Chapter 89: Saving an enemy

Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Saving an enemy

The forest held its breath.

Ancient oaks stretched their gnarled fingers toward a sky that seemed impossibly distant, their leaves filtering the afternoon light into scattered gold that danced across the moss-covered floor. The air smelled of damp earth and wild jasmine, that particular sweetness that only deep forests carried. Birds sang in the canopy above, their calls echoing through the trees like distant bells.

But beneath all that beauty, something stirred.

"Pandora’s Codex."

The name landed in Theon’s mind like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward through memories he had not visited in months. His body went still—not the stillness of calm, but the stillness of a predator catching a scent on the wind. The name was familiar. Not in the way that old legends were familiar, not in the way that stories told around winter fires lingered in the back of one’s mind. No, this familiarity was sharper. More recent. More dangerous.

He searched through the corridors of his memory, walking backward through battles and conversations, through quiet nights and desperate mornings. And then he found it.

The elves.

The shadow mage.

The memory rose unbidden, vivid and unwelcome. Theon remembered the weight of chains in his hands as he had broken them, the terrified faces of the elven prisoners, the suffocating darkness that had filled the chamber like smoke. He remembered the shadow mage’s voice—that hollow, rasping sound that had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. And he remembered the warning, spoken with a certainty that had chilled his blood:

"Pandora’s Codex will eventually come for you, boy. It always comes for those who are a threat."

At the time, Theon had dismissed those words as the ravings of a defeated enemy. The desperate curse of someone who had lost and wanted to plant seeds of fear in their conqueror’s heart. But now, hearing that name again from the lips of a boy who should have no reason to know it, the memory returned with new weight.

This was not a coincidence.

Theon’s gaze drifted downward, settling on Noel’s crumpled form. The boy lay at his feet, breathing shallow and ragged, his clothes torn and bloodied. Bruises bloomed across his skin like dark flowers, and one arm bent at an angle that spoke of deliberate cruelty. He looked small like this—wounded and vulnerable, nothing like the assassin who had attacked them moments ago.

But appearances could deceive. Theon knew that better than most.

The shadow mage mentioned Pandora’s Codex, he thought, the pieces turning over in his mind like puzzle pieces searching for their match. And now this boy, sent to kill me, mentions it too. The same name. The same warning.

He studied Noel’s face, searching for something—a tell, a lie, a truth. The boy’s eyes were unfocused, glassy with pain, but beneath that pain Theon could see something else. Fear, yes. Desperation, certainly. But also...

Recognition.

Theon’s expression remained neutral, but inside, his thoughts churned. The forest around them seemed to grow quieter, as though the birds themselves sensed the weight of this moment. The peaceful atmosphere of the Forest of Spirits felt suddenly thin, like a painted backdrop that might tear at any moment to reveal something darker beneath.

This encounter is not random, Theon realized. It is a thread. And if I pull on it, I might unravel something far larger than I imagined.

He looked down at Noel again, at the blood seeping from the boy’s wounds, at the labored rise and fall of his chest. Whatever larger game was at play here, whatever forces had set this boy on a collision course with him, one truth remained: Noel was suffering. And Theon had the power to end that suffering.

The decision crystallized slowly, like ice forming on still water.

He would heal him. Not because he trusted him—Theon trusted almost no one outside his circle. But because leaving someone to die in the dirt when he could help them went against everything he believed himself to be. And because, if he was being honest with himself, he needed answers. He needed to understand the connection between this boy, the shadow mage, and The Pandora codex.

Theon crouched down beside Noel, his movements deliberate and measured. The forest floor was soft beneath his boots, the moss drinking in the blood that had pooled around the boy’s body.

"Pandora’s Codex," Theon murmured, his voice low and thoughtful, barely above a whisper. "Where did you hear that word from?"

Noel’s eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on Theon’s face. His lips parted, but no words came—only a soft whimper of pain.

