The first thing Kyle noticed was the light. Not harsh. Not sterile. Just soft — like morning sun filtered through pale curtains. It flickered gently across the ceiling, catching on floating motes of something… magical. Tiny pulses of color drifted like lazy fireflies in the air.

  Mana.

  He blinked.

  The ceiling above him was stone — not cold concrete, but smooth, pale granite carved with delicate runes that shimmered faintly in time with his heartbeat. The air carried the faint tang of copper and lavender. Clean. Alive.

  He was lying on a cot, tucked into soft sheets that smelled faintly of moss and rosemary. His limbs felt... fine. A little heavy, a little floaty — like waking from a deep, dreamless sleep. But there was no pain. No beeping monitors. No IV tubes or sterile buzz of hospital life.

  And yet… he remembered pain.

  He remembered screeching tires. A blur of pink shoes. The weight of his body hitting pavement.

  A girl. A truck. And then—light.

  He sat up too fast.

  A hand pressed against his shoulder — firm but not forceful. “Easy,” said a calm, measured voice. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

  He turned.

  The speaker was a nurse. She had silver hair falling in a loose braid over one shoulder. Her blue robes were etched with glowing filigree — a mix of function and fashion that shimmered like moonlight on water. A fox-like beast was curled around her neck like a living scarf, one eye lazily tracking Kyle's every movement.

  She didn’t seem surprised that he was awake.

  “You had a strong reaction during your Awakening,” she said, flipping through a glowing clipboard of hovering runes. “Nearly destabilized your core. Your mana flared and dropped like a sky shard. Bit dramatic, really.”

  Kyle opened his mouth. Closed it.

  “Awakening…?” The word felt both foreign and familiar. He’d read it in fantasy books. He’d heard it in anime. But this was different. This was real.

  And then — like a dam cracking open — it came.

  Not memories from Earth. Memories from here.

  A sanctuary nestled in green hills. The smell of beast dens and mossy stone. His uncle’s laugh. Chores he once considered boring — cleaning runes, mixing feed. Nights listening to mana winds outside the window.

  His name wasn’t Kyle anymore.

  It was Kalen.

  But Kyle hadn’t vanished.

  The memories coiled around one another — Earth and Elyriath, past and present — not overwritten, not erased. Combined.

  He remembered running from bullies on asphalt streets and studying rune-circles by lantern light. He remembered his mother’s favorite lullaby and his uncle’s warnings about overfeeding baby wyverns.

  Kyle. Kalen. A quiet man from Earth. A boy raised among beasts.

  He wasn’t an intruder in this world. He belonged to both.

  And somehow, that made the weight of this strange new life bearable.

  He exhaled. “I’m okay,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

  The nurse arched an eyebrow. “You sound okay, which is more than I can say for some first-time Tamers. No nausea? Hallucinations? Sudden prophetic visions? Uncontrollable sobbing?”

  Kalen gave a weak chuckle. “Just... a lot.”

  “Understandable.” She scribbled something with a mana quill that vanished after each note. “You haven’t bonded a beast yet, but your Tamer ability awakened. We’ll log it officially at graduation. For now, you’re cleared to rest — or head home.”

  “Home?” Kalen echoed.

  She nodded. “The sanctuary. Still registered to your family. The city’s kept it minimally maintained after your uncle vanished — perimeter wards, feeding spells, and general upkeep. It’s been quiet, but stable.”

  Her voice softened slightly. “It’s been waiting for you, Kalen. No rush. Just… go when you’re ready.”

  He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the door slammed open.

  “KALEN!”

  “Don’t move! You might still be cursed!”

  “Do you smell weird? He smells weird, right?!”

  All three declarations came from the same source — a tornado named Jace.

  He barreled into the room, half-dragging a startled nurse behind him, with a brown paper bag in one hand and his coat half-zipped.

  Behind him came Keir — composed, quiet, sharp-eyed. Military jacket crisp. Movements calculated like a predator’s.

  Keir reached the cot first. He stopped, scanned Kalen with a soldier’s clarity, then raised a fist.

  Kalen bumped it without thinking.

  “Still breathing,” he said.

  “Not dead. Acceptable outcome,” Keir replied flatly.

  Jace crashed into the cot a second later, nearly knocking over a healing crystal lamp. “DUDE. You collapsed! Your aura went nova! You flared like a sunflare grenade, and then BAM — face-down like a tranquilized goat!”

