I am Ren Drakemore, age 8, the unwanted second prince of Arcadia, the future King, and apparently, I am really bad at healing magic.

“What do you see?” Lady Muara asks patiently as we sit in one of the clean white treatment rooms in the back of her apothecary.

“She… has very little mana,” I say, squinting at the little girl sitting on the treatment table, my eyes narrowed in concentration.

This is my first day of healing magic apprenticeship with Lady Muara, and it is not going well. I have been here for three full hours and haven’t healed a single person. Muara told me right away that I wouldn’t be able to heal anyone until I first learned medical diagnosis magic. So, all morning, I have stared at each patient she's seen with increasingly desperate focus, trying to will myself to divine the nature of their injuries or illnesses.

“Young Master, you can’t treat this like throwing fireballs. You don’t just chant the spell and pump as much mana into it as possible. Both diagnosis and healing magic are about finesse, not brute force,” Lady Muara explains patiently for what must be the tenth time.

“I know, you keep saying that, but all my magical senses are showing is that she has very low magical capacity, is physically weak, and is not a threat,” I say, evaluating the metrics I’m far more familiar with thanks to Shadow.

“Hey, why is this boy making fun of me!” the grumpy little 5-year-old girl exclaims indignantly, glaring at me from the treatment bed.

“I am paying you to heal my daughter, not insult her,” says the girl’s father, a lesser nobleman, now looking concerned as his daughter continues her dramatic display. He appears far more worried about her temper than any actual insult.

Her father is a young, well-dressed man who gives off the impression of someone born into wealth, having never worked a day in his life. This privilege seems to have led to a false sense of superiority and a warped perception of the importance of his present issue.

“Daddy, I’m dying!” the little girl whines, swooning dramatically. “Make her heal me, Daddy!”

Is this how little girls act? They are so high-pitched and annoying.

“Sir, training new healers is an important part of our service,” Lady Muara explains with a calm smile but a distinctly dismissive tone. “My apprentice will—”

“But DADDY!” the girl screams, flailing around, her face flushing red. “WHAAA, WHAAA!”

“I think I see what’s wrong with her,” I say loudly, trying to be heard over the girl's continued wailing.

“Oh good, what’s her issue?” Lady Muara turns to me, wincing at the noise assaulting her ears.

“Bad parenting,” I say, covering my ears as the noise escalates. The girl’s father, too distracted calming his irate child, doesn’t seem to hear me.

“What MEDICAL issue?” Muara asks, working hard to suppress a smile.

“I don’t know,” I say with exasperation.

I can’t even hear myself think right now.

“Look again, but this time, relax, calm your mind, block out the sound and everything around you,” Muara instructs, leaning in close to be heard over the girl’s tantrum. “Only when your mind is still can your senses sharpen to view the smaller details.”

“DADDY, make them heal me right now!” The girl switches seamlessly from theatrical tears to furious demands directed at her father. The man looks desperately to Lady Muara, who shoots him a “Say one word and you’ll regret it” kind of glare. He looks completely stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Try again, but first calm your mind,” Muara says to me.

“Fine, I’ll try again,” I sigh.

I close my eyes, trying to quiet my mind. I’ve never tried not to think before. Ironically, my mind floods with thoughts, the fear I won’t be strong enough, my loneliness, my worry about facing my father, my fear of failing to help others, and strangely, Maribel. Yet with a deep breath, I let those thoughts slip away like water through my fingers. I open my eyes, focusing solely on the medical diagnosis spell.

Suddenly, the glow of mana swirling around the tantrum-throwing girl sharpens. Her entire structure becomes clear, like a mechanical toy with interconnected parts. Everything fits, except for one small, conspicuous irregularity.

“She has a cold,” I say, smiling at Lady Muara. “A very mild case of the common cold.”

“Correct!” Muara responds with a sly smile, lazily stretching out her hand and emitting a brief, green-glowing healing spell toward the little girl. “Your daughter’s life is saved. Please pay the receptionist on your way out.”

Both the nobleman and his daughter turned to Lady Muara in surprise. The girl paused her tantrum just long enough to register Lady Muara’s words with her angry little face before deciding on her next complaint.

“That’s it? You didn’t heal me enough!” she raged.

“Ma’am, is there anything else you can do?” the nobleman pleaded with Muara.

“Well, I could offer you some contraception if you like,” Lady Muara replied with a passive shrug. “Though, it may be a bit late for that.”

What is con-tra-cep-tion? It must be some sort of cure for obnoxious children.

“I want cake, Daddy!” the little tyrant demanded, hands on her hips. “Right now!”

What does cake have to do with being sick?

“Your daughter is healed. Please take her and go so we can tend to our next patient,” Lady Muara says, standing and gesturing toward the door.