Theon’s eyes narrowed. The boy was in no condition to answer questions. Not yet.

But he would be soon.

Theon gathered Noel into his arms with surprising gentleness for someone who had been fighting the boy moments before. The weight was negligible—Noel was thin, underfed, his body bearing the marks of someone who had not known proper care in years. Theon carried him toward a nearby oak, its trunk wide and ancient, its roots creating natural alcoves in the earth. A good place to work. A good place to think.

But he had not taken three steps before small fingers closed around his wrist.

"Big brother."

Lyra’s voice was soft, but the grip on his wrist was anything but. Theon stopped, turning to face her. She stood close, close enough that he could see the tension in her small shoulders, the way her jaw was set in a line that was far too serious for a girl her age. Her eyes—those bright, perceptive eyes that missed nothing—were fixed on the unconscious boy in his arms.

"Big brother, I have a bad feeling about this."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with something Theon couldn’t quite name. He had learned to trust Lyra’s instincts over the time they had spent together. She possessed a sensitivity to danger that went beyond ordinary perception, an ability to sense the currents beneath the surface of things. If she felt uneasy, there was usually a reason.

But there was also a boy bleeding in his arms.

"I know," Theon said, his voice calm and steady, the voice he used when he needed to reassure her. "But I can’t just leave him like this. Whatever his intentions were, he’s hurt. Badly."

Lyra’s grip on his wrist tightened. "What if he’s pretending? What if this is a trap?"

Theon considered the question seriously. It was a reasonable concern. The boy had attacked them with clear intent to kill, wielding that strange crimson flame with a desperation that spoke of someone who had nothing left to lose. The idea that this was all some elaborate ruse was not outside the realm of possibility.

But something in Theon’s gut said otherwise. The injuries were real—he had seen enough wounds in his life to recognize genuine damage. And the fear in Noel’s eyes when he had mentioned Pandora’s Codex... that fear had been real too.

"I’ll be careful," Theon promised. He shifted his grip on Noel, careful not to jostle the boy’s injured arm. "But I need to do this. If he knows something about Pandora’s Codex, I need to find out what it is. And if he’s genuinely in trouble..." He let the sentence trail off, but the meaning was clear.

If he’s genuinely in trouble, I can’t abandon him.

Lyra stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she released his wrist. Her hand fell to her side, but the worry in her eyes did not fade.

"Promise me you’ll be careful," she whispered. "Promise me you won’t let your guard down."

Theon met her gaze steadily. "I promise."

He meant it. He would be careful. He would watch for signs of deception. But he would also do what he believed was right.

Gently, he removed his hand from hers—wait, no, she had released him already. He adjusted his hold on Noel and continued toward the oak tree, settling the boy against the rough bark with care. The position was awkward, Noel’s head lolling to the side, but it would do for now.

Theon knelt beside him, his hands hovering over the worst of the wounds. Healing was not his primary talent, but the power within him—that strange, powerful force that had become as much a part of him as his own heartbeat—could be shaped to many purposes. Destruction and creation were two sides of the same coin, after all.

He closed his eyes, reaching inward for that wellspring of power. It responded immediately, rising to meet him like an old friend. Warmth spread through his palms, golden light beginning to emanate from his skin.

Behind him, he heard Lyra shift her weight, her unease palpable even without looking. He understood her concern. This boy had tried to kill them. Healing him was a risk. But it was a risk Theon was willing to take.

The light from his hands grew brighter, and he pressed them gently against Noel’s chest.

"Everything will be fine," he murmured, though whether he was speaking to Lyra or to himself, he wasn’t entirely sure. "We’ll figure this out together."

The healing energy flowed from his palms, sinking into Noel’s body like water into dry earth. The bruises began to fade, the swelling around his eyes receding. The broken arm shifted with a soft crack, realigning itself, the bone knitting back together. Theon felt the damage like a map in his mind—torn muscles, cracked ribs, internal bleeding that would have proven fatal without intervention. One by one, the wounds closed, the damage undone.

