan pulled his new fur-lined cloak tightly around him, grateful for its warmth. It had been a gift from the Haerulf villagers, made of thick wolf pelt. The cloak's hood was up, catching snow. Beside him, Dennor wore a knit cap and had wrapped a wool scarf over his mouth and nose, his colorful traveling garb now layered sensibly for the cold. The mule plodded on, unfazed by the weather, though a dusting of snow now speckled her coat and the packs she bore.
Reaching the town's gate, they found it manned by a pair of guards sheltered under an overhang. They were bundled in furs, bearing long spears. One stepped forward, calling out a challenge in the northern tongue. Dennor answered, raising a hand in greeting and explaining their purpose. The guard eyed them and asked if they were traders or simply seeking refuge from the storm. Dennor mentioned that Master Zujan had sent word for lodging—whether this was true or just a persuasive tactic, Kelan wasn't sure, but it seemed to have effect.
The guards decided these two travelers were no threat and waved them through, muttering about getting inside quickly before the snow piled too high. The heavy wooden gates creaked open just enough for them to enter single file.
Inside, Northhaven bustled despite the weather. The main street was muddy slush underfoot, churned by cart wheels and boots, but people were still out—some carrying firewood, others herding a last group of goats to shelter. The market stalls that likely thrived in fair weather were being hastily covered with tarps. The town was a mix of clan folk and a smattering of outsiders; Kelan even glimpsed a couple of olive-skinned men in Imperial-style cloaks unloading a wagon of goods—evidence of trade reaching this far.
The buildings were sturdily built of pine logs, roofs steep to shed snow, some covered in wood shingles. A larger structure near the center bore a painted sign of a foaming mug and a bed: clearly an inn. Dennor pointed to it. "We'll start there. The Winter's Hearth, if I recall correctly. They cater to travelers. We can inquire about a longer-term stay through the winter."
Kelan nodded, his face tingling as it warmed slightly now that they were out of the direct wind. They led the mule to the inn's adjacent stable first, negotiating with the stablehand for feed and board for the animal. Kelan made sure the mule was rubbed down and given hay—over the journey he'd grown quite fond of her steadfast presence. "Good girl, rest now," he murmured, patting her neck as she contentedly chewed hay in a dry stall.
Inside The Winter's Hearth inn, they were greeted by a rush of heat and the smell of woodsmoke, ale, and roasted meat. The common room was lively, filled with a motley crowd: northern hunters with pelts draped over chairs, merchants tallying notes by the fire, a few clan warriors drinking in a corner, their laughter loud. The walls were adorned with hunting trophies and a large tapestry depicting a mythic winter scene—perhaps the town's namesake hearth where a legendary chieftain welcomed all clans one cold winter ages past.
Dennor spoke with the innkeeper, a matronly woman with keen eyes. After a short discussion and the exchange of some coins and a letter (Zujan had indeed given Dennor a sealed letter for a contact here—likely a recommendation or introduction), arrangements were made. They would have a small room with two cots on the second floor, and long-term rates were negotiated for a stay of several months. The innkeeper seemed pleased, perhaps due to Zujan's note or the advance payment Dennor offered from his purse.
Once secured, Kelan and Dennor shrugged off their snowy cloaks and took a moment to simply be in the warmth. Kelan felt a wave of relief. They had made it. A roof, a warm place to sleep, and presumably safety for the winter—no need to always look over one's shoulder on the open road or worry if the next village would be friendly. He realized he'd been carrying a subtle tension throughout the journey that only now fully released.
They sat down to eat in the common room, enjoying a hearty stew of venison and cabbage, with dark bread and butter on the side. Kelan relished each bite, the rich flavors a comforting reward. A serving girl brought mulled wine spiced with cinnamon and cloves, which Kelan found delightful; it warmed him from inside out.
By the time darkness fell outside, the snowstorm had become a full blizzard, winds howling beyond the snug walls of the inn. From their corner table, Kelan watched flakes batter the window glass, then turned his attention to the logs crackling in the large stone hearth. He felt content and a bit drowsy from the meal.
Dennor, however, was already outlining plans. "Tomorrow, we should gather some supplies for your studies. Ink, paper for notes—assuming the market has a stationer or we can improvise. Also, perhaps a few simple instruments: candles, chalk, maybe some small weights for telekinetic practice."
Kelan smiled over the rim of his mug. "You're wasting no time, I see."
