The sun had nearly set as Elya finished closing up the healer’s station, her mind still lingering on the confrontation from earlier. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake the unease that clung to her, but before she could take another step, the air shifted.

  She turned sharply, and there he was.

  Callen stood at the edge of the square, watching her with a look she recognized far too well. Contempt. Frustration. A deep, simmering rage that no longer had the protection of an audience to keep it in check.

  "You should have kept your mouth shut, Elya," he said, stepping forward.

  Elya’s pulse quickened, but she didn’t move. "And you should have left when you had the chance."

  His lips twisted. "You always did have a sharp tongue. It’s a shame you never had the magic to back it up."

  He lifted his hand, and before she could react, power crackled in the air, bright and violent. A spell, raw and lethal, meant to end her in an instant.

  It should have terrified her. The old Elya might have flinched, might have braced for impact. But now? Now, she simply raised a hand. The layered magic she had spent months refining wove around her, instinctual, precise. The deadly energy Callen had hurled at her met an unseen force, hers. Her barrier flared up, meeting his spell with a force that sent ripples through the air.

  Elya felt the sheer strength of his attack, a formidable force that might have overwhelmed someone else. But her barrier, layered and refined through precision, held firm. His spell was powerful, but against her more efficiently built defense, it stood no chance. The energy shattered and scattered like ash in the wind. Not a single ember touched her.

  It had been years since she trained actively for combat, but she never let herself completely let go of those harsh lessons. And they served her well now. She chose to defend, embracing her role as a protector, a healer. Instead of striking out, Elya tried to build a barrier around Callen using a construct of a double fourth-layer barrier spell she had been working on. It was a spell of containment, not death.

  Her hands moved swiftly, tracing the intricate sigils in the air, layering the barrier with precision. The magic pulsed under her fingertips, weaving into the structure she envisioned. Even as she worked to encase Callen, she maintained her own defense, channeling a third spell simultaneously, a personal barrier, reinforcing herself against any unexpected retaliation. The effort sent a sharp ache through her core, the mana flow pushing against the limits of her body. She gritted her teeth, beads of sweat forming at her brow as she forced the dual-layered constructs into existence.

  The air around her shimmered with the sheer energy she commanded, straining her endurance. The containment spell solidified, locking Callen in a fortress of light and force, sealing away his movements, his magic. The effort was monumental, her limbs trembling as she funneled power into both spells at once. Her breathing grew ragged, the weight of the magic pressing against her like an unseen force, her vision narrowing slightly from the intensity of the channeling. But she held firm.

  Her layered method made her defenses stronger, more efficient, but she finally felt the strain of her own power. It was a delicate balance, one that only she could manage. She would not falter. Not now.

  Callen’s smirk faltered. His fingers twitched as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His mouth opened slightly, a sharp breath drawn in as his eyes darted between his own hands and the dissipating embers of his failed attack. A thin bead of sweat formed at his temple, the first true sign of doubt cracking through his arrogance.

  Desperation flashing in his eyes, Callen threw another spell at her, a raw surge of energy meant to overwhelm. He hadn’t realized it yet. hadn’t seen the barrier she had encased around him. The instant his spell left his hand, it struck the invisible walls of her containment spell, ricocheting back toward him with violent force.

  The impact sent him staggering, the energy searing through his defenses and leaving him gasping in pain. He clutched his arm, barely able to process what had just happened. "How… It’s not possible…"

  Elya remained steady, watching him with an expression of detached finality. "Yield, Callen. Surrender yourself, or I will leave you there to die. I don’t think this magic will decay before you starve to death."

  Callen’s breath hitched, his face contorting between disbelief and fury. He slammed his fists against the barrier, testing its strength, pouring magic into another attack, but nothing. The spell didn’t so much as waver. It was impenetrable.

  His rage burned hot, but it was laced with something else, fear. True, undeniable fear. For the first time, he understood. He had lost. Completely.

  There on his face was the crumbling of certainty, the unmaking of a man who had spent his entire life believing he was above failure. His eyes, wide and uncomprehending, darted between Elya and the fading embers of his spell, as though searching for an explanation that refused to appear. A flicker of panic surfaced first, his breath hitched, his posture stiffened, his jaw clenched against the reality pressing down on him.

  Then, like a dam breaking, it gave way to rage. Pure, unfiltered fury twisted his features, his lip curling, his nostrils flaring. His hands trembled, fingers twitching as if they could will back the power that had so effortlessly failed him. The failure was unbearable, the humiliation searing through his ego like fire through parchment. This wasn’t just a defeat. It was a reckoning.

  He tried again. Another spell, another surge of power meant to obliterate, to dominate. It didn’t even reach her.

  The energy collapsed against her own, dissolved as if it had never existed. And Callen, who had always reveled in her weakness, who had always believed himself superior, watched in dawning horror as the truth settled in.

  He was nothing to her now. His magic, his strength, everything he had once used to torment her, it meant nothing.

  Elya let him flail. Let him exhaust himself in his desperate attempts to regain control. With each failed attack, his movements grew more erratic, more desperate. Then, with a single motion, she lifted her hand and released a spell of her own.

