Too much caution is like a well-sharpened knife—it's meant to protect, but it often cuts too deep.
Soft, You Say?
George Willingham stepped unsuspectingly to one of the huge bookshelves. His fingers brushed over the spines of the ancient tomes, seeking out a particular volume among the countless others that lined the towering shelves. Just as he reached for the book he wanted, a hand darted out and plucked it from the shelf before he could grasp it.
"Bauart und die Formen der Baumagie," I read aloud, glancing at the title with a raised eyebrow. "Ah, so you're delving into creation magic?"
George froze for a moment, his fingers hovering in the air where the book had been moments before. He seemed to briefly consider ignoring me, as if my presence were a fleeting inconvenience. But with a resigned sigh, he turned to face me, his expression a mix of irritation and reluctant acknowledgment.
"None of your business," he snapped through gritted teeth, trying to mask his frustration. His efforts to pry the book from my hand were futile, adding to his evident displeasure. George was not known for his cheerful demeanor, and today was no exception.
You're the one who was entrusted with Pitou's capture?" I asked, and he merely sighed deeply.
I placed the book back on the shelf and offered him another one instead.
"Verschwundete und geheimnissvolle Art der Baumagie," I announced with a grin. "I'd recommend this one instead. It's a much more comprehensive read."
George's eyes widened in surprise as he examined the rare and seemingly ancient volume. "Agota Rosenstein's own work!" he muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting from the book to me with suspicion. "Where did you get this?"
"It's only a copy," I said, nonchalantly brushing off his curiosity. "But you might want to memorize it quickly. The book will crumble if you reach the last page."
As George reached out for the book, I pulled it back slightly, enjoying the brief moment of playful tension.
"But I'd like something in return," I added, a hint of mischief in my voice.
George's expression turned even more wary, likely expecting a darker request.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Apply a bit of pressure on the dark mages," I said. "Now is a great time to make catching them a priority for the hunters."
Willingham's eyebrows raised in surprise, as if he hadn't expected such a request.
"All right," he agreed after a moment's pause.
"Thank you," I said, handing him the book. I turned my back on the slightly baffled hunter and began to leave.
"Shaytan," he called softly, but he knew well enough that I could hear him.
I paused, glancing back.
"Did you get into something extremely dangerous again?" he asked.
I offered him my usual half-smile, one that never failed to irritate him.
"You know me," I replied, leaving him to his thoughts.
Hopefully, Willingham would be able to focus the hunters on capturing Pitou with renewed urgency.
(...)
Naturally, Rolo didn't take it well when he discovered that Mose had learned to fend off mental attacks before he did. His pride was bruised, and he wore his displeasure openly.
"Hm, Shay," Olie grinned, his eyes darting between Rolo and Mose, "you've got quite the eclectic group of monks around you."
This time, Olie had decided to come and help us. I didn't mind; despite Edie being more skilled in offensive magic, Olie brought a wealth of experience that couldn't be overlooked. I nodded in acknowledgment as Mose, still muttering under his breath, deftly countered a surprise assault from the other mage. He glanced up at Olie, who simply smirked and resumed his onslaught.
Rolo, however, looked like he'd just been slapped across the face—Mose's progress was a bitter pill to swallow. Meanwhile, Alex was laser-focused, refusing to let anything distract him as he faced down the dark mage attempting to besiege his mind. His jaw was clenched tight, his brow slick with sweat, but he showed no sign of relenting. Only his sheer willpower was keeping him upright; I could imagine the sting of the mental whiplash from each of the dark mage's attacks. His complexion was paler than usual, his breath shallow, but he remained steadfast.
As the days went on, I noticed a subtle change in his demeanor. The sharp aversion in his eyes began to soften, replaced with something resembling reluctant understanding. Sharing one's mind with another is the most intimate form of connection, more intimate than even the closest of physical encounters. When someone has the power to unearth your most guarded secrets, dredge up your most humiliating memories, or shred your consciousness, a strange kind of bond inevitably forms—whether you want it or not.
But that was not the case for Rolo. His aversion ran deeper.
When I found myself back in Rolo's mindscape, he presented a memory I'd seen before—a dark, cramped room that looked like an old basement. A small window, just below the ceiling, allowed the faintest glimpse of grass outside. Little Rolo was sitting inside a poorly drawn magic circle, his tiny form dwarfed by the surrounding shadows. It looked almost like he was attempting a dangerous summoning, but I knew better—he was just a desperate child trying to cast his first spell.