Through it all, Theon remained alert. His body was relaxed, but his senses were stretched to their limits, tracking every shift in the forest around them, every subtle change in the air. If this was a trap, he would be ready.

But no ambush came. No hidden attackers burst from the trees. The forest remained peaceful, almost suspiciously so, as though nature itself was holding its breath.

When the last of the injuries had healed, Theon sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly. The golden light faded from his hands, leaving only the ordinary afternoon light filtering through the canopy above.

Noel’s breathing had steadied. His face, no longer marred by bruises, looked even younger than before. He could not have been more than his age, Theon realized with a pang of something that might have been pity. Just a boy, really. A boy carrying burdens that should never have been placed on his shoulders.

But the unease in the air remained, and Theon could feel Cryvathar stirring in the depths of his consciousness, his presence a coiled tension at the edge of his awareness. He did not speak, but he could feel her disapproval like a cold current beneath his thoughts.

Be careful, her silence seemed to say. Something is wrong here.

Theon pushed the warning aside for now. He had made his choice. The boy would wake soon, and when he did, Theon would get his answers.

Whatever they might be.

Noel’s eyes opened slowly, consciousness returning in fits and starts like a flame struggling to catch. For a moment, he simply stared at the canopy above, his expression blank and uncomprehending. Then memory flooded back—the fight, the pain, the desperate gamble—and he scrambled upright, his back pressing against the oak tree as though he expected another attack.

"Easy," Theon said, his voice even. He had positioned himself a few feet away, close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough to give the boy space. Lyra stood behind him, partially hidden, her small hands clenched at her sides. "I healed your injuries. You’re not in any danger from me right now."

Noel’s hand flew to his chest, pressing against the place where the worst of his wounds had been. He felt unbroken skin where there should have been torn flesh, and his eyes widened with something like wonder—quickly followed by wariness.

"Why?" he asked, his voice rough. "I tried to kill you."

"I’m aware." Theon’s tone was dry. "But I have questions, and dead men can’t answer them. So here we are."

The boy’s gaze darted from Theon to Lyra and back again, clearly trying to assess the situation. Theon could practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—routes of escape, potential threats, the odds of fighting free. But the tension slowly bled from his shoulders as he realized that no attack was coming.

"What do you want to know?" Noel asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Theon leaned back slightly, making himself appear less threatening. "Everything. From the beginning. Start with who you are and why you came after me."

Noel was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the ground between them. The forest sounds seemed to fade as the pause stretched on, as though even the birds and insects were waiting for his answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was hesitant, each word seeming to cost him something.

"I was... I was just an ordinary boy from a remote village on the outskirts of the empire. A place called Vermeil Hollow. You’ve probably never heard of it—most people haven’t. It’s the kind of village that exists in the margins of maps, barely worth the ink used to print its name."

Theon nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue. He knew villages like that—forgotten places where life was hard and opportunities were scarce, where the empire’s reach was more burden than blessing.

"Most people there barely awakened magical affinities," Noel continued, his voice taking on a distant quality, as though he were speaking from very far away. "Maybe one person in a generation would show enough talent to attract attention from the larger cities. My father always said it was better that way—that magic brought nothing but trouble. He wanted me to be a farmer, like him. A simple life. A safe life."

A bitter smile flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant.

"But I awakened an extremely rare ability."

Theon felt his attention sharpen. Rare abilities were exactly the kind of thing that drew the empire’s interest—and its exploitation. He had seen it before: children plucked from their homes, conscripted into imperial service, their talents honed into weapons. The practice was supposedly voluntary. Theon knew better.

"What ability?" he asked, though something told him he already knew the answer.

Noel met his eyes for the first time since waking. His gaze was steady now, stripped of pretense, and in the depths of his irises Theon saw a flicker of red—so brief he might have imagined it.

"Divine..."