  It was quiet, elegant, and absolute.

  Callen barely had a moment to react before his magic was ripped from him, siphoned away into the void like water down a drain. He gasped, staggering as the connection to his power frayed and then snapped. His knees buckled, the sheer exhaustion overtaking him in an instant. He collapsed to the ground, panting, shaking, his once-commanding presence reduced to nothing more than a husk of frustration and disbelief.

  "Elya took a steadying breath, her fingers twitching as she began weaving the intricate layers of her spell. "I have been working on a spell for some time now to deal with people like you, Callen. Accept the spell, or so help me, I will let you die."

  Callen’s breath came in ragged bursts, his body tense as he stared at her. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. The weight of the magic she was channeling pressed against the air itself, crackling with an unseen force as sigils and runes glowed around her in concentric patterns. He gritted his teeth, his pride warring with the undeniable truth of his situation. He had lost. And now, he had no choice.

  Slowly, he gave a stiff nod. "Fine. Do it."

  Elya didn’t hesitate. Her hands moved with a deliberate grace, tracing sigils that pulsed with power, her voice a steady chant that carried a weight beyond mere words. This was no simple spell, no quick enchantment. It was a construct of layered complexity, taking her five full minutes to weave, every line of magic folding into itself, reinforcing the effect.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The moment the final sigil locked into place, the spell settled onto Callen like an invisible shackle. He gasped, his body stiffening as he felt the magic take hold. It wasn’t pain, it was something deeper, something insidious. His meridians weren’t sealed, but their flow had been reduced to a slow trickle, a mere fraction of the power he had once wielded effortlessly.

  He clenched his fists, trying to summon more, trying to push against the restriction, but it was futile. It wasn’t gone, but it was controlled, bound within limits he could not bypass. It was more than just suppression, It was forced restraint, a careful balance between limitation and potential.

  Elya stepped back, watching him with calm detachment. "This spell is designed to last for two years. Your magic isn’t blocked, but you’ll only have a trickle of it, barely more than what I used to have. For you it will be a nice leash. Maybe you will be forced to learn something for a change. And if you think you can break it… good luck."

  Callen’s eyes burned with fury, but beneath it, there was something else, shock. "How… It’s not possible…"

  Elya tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "It is. And you’ll learn soon enough what it’s like to fight for every ounce of magic you use. Just like I did."

  She crouched beside him, her expression unreadable. "You never did understand the power you mocked," she murmured. "Now, hopefully, you’ll learn what it means to feel powerless even though you won't really be."

  And then, finally, his hands fell to his sides. His breath was ragged, his body trembling with effort. He had nothing left.

  She held his gaze, her voice calm, unwavering. "You think I’m still the girl you knew in the Tower, that I’m weak. But you’ve made a mistake, Callen. I don’t need to prove anything to you. I never did."

  The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.

  "Elya’s voice cut through the night like a blade, sharp and unwavering. "Strip. Down to nothing. No small clothes, no books, no robes, no jewelry, no money. Strip!"

  Callen's breath hitched, his face contorting between disbelief and rage. His entire life had been about control, about wielding power, about standing above others. And now, here he was, at her feet, stripped of everything that had once defined him.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. His lips trembled, his eyes darting to her face, searching for mercy he had never once given her. But Elya's expression remained impassive, carved from stone, devoid of pity. This was justice. This was balance.

  "You humiliated me," she continued, voice softer but no less lethal. "You broke me down, laughed as I struggled, told me I was worthless while you stood untouchable. And now look at you." She crouched down, gripping his chin between her fingers, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at yourself, Callen. What do you see?"

  He swallowed thickly, sweat beading along his brow, his hands trembling as they hovered at the hem of his robes. Shame crawled up his spine like a living thing, hot and unbearable.

  Elya leaned in just a fraction closer, her breath warm against his skin. "For the first time, you’re feeling what I felt. And you’re going to remember it. Because this is what powerless truly feels like."

  His body felt wrong. Weak. As if the very essence of who he was had been stripped away. He had taken his magic for granted, never considering what life would be without it. Now, as he staggered, limbs trembling with exhaustion, he understood what it was to be truly powerless. His breath ragged, his eyes wild with something between rage and desperation he screamed at her, "You... you can’t do this!"

  Elya tilted her head, watching him with cool detachment. "I already have. Strip. No small clothes. You shall leave here with nothing, just like I left the Tower with nothing."

  Callen hesitated, his face burning with shame as a small audience gathered, whispers spreading through the onlookers. Their gazes bore into him, some filled with scorn, others with amusement at his downfall. He clenched his jaw, but there was no escape from this. His fingers trembled as he stripped away the last scrap of dignity he had left, baring himself completely before the crowd.

  Elya watched him with the same cold detachment, her stance unyielding. And then, with a flick of her wrist, the next part of his punishment began. The spellbooks ignited instantly, flames consuming the precious tomes that had once been his source of knowledge, his source of power. He lunged for them, but his body, drained and broken, barely responded.

