Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

He Who Mends Flesh

Days had passed since I forged the bond—perhaps the first, perhaps the only. Rogara, as Sharn later told me, had not stirred once; the bond had dragged her straight into coma-sleep.

At first I blamed shock: frostbite, blood loss, the heart already hanging by a thread. Yet a closer reading with life mana showed the true weight. Forming a warlock asked every fiber to realign around my will; a weak body fought that reordering the way cracked stone fights a chisel. If the stone split before the bond set, she would die. Still I felt no dread: Rogara's will had already written itself across reality; survival was only the next sentence.

What I could shape was her flesh. I anchored Hazeveil's shadows in one corner of the sick-room, effectively invisible to the Vadruk attendants, and spread sketches across a low table. Mana-sense limned each fault inside her like lines on parchment:

aorta scarcely half normal width

ventricular walls thin as wet leather

core-artery kinked, throttling mana flow

circulating mana volume negligible, an ebony body with the net capacity of a sickly non magical creature

"All those times dissecting fog-creatures finally pay off," I muttered, marking the worst flaws in charcoal. Every time sound slipped from the shadows, the attendants jumped; they could not see me, but the memory of the grey realm made hearing enough.

"It would be ideal to overhaul the system entirely," I mused aloud, "replace hemoglobin with managlobin, thicken the aorta, rebuild the myocardium, and swap her strict mana-trickle for a free-flowing state like mine."

If her blood could bear mana the way mine now did, every cell would drink strength directly rather than begging scraps from a starved core.

[Kara]

[Probability flags: high risk of corruption if mana flows unchecked as in your own physiology.]

Kara's voice chimed inside my skull, no audible syllable for the Vadruk to fear. An obvious objection, delivered with diagnostic calm.

"Corruption will not touch her," I said—though, in truth, I could not explain how I knew. I had no proof, no logical reason to believe it, yet the conviction remained unshakable.

But conviction alone would not sculpt organs. To weave manalytic channels I would have to rewrite her fundamentum—what the old Araksiun scholars called the gene-script. That meant pushing mature (somatic) cells backward into a germinative state, pliable unborn tissue that could accept a new pattern, then guiding every division forward again. A complete rebirth. Realistically, the only window for such radical work would be her next evolution, when ebony tissue liquefied toward onyx and nature itself loosened its weave.

Until then, I worked within limits. Life mana threaded through artery walls, coaxing them to stretch a finger's breadth wider; it stitched fresh muscle into her heart like reinforcing cloth; it re-canalised the choked core-artery so the closed-state trickle at least became a steady drip. Hours passed, sweat beading under Hazeveil, until her pulse settled to an even, if quiet, thrum.

With each adjustment I spoke the changes aloud, a habit formed from talking with Kara while in the fog, even as the attendants shivered at the disembodied commentary. Despite her former weakness and her status as an outcast in Vadis, Rogara was now an Ultharis, and that title alone commanded respect among her kin.

She had become a great prize of Vadis, and the people tended her accordingly; none wished to lose the new Ultharis before she even had the chance to descend into the deep abyss. Yet I sensed that part of their terror stemmed from the prospect of disappointing the invisible Baruk who had torn open the realm of the dead. I paid them little mind, too many people fretting over imagined horrors, keeping my focus fixed solely on Rogara.

The deeper overhaul would wait for her onyx ascent, and for me to discover how finely evolution could be steered. But today's repairs alone would grant her more breath, more mana to store, and perhaps enough strength to wake. It was a beginning.

***

As Rogara woke, an entire week had passed. The bond had finally settled—her body still frail but now free of every birth flaw I could detect.

What had begun as a simple bargain with Sharn for information had deepened into something far more intricate. The bond let me read a living anatomy with a precision no amount of life mana practice—nor the power I gained devouring crimson beasts—had ever granted me.

I felt invested in this warlock; a fragment of myself now breathed through her. When she opened her eyes it was as though a new pair of eyes opened inside my skull. At first the extra vision and the thinner weave of her hearing were disorienting, but within moments my senses learned to ride above hers like a second current.

"Where… am I?" she asked the Vadruk attending her.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"The great temple of Sjakthar, Ultharis," one replied, as though the tapestries and crystals should have told her so.

"I feel… no pain," she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest.

"Of course not, we took very good care of you," another Vadruk replied. Yet I knew she meant the familiar pain she had always felt simply by living, not the bruises and burns from the trial.

Her thoughts bled through the connection as clearly as footsteps in a quiet hall. The feeling bordered on prying into a mind the way a dark God would, so I shut the flow down, like closing an inner eyelid, until her voice receded to a faint hum.

"So… it wasn't a dream? The Baruk actually chose me?" Rogara asked.

A nearby Vadruk raised an eyebrow, unsure himself. "You out-lasted them all." His tone faltered at that last word; he, too, remembered the screams.