Dennor winked. "Winter is precious time. Not often a busy mage like me gets to sit in one place for months on end. We'll make the most of it. I expect by spring you'll have surpassed even more of your former limits."
Kelan's eyes drifted to the window again, where beyond, he knew, lay the vast expanse of northern wilderness and the scattered villages they'd passed. So much had happened in those places, yet here in town it felt remote, like another world. "I wonder how Arald and Toren are faring," he mused, thinking of the clan chief they saved. "Do you think the feud will calm?"
Dennor followed his gaze. "Hard to say. News travels slowly in winter, but Northhaven is a hub. We might hear tidings. With Arald alive, perhaps they negotiated a truce at the clan moot they were planning. Or at least postponed outright war. One can hope our act helped tip things towards peace, even if only a little."
Kelan nodded. "I hope so. At least we gave them the chance."
They sat in companionable silence for a time, listening to the tavern's sounds—someone playing a quiet tune on a lap harp, the murmur of conversations in mixed languages. Kelan reflected on how foreign this all would have felt to him a year ago. Now he navigated it with growing confidence. He picked up fragments of talk: a pair of traders discussing a new tax at the Imperial border, a hunter boasting of the giant elk he tracked in the high valleys, two craftsmen debating the best wood for bows. Each snippet painted more of the world's rich tapestry, and Kelan soaked it in, curious and eager to learn.
After the meal, they retired to their small room upstairs. It was plain but comfortable: two cots with wool blankets, a washstand, and a single shuttered window. The wind rattled the shutters slightly, and a draft seeped through, but they would manage. Dennor, ever practical, had them hang their cloaks over the worst of the drafty cracks and soon the room grew warmer.
Kelan sat on his cot and unlaced his boots, stretching toes that were grateful for respite. He realized with some amusement that he'd gone through two pairs of boots on this journey—his first pair had worn out from so much walking and was replaced in a village along the way by a sturdier local make.
From his pack, Kelan withdrew Master Zujan's journal—the one given to him on leaving the Academy. He hadn't read it cover to cover yet, saving it for quiet times. Perhaps now was ideal. He opened it to where he had left off. Zujan's neat handwriting filled the pages with observations on mind healing—case studies of patients, musings on ethics, and occasional personal notes hoping Kelan would find his own path. It made Kelan feel connected to his old mentor, despite the distance.
Dennor was sorting through their collected books and scrolls, arranging them on a small shelf. He murmured as he did, "We've amassed quite the trove. Zujan's works, my tomes, and those herbal notes you took."
Kelan's mind drifted over the idea that they could actually combine the knowledge now in a leisurely study. "I'd like to formalize some of it," he said. "Maybe write down what we've learned practically on the road. Like a supplemental treatise. It could be useful someday for others."
Dennor turned and raised an eyebrow. "Planning to become an author now, are we?" But he sounded approving. "Not a bad idea. Many of the Academy texts lack real-case examples from the wider world. If you document what you've done—like healing a lung puncture, or the internal technique of stopping that bandit without killing him—well, after a few decades you might have a masterwork on advanced mind magic."
Kelan laughed lightly. "Decades? I can hardly think beyond next year, Master Dennor."
"Just Dennor," the man reminded him with a mock frown. "We're far from Academy formalities. And that's alright—focus on the now. Tomorrow, training. Tonight, rest." He finished arranging things and poured a bit of water from a pitcher into the basin, washing his face and hands.
Kelan took his turn at the washbasin; the water was cold but refreshing. He met his own gaze in the small polished metal mirror above it. He looked different—leaner in the face, a few more faint scars on his hands, hair a bit longer and wilder from weeks without a proper trim, but his eyes… something in them was changed. The innocence was tempered with experience. He wondered if others saw it.
As he dried off, he said softly, "I feel… older. In a good way. Wiser, maybe. But also aware of how much more there is to learn. It's like, the more I grow, the more I see the horizon expanding."
Dennor, sitting on his cot, nodded thoughtfully. "That's the mark of true learning. The wise know they have more to learn. Fools think they've learned it all." He patted the book on his lap—a collection of advanced telekinetic theory they'd picked up from an antiquarian in one village. "For instance, I've never tried lifting anything heavier than a small cart with my power. But I suspect, with two of us working in tandem, perhaps we could shift something as big as that fallen oak in the courtyard out there, if needed. We might test such limits when you're ready."
