When Magic Bleeds: Rise of the Mana Champion

The smell of burnt wood, this time, was mild, closer to glowing embers than the ashes of a massacre. Kael opened his eyes with difficulty. His head throbbed, and his body felt like cracked stone. He was lying on simple furs, wrapped in a rough blanket and an embracing silence.

The light filtered through a worn tarp told him it was daytime. A faint golden ray slipped through a gap in the makeshift tent, dancing over the dust suspended in the air.

He tried to sit up slowly. His arm still hurt, but it was no longer bleeding. It had been carefully bandaged — and even without asking, he knew who had done it.

He pushed the tarp aside and stepped out.

Outside, the scene was simple and calm. Tall trees surrounded the clearing, and the sound of birds filled the spaces once claimed by screams. Sir Elion sat on a log, perfectly cut — likely with his own sword. Before him, a low fire crackled, warming a small cauldron. The smell of herbs and roots in the steam was familiar and comforting.

Beside the knight, the horse lay resting — rare for such a vigilant creature. But there was no alarm in its eyes, only a near-sacred stillness. As if Elion's presence erased, if only for a moment, the weight of the world.

Kael leaned against the tent's frame, observing silently.

"Still alive," Elion said without looking at him. His voice was calm, but carried that strange tone, as if always halfway through a prayer.

"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."

Kael snorted, his throat dry but sarcasm intact.

"If that's your version of 'good morning,' I'd rather go back to the coma."

Elion smiled faintly, still facing away.

"I made tea. It won't heal wounds... but it soothes the monsters inside."

Kael walked slowly toward the fire. He sat on a nearby rock, letting out a quiet groan of pain as he settled. He held his hands near the flames — more for the gesture than the warmth.

"So..." he said, his voice still hoarse, "...what's a consecrated knight doing so far from the great kingdoms and temples?"

Elion stirred the cauldron with a wooden spoon. The liquid swirled slowly, releasing sweet and bitter vapors at once.

"I was part of the temple of Umberhill," he said calmly. "But those who speak too much tend to go too far. And those who refuse to stay silent... end up far from everything."

"Exiled for too much faith?" Kael raised an eyebrow.

"For refusing to pretend faith is blind." Elion gave a half-smile. "Even in exile, I remain of the Veiled Order. Elyra still hears me... even if men do not."

Kael let out a lopsided grin.

"Disgraced holy men... I'm in good company."

Elion finally looked at him, his gaze calm but attentive.

"You appeared amid smoke, blood, and the bodies of aberrations. It's not every day we find someone like that... alive. I couldn't just leave you there."

"You didn't know what I was. I could've caused the Rift."

"Could've." Elion shrugged. "But the silence there... it didn't scream guilt. It screamed loss."

The knight removed the cauldron from the fire and served two wooden mugs of the dark tea. He handed one to Kael, who accepted without ceremony.

"Any idea who opened the Rift?" Elion asked, direct and without pretense.

Kael shook his head slowly.

"I saw no rituals. No cult markings. Just monsters and desperation. It appeared on the road. As if... the world had opened yet another wound without warning."

Elion nodded silently, thoughtful.

"So where are you headed now, Kael?"

The young man looked east, where the mist thinned between the trees.

"Bravamar. A coastal city. They say the ports are still open. Maybe I'll find answers there... or at least someone who needs someone like me."

"Bravamar is far."

Kael lifted the mug to his lips, sipping the tea.

Elion remained silent for a few moments, simply watching Kael drink — savoring more the ritual than the taste. The distant rustle of leaves cradled that fragile moment of calm.

"Bravamar is far," the knight repeated, as if testing the name on his tongue.

Kael lowered the mug, eyes fixed on the mist between the trees.

"Yeah. And I'm not exactly welcome on the shortcuts." He paused. "But... if I wait for safe roads, I'll end up like the rest of the village."

Elion looked down at his own tea for a moment, then stood up without hurry. He walked to the edge of the clearing, where his armor hung from a low branch.

"You're still hurt," he said, adjusting the chest straps. "And that path crosses lands where even maps hesitate. You'll need sharp eyes. And a sword that doesn't tremble."

Kael raised an eyebrow.

"Are you offering protection?"

"I'm offering company. For a stretch." Elion turned, armor now in place and expression serene. "The Order taught me that sometimes, even silence needs a witness."

Kael hesitated. He looked at the forest. At the horse. At the mark on his arm, still under bandages. Then exhaled with a half-smile.

"Exiled knights and marked wanderers... sounds like the start of a bad joke."

"Could be. But every bad joke hides a truth."

Kael stood slowly, still feeling the weight of his body. But something in him felt lighter than the day before.

"Bravamar, then."

"Bravamar."

And without another word, they began to take down the camp. The silence that followed them no longer felt empty — it felt like acceptance.