Only then did a sharper realization strike her: all other participants had died. Even with the link dimmed, strong thoughts seeped through, and I felt her sudden fear for another orc—Agnash.

"He lives," I said from Hazeveil's shadows. "He faltered before it began." Rogara whipped her head toward the shadows that cloaked me; the Vadruk stared at the same spot, seeing nothing.

Because the bond linked us, she could pierce Hazeveil's darkness, though those around her could not. They merely heard my words echo against stone.

Still, fear curled in her mind, memories of the mist, of my decree that had ruled the cages: Utter a single word, and the flame dies. She believed she might have broken some lingering rule, forfeiting her life.

"Have no fear," I told her. "The trial is over, and your body mended. But Kharvad approaches, and even repaired, you will not survive at your present strength." I used the clearest Orcish I knew.

I could shower her with cores and mana crystals, none had been offered despite how near Kharvad lay, but that would only hinder growth. A breakthrough to onyx cannot be forced by another's power; a warrior must earn it. She must demonstrate her own brutality, but in her currently weakened state, she would never be able to.

The warning did not rattle her. She pressed a hand to the place where her heart used to ache, searching for pain that was no longer there.

"Y-you… fixed me?" The words slid out half wonder, half disbelief.

I inclined my head. "Yes."

The bond flared, carrying a cascade of feelings before I could raise a shield: astonishment first, then a fierce resolve that tasted like iron on my tongue. He mends flesh as if stitching hide… power beyond any tale… I will not shame him. Not a single sentence, but a tumble of half-formed vows and wide-eyed awe. I tried again to dam the flow of thoughts, but it was like learning to move a limb that had only just grown.

I tightened the link, trying to slow the torrent; thoughts still leaked through—smaller, embarrassed currents: Don't stare at his height… don't stare…

Despite her former frailty and the fact she was perhaps the smallest Saruk I had seen ready to ascend to Vadruk, she still stood taller than me. I ignored the comparison. With firmer control over the link, I damped the echo until only the boldest pulses of feeling slipped through.

However, during those first waking hours Rogara remained more confused than curious, too uncertain to speak unless addressed, too wary to form questions of her own. I let her acclimate. A new body, a new title, both required a steadier footing than the pallet she lay on.

Meat from lesser onyx beasts was brought for her meals. I considered hunting another crimson horror, but the thought died quickly; her reshaped tissues, though flawless, were still ebony. Crimson flesh was an indulgence she could not yet endure.

Once she could stand without trembling, I chose a secluded ledge above the southern fields—a place hidden by stalactite shadows and began experimenting with the bond.

During the next few days Rogara returned to training, though her routines were lighter than those of most initiates. Even so, with a heart that now pumped oxygen and a core that no longer leaked, her strength leapt forward in ways she had never imagined possible. She adapted quickly.

I often saw her sparring with the Saruk named Agnash. Feelings for him flickered across the link—soft pulses of guilt, something tenderer. Even sealed, the bond bled when emotions flared bright enough; like light slipping beneath closed eyelids.

Agnash's own feelings could also be seen through her eyes: gladness for her recovery, gnawing envy that she—weak Rogara—held the title he believed should be his. In Vadis, every path was a climb toward strength, and Agnash felt left on the rung below.

Rogara shared the doubt. When their axes clashed I sensed her private litany: This place belongs to someone stronger. Why me? She had outlived hundreds more capable, yet could not grasp why. Even Sharn did not grasp the full why.

I pushed sympathy aside and focused on the link. I learned to see the practice yard through her eyes, to taste iron air when her blood stirred, and—most important—to drip mana into her core each time her reserves emptied.

One afternoon Agnash charged, axe high. Rogara lifted her own, but fatigue bent her knees; thin new muscle fibres quivered, mana well dry. A heartbeat before impact I flooded her core. Power fountained outward: tendons knotted, arms steadied, and she met axe with axe. Agnash's eyes widened; the watching instructor grunted, half awe, half alarm. "Ultharis," he muttered, recognizing the unseen hand.

Mana infusion, the first ability I tested: my reserves dwarfed hers, so I could repeat the gift endlessly. Yet repeated trials taught me the limits: twice in rapid succession and her tissues merely flushed; a third time risked swelling and tremor. Two is safe, I noted, perhaps three when she nears peak ebony.

The duel wore on. Agnash and Rogara both slowed, then faltered. I renewed her core; his remained empty. "That's not fair," Agnash spat, shoulders heaving. The ring fell silent. Vadruk eyes tracked the invisible current between us without fully understanding.

Fair? Fog cares nothing for fairness. The living endure what the cycle demands. Rogara, panting, seemed to grasp that truth better than he. By the third week she pressed her blunted training axe against Agnash's throat; he raised his hands in capitulation while the instructor signalled the match.

Her victory was not chance. When the time was hardest, the challenge impossible, I knew Agnash would hesitate and fail quickly, all the while Rogara would not. That was what brought me certainty she could surpass them all and maybe truly become the Baruk they so much craved.