The magic circle, crude and unrefined, didn't spark as it should have. Nothing happened. Fat tears began to roll down his cheeks. I had seen this memory more times than I cared to count, and I knew exactly how it would end.
Rolo's brother, only six years his senior, had been capable of magic at a young age. But Rolo, blinded by envy, refused to acknowledge the difference in their abilities, preferring to blame his failures on the age gap.
The tiny child clenched his fists, his small claws biting into his palms and leaving crescent-shaped marks behind. Bitterness welled up in my chest. I watched as Rolo repeated the incantation, his voice quivering with frustration. Still, nothing happened. I closed my eyes, reminding myself that the pain I felt wasn't mine.
When I opened them, Rolo was panting, glaring at me with eyes that still held the sting of a fresh wound.
"All right, we're done for today," I said, nodding to him. "Well done."
He snorted, his expression twisted with disdain. "Don't praise me when I haven't accomplished anything."
His eyes screamed what he didn't say out loud: I don't need your pity. I smiled gently.
"You've improved," I said, my tone firm yet encouraging. "Every little step is worth celebrating. The first step on the road is just as important as the last."
Rolo muttered something under his breath, brushing past me as he headed for the living room. In the past few days, we'd developed a habit of drinking cocoa after practice. Rolo needed the comforting warmth of the drink more than he'd admit, soothing his wounded pride and troubled soul.
And, in moments like these, I was reminded that even something as simple as cocoa could work wonders on a bruised heart.
Rolo muttered something under his breath as he finished his cocoa, setting the empty mug on the table with a soft thud. Without another word, he trudged off toward his room, shoulders slumped under the weight of his frustration. I watched him go, feeling the silent storm swirling inside him.
Mose and the mages quietly followed, slipping away like shadows fading into the night. The room grew still, the faint ticking of the clock filling the silence they left behind.
Alex lingered, his expression conflicted as he glanced between the empty space where Rolo had been and me. I could sense the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior, a hint of hesitation in the way he fidgeted with his own mug. Finally, he looked up, meeting my eyes with a mix of concern and determination.
"Shay," he began, his voice low but steady, "I think... I think you're pushing Rolo too hard."
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sudden boldness. I leaned back in my chair, considering his words carefully before responding.
"He's stronger than he thinks, Alex," I said calmly, though I could feel the faintest edge of defensiveness creeping into my voice. "He just needs to realize that."
Alex shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. "I know that, but... he's not ready. You saw how he was today. It's like he's fighting ghosts in his own head. Every time he stumbles, it just sets him back further."
I studied Alex closely. His brows were knitted, and his pale blue eyes were heavy with worry. He was always the steady one, the anchor of our little group but he himself seemed quite unsure now.
"I get it," he continued, running a hand through his dark hair. "I get that you want him to grow, but this isn't just about power or skill. It's like you're tearing open old wounds, and I'm scared... I'm scared he won't heal from this."
There was a vulnerability in Alex's voice that tugged at something deep inside me. He wasn't wrong. Rolo's training was harsh, and it was digging up things that had long festered beneath the surface. But wasn't that the point? To face what haunted him, to confront his own darkness head-on?
I exhaled slowly, weighing my response. "Rolo's been running from himself for too long, Alex. If I don't push him, he'll just keep hiding, and that won't do him any good in the long run."
Alex set his mug down with a clink, frustration bubbling up again. "But what if he breaks, Shay? What if this doesn't make him stronger—what if it just makes him give up?"
The weight of his words hung between us, heavy and unyielding. Alex's concerns weren't baseless, and part of me knew that. But I also knew Rolo. I knew the fire in him, the stubbornness that had kept him going even when everything seemed stacked against him. I chuckled.
"He won't give up. Ever," I said finally, my voice firm but tinged with a quiet resolve. "He's got too much fight in him for that. But I promise, Alex, I'll keep an eye on him. I won't let him fall."
Alex looked at me, searching my face for reassurance, and I hoped he found it. "Just... don't forget that he's not a student to us, Shay. He's our friend."
I nodded, feeling the weight of that truth settle over me. Rolo was part of our strange little family. He nodded back.
After our conversation drifted into a thoughtful silence, Alex leaned back against the wall, looking lost in his own thoughts. I watched him for a moment, noticing how the stress lines creased his forehead and the subtle tension still lingering in his posture. The talk about Rolo had clearly stirred something in him, but there was something else too—a heaviness that hadn't quite lifted.
I decided to shift the focus, "How's your training with Mazen going?"