The exhausted nobleman picks up his daughter, who was still kicking and screaming about wanting sweets, and carries her out of the room. Lady Muara exhales deeply and brushes off her white and red healer’s uniform, as if dusting off the difficult customer from her mind.

“Good work, Ren,” Lady Muara says with a smile. “Keep practicing your diagnosis while I heal. This will help you identify the types of illnesses and injuries and how I treat them.”

And practice I did. I spent the rest of the day’s light at the apothecary, carefully analyzing each patient Lady Muara treated. Before long, I could accurately identify nearly every patient’s condition. However, Lady Muara didn’t let me attempt any healing or curing spells. She insisted I practice diagnosing for a few more days, explaining that healing magic done incorrectly could be dangerous.

Lady Muara kindly agreed to let me apprentice with her three times a week. She is a very patient teacher, truly passionate about her profession. From what I can tell, she would prefer to provide her services for free to the commoners but is prevented from doing so by threats from the Merchant's Guild, who have warned they would revoke her license if she did.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

At the end of the day, I left the apothecary feeling surprisingly exhausted for someone who had mostly just stared at people all day. I walked through the market street under the moonlight, the sun long since set, the streets illuminated by streetlamps. Few people are still out at this hour, and the walk home is quiet and still, not even a breeze stirring the night air.

It is so quiet and still tonight that it’s particularly easy for me to sense the four people following me as I leave the apothecary. I keep walking as though unaware, allowing myself to observe them while getting closer to home. I shouldn’t be worried—I have my sword on my hip and my razor-wing hawk circling above me.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I walk down the empty street, focusing on my threat detection. The four men move to encircle me: two closing in from behind while the other two run down alleys to get ahead. None of them feel close to me in magical capacity, but together, they could be a challenge.

My hair stands on end as they close in. I’ve fought monsters before. I shouldn’t be scared. So why is my heart racing? Why do I want to run?

Calm down. You can do this.

One thing I remember from military strategy is never to let the enemy dictate the field of battle. If there’s going to be a fight, I need to ensure the location favors me.

I take an abrupt right turn into a narrow alley, forcing the men ahead of me to double back. Now all four are chasing me from the same direction down the confined path between a warehouse and a blacksmith’s shop. The alley is dark and ends in a tall wall, a dead end from another business.

I reach the dead end and turn around. My pursuers, halfway down the alley, slow their approach. They think I’m cornered. Little do they know—it’s they who are ensnared in my trap.

With the dead end behind me and the narrow walls closing them in, I have limited their angles of attack and cut off their retreat. Unbeknownst to my adversaries, I sense a powerful dark aura closing in at frightening speed. I don’t know why these men are targeting me, but it’s clear they expect a defenseless child.

They are about to receive a very rude awakening.

The four men close in, and even in the pale moonlight filtering into the alley, I can see them clearly. They wear a mix of light iron and leather armor, the kind worn by lower-ranked adventurers. Two wield simple longswords, another has a bow with an arrow strung, and the fourth grips a basic wand. Their gear is not the quality expected from military or professional assassins. They must be desperate or unscrupulous enough to accept a job to murder a child.

I guess picking herbs isn’t cutting it in this economy.

“Nowhere to run now, kid,” jeers one of my would-be murderers, a younger man with messy hair.

“Yeah, I've got you cornered now?” I reply with a sly smile, trying to mask my fear.

The tall, lanky archer apparently doesn't find my sarcasm amusing, as he looses an arrow aimed straight at my head. The arrow barely makes it two yards before glancing off an invisible barrier, reflecting back and striking the mage in the pelvis. He drops his wand with a scream, clutching his crotch as blood pools beneath him.

“What’s this?” Messy Hair says, dragging the edge of his sword against the barrier. His eyes widen as he realizes the barrier stretches up and around them.

“Ouch, that looks bad…” I say, glancing at the writhing mage. “Shame I can’t heal.”

The remaining three assassins hack frantically at my barrier, their weapons bouncing off harmlessly. “You can’t keep this up forever, kid,” Messy Hair snarls, glaring at me. “And when it falls, I’m going to gut you for this.”

“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” I reply, glancing around. I can feel it— the powerful dark aura closing in. The energy isn’t the warm blue of mana but a deep, cold blackness that triggers an instinct to flee.

A chill races down my spine as the men continue pounding their weapons against my barrier. Their desperate sounds suddenly vanish, as if I’ve gone deaf. Then I feel it— a rush of wind behind me and the cold pressure of a large, clawed hand gripping my left shoulder.

“Sleep,” whispers a voice, not in my ears but inside my mind, a deep, monstrous growl commanding my thoughts. My vision blurs, my body feels impossibly heavy, and I slump to the ground. Yet even as the voice echoes in my mind, my reflexive mental protection spell activates, dispelling some of the enchantment.