  His robes followed, the elegant fabric curling in the fire, burning away the symbol of his station, his status. His money, coins that had bought his influence, his luxuries, melted into nothing but slag in the flames of Elya’s cold fury. Every enchanted item, every weapon, every remnant of his former strength, destroyed.

  Callen was left with nothing, not even his small clothes.

  She let the silence stretch, the weight of his humiliation settling over him before she tossed something at his feet, a pair of simple pants and a coil of rope. "Take them. If you want to survive, you'll need to learn what it’s like to have nothing. I honestly do not know how much your diminshed capacity will be with this spell on you so do try not to be an ass to everyone for a couple years."

  Callen’s hands twitched, his jaw tightening as if he was considering one last act of defiance. A flicker of raw anger passed through his eyes, but then, reality settled in. He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping in defeat. There was nothing left for him to do. He had lost, completely, undeniably. He clenched his fists, swallowing whatever words had been forming, and did nothing.

  Elya gathered all of Callen's enchanted belongings, bundling them tightly into his robes before securing them with a binding spell. She glanced at him, her expression impassive. "When your restrictions are lifted, you'll be allowed to reclaim these." Her voice carried no malice, only a quiet finality. "Until then, they remain sealed."

  She turned to the gathered onlookers. "Does anyone have a spare pair of pants and a tunic for him?"

  A murmur passed through the crowd before someone stepped forward, handing her a simple set of clothes. Elya accepted them with a nod and, without hesitation, withdrew a gold piece from Callen’s pile, pressing it into the stranger’s hand.

  Then, she tossed the clothing at Callen’s feet. "Take them. You’ll have to learn what it means to earn your power back." He hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling for the items, the last remnants of his pride shattered.

  He collapsed onto his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The humiliation was unbearable, burning hotter than any fire that had taken his possessions. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, but it did nothing to ground him.

  He thrashed, cursing her name, calling her every insult that his panicked mind could conjure. But nothing changed. He was helpless, just as she had once been.

  His voice broke into a hoarse plea. "Please… please don’t do this. I—I'll leave, I swear. Just let me go."

  "You have more left to you than I had when I was thrown out of the tower. I am being far more merciful to you than you were to me. At least you can use your magic to keep yourself alive. I didn't even have that luxury. Now. Go. You're not welcome in this town any longer."

  And then she walked away, leaving him there.

  The night air was cool as Elya and Naia walked in silence back to Elya’s home. The fire of her fury had long since burned out, leaving only the hollow ache of what she had done. Her hands trembled slightly, the echoes of magic still humming beneath her skin, but it was not power that unsettled her, it was the weight of her own actions.

  Naia said nothing at first, only staying close, their arms brushing as they walked. The quiet between them was not empty; it was full of understanding. When they reached the small house, Elya hesitated on the threshold, as if stepping inside would make everything real. Naia gently placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward, offering warmth without words.

  Inside, Elya exhaled sharply and sank onto the edge of her bed, her head falling into her hands. "I don’t know if I did the right thing," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. "I wanted him to suffer, to feel what I felt. And now that he has… why do I feel like this?"

  Naia knelt before her, placing her hands over Elya’s, prying them gently away from her face. "Because you’re not him," she said softly. "You have a heart, Elya. You feel things. That’s what makes you different. That’s why you’re still good."

  Tears welled in Elya’s eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. She let out a choked breath, shaking her head. "I shouldn’t feel bad. He never cared when I was the one suffering. But I do."

  Naia reached up, cupping Elya’s face, thumbs brushing away her tears. "Then let me remind you of something else you deserve to feel. Something better."

  She kissed her, soft and tender, an offering rather than a demand. Elya melted into it, grasping onto Naia like she was the only thing tethering her to the world. The grief, the guilt, the weight of the night, all of it dimmed under Naia’s touch.

  Naia guided her back onto the bed, her fingers trailing slowly, reverently over Elya’s skin, grounding her in the present. Their breaths mingled in the dim candlelight, soft gasps and whispered reassurances filling the quiet. Naia’s hands moved with purpose, finding every tense muscle, every place where Elya’s body carried the weight of her past. With every stroke, every kiss, Naia unraveled her, easing her into something deeper than comfort, deeper than pleasure.

  Elya surrendered to it, to the warmth, the safety, and the way Naia knew exactly how to coax her out of her mind and into her body. Her hips moved instinctively to meet the slow, firm strokes of Naia’s fingers, her breaths hitching, turning into quiet moans as sensation overtook sorrow.

  Naia held her, whispering her name like a promise, like an anchor. "Let go, love," she murmured, her lips brushing against Elya’s ear. "You’re safe. You’re with me. Just feel."

  Elya clung to her, to the moment, and let the pleasure crest, drowning out everything else. When the peak came, it was not just a release, it was a breaking, a soft, shuddering surrender to something beyond guilt, beyond pain.

  After, as Naia gathered her into her arms, Elya let herself be held. No words were needed. No explanations. Just warmth, just love, just the quiet knowledge that tonight, she was not alone.