Michael drew in a sharp breath as his eyes fixed on Rudy’s back. Beneath the boy’s thin frame, long, jagged scars crisscrossed the skin, nearly covering its entire width. Some were faded with time; others were still raw, angry red lines—no more than a few weeks old.
"Rudy..." Michael began, but stopped himself.
Was it really wise to ask now? They had barely just met.
"Hm? What’s up?" Rudy asked, halfway into pulling on a crisp white shirt.
Michael’s gaze faltered. The sight was almost too much to bear, even for someone who had seen death before.
"Oh—you mean these, huh?" Rudy said, glancing over his shoulder. The playful energy in his voice vanished, replaced by something hollow. His eyes lost their brightness, dimming as if someone had pulled the light out of them.
"You... you don’t have to explain," Michael said quickly, almost defensively.
Only moments ago, he’d assumed Rudy had lived a carefree life. But those scars told a different story—one of suffering Michael could hardly imagine. Asking would risk tearing open wounds that were still bleeding beneath the surface.
"It’s fine, since we’ll be roommates from now on," Rudy murmured, fastening the buttons of his shirt. His jaw tightened with each movement, as though the brush of fabric over scar tissue burned. "But I guess I should start from the beginning..." he added softly.
He sank onto the edge of his bed and looked over at Michael, forcing a faint smile.
"I grew up in the countryside," he began, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if replaying memories only he could see. "Every morning we’d be up before the sun—milking cows, feeding the animals. We’d shovel dung, tend the fields... mess around when no one was watching." This text is hosted at novelFirｅ.net
His lips twitched upward, but it was a fragile smile. "My ma and pa ran the farm—supplied most of the town with milk, meat, corn, wheat. My brothers and sisters worked alongside us. We all worked hard."
Michael listened in silence.
"Every day felt like an adventure," Rudy continued. "Sometimes we’d sneak into the forest, even though we’d get scolded something fierce when we got home." He let out a faint chuckle. "But Ma and Pa never stayed mad for long. A few minutes later we’d all be laughing again."
The pause that followed was heavy, the past tense in his words pulling a knot tighter in Michael’s chest.
"One day," Rudy said quietly, "I came back from one of those trips to the forest... and they were gone."
Gone? Michael thought, his brow furrowing. Surely he doesn’t mean they abandoned him? He spoke of them with so much love...
Rudy’s next words clarified.
"It looked like they were sleeping," he said, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. "But no matter what I did, I couldn’t wake them."
Michael’s hand twitched, instinct urging him to reach out. But the memory of those scars stopped him. His fingers curled back against his palm.
Wait... then how did he get them? What happened after?
"I called for help, but no one came," Rudy said, lifting his head. Tears streaked his cheeks, glistening in the lantern light. "When I ran into town... they were all dead. Everyone."
Michael froze, his stomach twisting.
It’s the same as Velmara City...
"Wait—everyone was dead?" He shot to his feet. "Was the mana spring dried up as well?"
Rudy’s brows knit. "What? How... how do you know that?"
But Michael’s mind was already turning, hand pressed to his chin in thought.
This can’t be a coincidence. Whatever happened in Velmara must have happened in Rudy’s town too, he concluded.
"Rudy," he asked, his tone low and grave, "did you notice... anything try to attack you? Specifically your inner palace?"
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he rose slowly and stepped toward Michael. The warmth in his gaze was gone, replaced by something sharp and accusing.
"If you know anything about my family’s death," Rudy said through clenched teeth, "you’d better start talking now."
He lifted his left hand. Wisps of deep red mana coiled sluggishly toward his palm—an unsteady, raw display that told Michael the boy had little formal training.
"Hold on," Michael said quickly, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "I can explain."
So he did. He told Rudy his story, holding back only the most dangerous truths. He didn’t mention refining chaotic mana, nor the violet mage’s invasive energy that had nearly killed him. But he spoke of the mana-scarred lands. He spoke of returning to Velmara, empty and silent as a tomb. He even spoke—hesitantly—of his mother’s death at the hands of an assassin.
By the time he finished, Rudy’s mana had dispersed. The boy’s stance softened, his earlier hostility melting into a pained empathy.
A firm, calloused hand settled on Michael’s shoulder.
"I’m sorry I doubted you," Rudy said, forcing a small, sad smile. "I didn’t know... it wasn’t just me carrying this."
Michael met his gaze. And in that look, he could feel the boy’s grief—heavy and suffocating, yet somehow still alive with the faint spark of hope.
"It’s fine," Michael replied softly. "I’m sorry about your family."
They shared a moment far too heavy for boys their age. It was the kind of understanding that didn’t need words—two wounded souls recognizing each other in silence.
Rudy broke it first. "We should get into our uniforms," he said, withdrawing his hand. "The sprite warned us the headmaster gets angry if we’re late to the feast—and honestly, I’m starving."
Michael chuckled under his breath. The boy’s cheerful tone had returned, and with it came an unexpected sense of ease.
He still didn’t know the truth behind Rudy’s scars. But they were roommates now—there would be time for that conversation later.
For now, it was enough to know he had found someone who understood him, even if their shared pain was the cruelest kind.
A loud knock rattled the door, making both boys jump mid-change.
"Are you two idiots ready?" a voice called from the other side.
"Coming!" Michael shouted back, fumbling to pull on his trousers.