  Kalen blinked. “That… sounds dramatic.”

  “Because it was!” Jace waved his bag like a flag. “We thought your core combusted. Or that you got possessed by a Rift ghost. Or—” he lowered his voice, “—that your soul got eaten by an astral squirrel.”

  “There’s no such thing as an astral squirrel,” Keir said without looking up.

  “You don’t know that.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The nurse sighed loudly. “This is still a medical facility.”

  Jace beamed. “I brought soup!”

  “That’s a soda and a mashed protein bar.”

  “Presentation is half the battle!”

  Behind them, a quieter presence stepped through the doorway.

  Talia.

  Her braid was neater than usual, her academy robes spotless — but her eyes scanned Kalen like she was checking for cracks in glass. In her hands, she carried a carefully wrapped bundle: a folded blanket with an embroidered flame sigil, warm to the touch.

  “You forgot this,” she said softly, placing it at the foot of the cot. “It always helped you sleep when we were stuck on field nights.”

  Kalen blinked. He hadn’t even realized it was missing.

  “Thanks, Tal,” he said, voice catching for a second. “You didn’t have to—”

  “I know,” she interrupted gently. “But I wanted to.”

  Her gaze flicked briefly to the empty space beside the cot, then returned to his face. She gave a small smile — the kind you give someone when you want to say more than the room will allow.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  Jace made a quiet gagging noise and ducked behind Keir, who rolled his eyes and offered Kalen another fist bump in apology.

  Kalen laughed. Real and low and sudden. And for a moment, the storm inside him eased.

  The nurse gave him a satchel. Inside was a light-scroll ID, a mana core reading, and a license badge etched in pale light: Kalen Valeir.

  “Graduation’s in a week,” she said. “Rest up. And maybe avoid astral rodents.”

  He hesitated at the exit, thumb brushing the edge of the satchel.

  Talia had slipped him a note earlier — barely a whisper of paper tucked under the blanket she brought. "Go home. It's still yours."

  He hadn’t opened it in front of the others, but now the words echoed louder than the streets outside.

  The road from the academy didn’t lead straight to the sanctuary.

  Kalen had one more stop to make.

  The city buzzed behind him — a harmony of spell-lanterns, chattering beast cubs, rune-marked carriages, and merchant calls echoing off mana-stone streets. But as he passed beneath the woven arch of mana trees lining the outer districts, the noise gave way to warmth. Not quiet exactly — just... softer. More human.

  The orphanage stood at the city’s edge, half-tucked between a mana-infused orchard and a bakery so noisy it doubled as the neighborhood’s alarm clock. Its bells were off-key, and its roof perpetually smelled like burnt honey.

  Kalen had lived here the last two years, ever since his uncle disappeared. It was a good place. The children were looked after. Meals were warm. No one asked questions they didn’t want answers to.

  But it had never truly felt like home.

  Except for one part.

  Milo.

  Technically, he wasn’t allowed to keep an unregistered beast cub — especially not without a formal license, a recorded bond, or at the very least a Guild-certified foster permit. But when Kalen had found the injured monkey curled behind the bakery’s dumpster, shivering in a rain-soaked box and clinging to a cracked fruit peel, he hadn’t asked permission.

  He’d just brought him back.

  The matron — a steel-haired woman with eyes that could spot cookie theft through walls — had given him one long, unreadable stare before sighing and pointing to the linen closet.

  “Soft towels are on the second shelf,” she’d said.

  Today, when she opened the door, she didn’t say anything. Just smiled — that same half-sigh, half-smirk smile she reserved for paperwork errors and heart-heavy moments — and gestured silently toward the nursery.

  “He’s been watching the hallway all morning,” she said. “I think he knew.”

  Kalen stepped through the narrow arch, the scent of clay tiles and morning tea lingering faintly in the air.

  The nursery was dim, lit only by the pulsing glow of a mana orb above the central crib. Toys sat forgotten in baskets, and a lazy breeze drifted in through a cracked window.

  And there — perched on the high shelf like a self-declared prince — was Milo.

  His fur had grown thicker. His arms stronger. But the gold in his eyes was unmistakable — sharp, curious, focused entirely on him. He let out a high-pitched chirp — a sound somewhere between excitement and indignation — and launched.