Alex glanced up, blinking as if he'd forgotten where he was. He shrugged, a slight movement that belied the complexity of his emotions. "It's... intense," he admitted, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "He's always pushing, always testing me. Sometimes it feels like he's trying to rip apart everything I thought I knew about myself."
His voice was laced with exhaustion, but there was something else beneath it—something raw and tangled that he was struggling to put into words. I nodded, knowing exactly what it was like to train with someone who saw through every shield you put up, every weakness you tried to hide.
"He's trying to make you stronger," I said, my voice soft but firm.
Alex smiled faintly, a flicker of relief passing over his features. It wasn't much, but it was something. He paused, his eyes flickering with something conflicted. "But, you know, Mazen still isn't as tough on me as you are with Rolo. I've noticed something... weird. If we stumble upon something that really gets to me, something that hits too close to home... Mazen backs off. He doesn't push when he sees me reacting to certain things."
Alex's admission hung heavy between us. I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Mazen wasn't known for being gentle—he was strategic, precise, and relentlessly effective. If he was giving Alex space when he hit a sore spot, that was... unexpected.
"He backs off?" I echoed, trying to understand. "That's not like him."
Alex nodded, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know. I thought he'd push right through, force me to face whatever it was. But instead, he stops, like he's... considerate, I guess. It's strange. I'm not used to it. Makes me feel... softer, weaker. It's like he's giving me permission to avoid my own weaknesses, and that just feels... wrong."
The edge in Alex's voice was unmistakable confusion.
"Maybe Mazen sees something in you that's different," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully. "He's not treating you like a soldier; he's treating you like... someone who needs space to figure it out. Doesn't mean you're weaker, just means he's adapting his approach to what you need."
Alex shook his head, his expression tightening. "Or he doesn't think I can handle it," he said, voice low. "I've seen how you train Rolo—there's no mercy, no hesitation. You don't give him a chance to turn away from his fears. But Mazen... he's careful with me. Doesn't that make me weaker?"
I took a deep breath, realizing how much this had been eating at Alex. "You're not Rolo, and Mazen knows that," I said firmly. "But if you want him to push you harder, you have to show him that you can take it. Don't give him a reason to hold back. Demand the fight, Alex. Prove to him—and yourself—that you're ready to face whatever comes."
Alex's expression hardened with resolve. "Yeah. I think it's time I stop letting him back off. I need to be ready for whatever's out there... especially if it's anything like what you've got Rolo facing."
Good. Hm, but Mazen, being soft? It wasn't in his nature. He was a man hardened by battles, both physical and psychological, a master at twisting the knife when it meant a lesson learned. Yet here was Alex, feeling like he was being handled with care, and not just any care—the kind that avoided old wounds.
I couldn't help but wonder if Mazen's restraint was deliberate. Maybe it wasn't about Alex's strength or readiness at all. Maybe it was about the dark shadow hanging between them.
Mazen knew, as well as anyone, that Alex's hatred for dark mages ran deep, rooted in pain and personal loss. The wolf's rage was a barely contained storm, and Mazen, despite his usual ruthlessness, was acutely aware of it.
I remembered the countless times I'd seen that look in Alex's eyes—the raw anger, disdain, and sometimes hate even. Mazen must have seen it, too.
Maybe Mazen was worried that pushing Alex too far, too fast, would only deepen the rift between them. The distrust was already there, simmering just beneath the surface. It was one thing to train under someone you disliked; it was another to have your deepest scars pried open by someone you outright hated.
Mazen knew damn well that Alex's disdain for dark mages wasn't just a casual bias—it was personal, visceral, and Mazen was a constant reminder of everything Alex despised. A dark mage was the one who murdered his father and mother, how could he not hate them?
Was that it? Was Mazen afraid of becoming the enemy in Alex's eyes, more than he already was? The line between teacher and tormentor was thin in this field, and Mazen, in all his wisdom, might have been treading carefully to avoid crossing it.
I knew Mazen wasn't soft by nature. Every ounce of restraint was a calculated choice, every inch he gave was a conscious decision not to push Alex over the edge. Maybe it wasn't softness; maybe it was really strategic retreat.
Mazen was navigating a minefield with Alex, and maybe he didn't have all the answers. None of us did. But I knew one thing for sure—Mazen wasn't afraid of pushing Alex. He was afraid of me losing him.
Alex might not see it, not yet. But Mazen's restraint wasn't about weakness. It was his way of trying to reach Alex without hurting him. And that was something I couldn't help but respect, even if it made things harder for both of them.