Kelan recalled seeing that oak—a huge dead tree stump near the town hall. The thought of moving it even an inch with mind magic was daunting, yet exhilarating. "One day," he agreed. "Let's start smaller though."
They shared a chuckle. Then Dennor grew a bit somber. "Kelan, I want to mention—Zujan's letter to the innkeeper included a request. There's an herbalist-scholar here in Northhaven, a man named Uldric. Zujan knows him. We might collaborate with him while here, perhaps exchange knowledge. Also, the town occasionally needs healers, especially in winter, and lacks a full-time gifted one. We may be asked to help if sickness strikes. I for one think that's a fine way to keep your skills sharp and do good."
Kelan agreed without hesitation. "Of course. I'm happy to help however I can. It would be nice to practice healing in a more routine way too, not just emergencies. Even tending common colds or frostbite—good practice and community goodwill."
"Spoken like a true healer," Dennor said warmly. "But don't forget the destructive practice as well. We might ask the town watch if we can assist in training or something—perhaps subdue some practice dummies or spar with them using controlled magic. Or frankly, in deep winter, we could even go out a bit and practice on, say, dead trees or ice blocks to see how precisely you can target to crack or crumble things."
Kelan winced playfully. "Just promise you won't have me stopping your heart to test precision."
Dennor laughed. "Not planning on it. But perhaps if we find a condemned criminal… No, I jest!" He put up his hands in surrender at Kelan's horrified look. "Bad joke. We'll stick to non-living targets for lethal practice. Or maybe insects? There's an idea—see if you can still a fly in flight by briefly stopping it. Very fine control required to stun and not kill such a small creature."
Though morbid sounding, Kelan saw the point in terms of control. "Alright. Add 'stunning flies' to the curriculum," he said with a half-smile.
They eventually banked the small hearth in the room and settled into their cots. The storm continued outside, wind occasionally booming against the walls, but the inn was stout and barely quivered. Kelan was bone-tired from the final push through snow, yet his mind buzzed with the fact they were at a new milestone. He lay in the dark, hearing Dennor's breathing slow as the older man drifted off.
Kelan thought of home—his fishing village. How would they react if they saw him now? If he ever returned, he'd not be the same boy who left for the Academy. Perhaps one day he'd visit, maybe heal the ailments of the aging fishermen, share stories of far places with the youngsters. The idea was appealing, but he sensed that his path lay onward, not back, at least for now.
He thought of the Academy too. The friends he had (if any remained) and those who resented him. News of his departure might have spread. Would any be curious or regretful? Or were they glad he was gone? It mattered less to him now. In time, he might return there as well, not as a student but perhaps as a peer, to share what he learned. But that was a distant prospect.
Most of all, Kelan thought of the balance he was achieving. Here he was, safe in a haven, but not idle. The coming months promised intense growth. He envisioned a routine: mornings perhaps practicing meditation and scanning, late mornings helping at the local apothecary or infirmary if the town had one, afternoons drilling telekinesis in the snowy yard or reading theory by the fire, evenings discussing philosophy with Dennor over spiced wine.
It felt right. This period of calm and study would temper him further. By spring, he likely would be far more adept. And then? Maybe then he'd be ready for whatever larger destiny awaited—a return to the Imperial capital, or service in some capacity bridging Empire and clans, or confronting a threat yet unknown. He recalled Master Zujan's first words to him upon discovering his gift: "You have a power, Kelan, one that could mend a broken age or shatter it. It will depend on how you choose to use it."
Shatter or mend. He now firmly intended to mend—but if shattering the plans of wicked men or destructive forces was needed to protect the innocent, he would do that too. Because now he fully accepted both sides of that coin in himself.
At last, as midnight neared and the storm began to abate, Kelan's eyes grew heavy. He whispered a silent thanks to whatever fate or deity watched over travelers that they had arrived safely. Then he let himself drift into sleep, here at the end of this leg of his journey and the dawn of another.
The next morning, Northhaven woke under a thick blanket of snow, calm and bright. And in a modest room above The Winter's Hearth, a young mind mage awoke eager and determined. Chapter 45 closed with Kelan stepping to the window, pushing open the shutter to let in the crisp new day. He beheld the pristine snow-covered town and distant glittering fields and felt nothing but resolve and optimism. Winter had given him refuge and time—a gift he would not squander. He would train in both healing and destruction, mastering his gift to its fullest. Only then could he hope to fulfill whatever destiny awaited him beyond the snows, beneath the same wide sky that had seen him come so far already.