  Kalen braced just in time.

  Tiny hands latched onto his collar. A soft, warm body pressed against his chest. Milo wrapped his arms around Kalen’s neck and didn’t move — just breathed, as if making sure this moment was real.

  “I missed you too,” Kalen whispered, reaching up to gently ruffle the monkey’s ears.

  He expected squirming. Maybe even a squeaky protest. But Milo just leaned into the touch.

  Behind him, the matron crossed her arms. “Still not on the official roster,” she said dryly. But her voice carried no heat — only fondness. “Take good care of him.”

  Kalen turned to her, his grip on the cub firm but gentle. “We take care of each other.”

  The road to the sanctuary wove through the woods, a path older than the city itself. It was paved in weatherworn stone, cracked in places where roots had fought their way free. Blue wardlights hovered between the trees, their glow soft as candlelight. Moss clung to everything — benches, posts, even the tops of ancient signposts too faded to read.

  Each step felt heavier, but not from exhaustion.

  From memory.

  This was the route he used to walk as a boy — balancing mana stones on his palms, racing squirrel-beasts through the brush, pretending the low croaks of swampfrogs were secret messages from the deeper glades. His uncle’s sanctuary had always felt a little enchanted — not in the flashy, spell-scroll kind of way, but in the way a home feels when it’s been loved fiercely and well.

  And now, it was his.

  The final bend in the road opened to a rise in the land. The sanctuary came into view — quiet, nestled in a crescent hollow where trees bowed inward like old guardians.

  The wall was made of mossy stone, just chest-high, its top overgrown with creeping ivy and pale-blue mana blossoms. Runes etched into its surface flickered faintly as he approached. The wooden gate loomed ahead, weathered but still sturdy.

  Above it hung a wooden sign, arched like a sunrise and faded by years of rain.

  HEARTHWILD SANCTUARYWhere bonds are kindled and stories come alive.

  Beneath it, barely visible under a streak of smudged mana-ink, someone had scribbled another name in looping, chaotic script:

  Kalen’s Keep

  Kalen stared at it for a long second, then snorted.

  “Jace,” he muttered.

  It was just the kind of thing his friend would do. Probably meant it as a joke. Maybe even as a dare. But somehow… it fit.

  The sigils on the gate pulsed. Once. Then again.

  Recognition.

  The wood groaned as the gate eased open.

  Inside, the sanctuary breathed.

  It wasn’t overgrown in the tragic sense — not abandoned. Just paused. Wildflowers crept along forgotten flagstones. Training circles had been swallowed in soft moss. A feeding trough had sprouted mushrooms from its base, and the once-proud sign on the main den hung askew.

  But the mana was still strong. Still rooted.

  The sanctuary hadn’t died. It had been sleeping.

  And now, it was waking.

  Kalen stepped forward with Milo clinging gently to his neck, his tiny claws kneading into the fabric of his collar. The monkey’s gaze flicked to every shadow, every branch, every familiar scent.

  The bonding circle in the center clearing had collapsed under a mat of weeds, but the carved runes beneath the growth still hummed faintly — a heartbeat beneath the soil.

  The main building, a squat structure shaped from a blend of stone and woven reed walls, still stood sturdy. Its ward glyphs flickered in greeting, like half-lidded eyes shaking off dreams.

  Near the front door, a small mana lamp glowed — steady, soft, and warm. Its flame rune flickered in Talia’s signature ink. She must have checked on the sanctuary during his time at the orphanage. Quiet help. Like always.

  Kalen turned in place, the weight of it all settling into his chest. A knot loosened in his ribs.

  “I’m home,” he said aloud.

  Milo chirped in agreement.

  Then—

  A rustle.

  Not from the trees. Not from the wind.

  From the shade beneath the arbor near the feeding pen.

  A pair of eyes blinked back at him.

  Wide. Gold-flecked. Unblinking.

  A cub.

  Small, cautious. Not fleeing. Just watching.

  Kalen didn’t move. He knew that look — part fear, part curiosity. The same look Milo had worn, two years ago in the rain.

  He gave a small smile.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m not here to cage you.”

  He shifted his satchel. Let Milo climb down and perch on his arm.

  “I’m here to listen.”

  The cub didn’t respond.

  Not yet.

  But it didn’t run.

  It stayed.

  Watching.

  Waiting.