I collapse, but my vision clears. As I look into a dark puddle reflecting the moon, I lift my gaze to see a terrifying demon creature towering above me. Its jaws clamp down on the head of the messy-haired assassin, and with a sickening crunch, it tears his head from his body. Blood sprays over the creature’s body in a gruesome torrent.

I immediately wretch, overcome by nausea at the sight of the demon spitting out the man’s mutilated head before sinking its teeth into his neck, seemingly draining blood from the lifeless body. The monster is vaguely humanoid, resembling a naked woman, though standing ten feet tall with jet black skin, elongated limbs ending in clawed hands, bright glowing orange eyes, and an unnaturally wide mouth filled with sharp teeth. Its entire form seems to dissolve into smoke at the edges, moving as though weightless.

The demon discards the limp, shriveled, headless corpse and, with a burst of speed, flies through the air like a trail of smoke, catching the archer attempting to flee down the alley. The creature slams him face-first into the ground with such force that his skull caves in. Lifting the body effortlessly, leaving behind a streak of blood and brain matter, the demon repeats its gruesome act—biting down and draining his blood before tossing the corpse aside.

I am sick, trembling uncontrollably, my breath ragged from dry heaving, yet I can't look away from the horrifying scene. I've never witnessed anything so terrifying in my life.

The third assassin swings his sword desperately, but the demon dodges with fluid grace before slicing off his head with its clawed fingers. The blood draining from his neck is consumed just as brutally as the others.

The demon then turns to the final assassin. The mage, lying in a pool of his own blood with an arrow still lodged in his groin, barely stirs. The creature grips his legs with both clawed hands and hoists him upside down. Blood drains down his body, over his pale face, pooling on the ground. With a single, effortless jerk, the demon bends his legs sideways, his hips dislocating grotesquely. Then, it bites down, draining his blood as well before dropping the withered corpse to the ground in a crumpled heap.

With the last assassin dead, sound rushes back into the alley. I can hear my own ragged breathing, the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. The demon, still drenched in blood, turns toward me. Its wide, toothy grin remains, but its glowing eyes no longer burn with bloodlust. Instead, there is something... softer. Concern.

I recognize that look.

“It’s okay, young master. Hold still,” a deep, monstrous growl resonates in my mind as Willow swoops down in front of me. “I can fix you.”

She gently grasps me around the torso with one giant clawed hand, lifting me effortlessly from the ground and bringing me close to the same maw I had just watched tear the heads off men. My heart races in pure terror. I don't want this. I want it to stop.

Willow brings her free hand close to my forehead, a long, clawed finger poised inches from my skin. “I can make this all go away,” she coos softly.

“Wait! I want to make a contract!” I yell desperately, causing Willow to freeze in place.

Willow’s monstrous face adopts an unmistakable look of surprise and then confusion. I can tell she wanted to remove my memories of what I had just seen. Or at least, that’s what I’m guessing from what she said. I've noticed strange gaps in my memory before, waking up without remembering going to sleep, or missing parts of days where I recall picking herbs or walking through the commons. I’ve long suspected that Lady Willow may have removed my memories before. Now I think I know why.

“What are the terms?” Willow asks cautiously.

“I want you to agree never to erase my memories again, not now, not ever. And in return, I will give you one thimble of blood,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

“If I don't erase your memory, you'll be scared of me,” Willow says, sounding unsure. “If you're afraid of me, you'll run. And if you run, I can't protect you.”

“Then I promise to give you one thimble of blood, and I won’t run away from you. If I do, the contract is void, and you can erase my memories,” I counter, determined.

Willow slowly retracts her clawed hand from my forehead and taps her chin, considering. “But I need to protect you from the fear of me.”

“Lady Willow,” I plead, meeting her glowing eyes, “some of the most fearsome beasts can have the kindest hearts. It’s okay if you’re scary, you need to be scary to protect me.”

Willow’s fierce expression softens, and for the first time, her terrifying mouth seems to form a genuine smile. She gently sets me back down, placing my feet firmly on the ground.

“Okay, Master Ren,” she says softly, “We have a deal.”

As she speaks, Lady Willow’s demonic form shifts back into her beautiful human appearance. With a wave of her hands, her usual clothes materialize from nothingness, wrapping around her and curing her of her nakedness. I draw my sword and, with great care, begin to slice open my palm. It takes several attempts, it’s surprisingly difficult to cut yourself on purpose, but eventually, I manage it. The moment blood wells from the wound, Lady Willow gently takes my hand, pressing it to her lips as she drinks a small amount. Immediately afterward, she casts a healing spell, closing the cut entirely. Then, with a smile, she takes my hand in hers and walks me back home.