Le vent hurlait si fort qu'il aurait fait tomber les cornes d'un minotaure.

  La plaine s'étendait à perte de vue, d'un jaune br?lé, hérissée de touffes d'herbe sèche qui semblaient prêtes à fuir à chaque rafale.

  Le ciel, quant à lui, hésite entre rester bleu et se fendre en deux et décha?ner l'enfer.

  Au milieu de ce vide balayé par le vent flottait un adolescent aux cheveux noirs en bataille, tordu dans une posture improbable.

  En lévitation, certes. Mais aussi la tête en bas.

  — ? Redresse-toi, par le cul céleste de Myrrgor ! Tu ressembles à un poisson mort dans un bocal ! ?

  La voix retenue derrière lui, rauque, imprégnée de vin et de mauvaise foi.

  Garlan prend une inspiration profonde.

  Il était censé canaliser son flux magique, sans penser à l'odeur de fermentation qui imprégnait chaque cri du vieux centaure.

  — ? J'essaie, Ma?tre Tharion… Mais le vent… Il me déstabilise… ?

  — ? LE VENT ?! ?

  Un sabot heurta le rocher plat d'une colline.

  Tharion – demi-dieu des plaines pour certains, ordure à quatre pattes pour d'autres – avan?a en titubant, à peine tremblante.

  Un petit tonneau pendait à sa ceinture, qu'il manipulait entre deux embouts de survie.

  — ? Le vent est ton ami, espèce de triple caca ! Il est porteur de magie ! Danse avec lui, fusionne avec lui ! Ou sa s?ur viendra te briser les rotules avec une grêle enchantée ! ?

  Garlan ferme les yeux.

  Il visualise le flux.

  Il visualise la plaine.

  Et – malheureusement – il visualisa aussi Marenna, l'apprentie guérisseuse du village, penchée sur lui deux jours plus t?t, après qu'il s'était évanoui en plein cours d'incantation.

  L'image de sa poitrine flottant au-dessus de son visage n'aidait pas.

  Il essaie de se ressaisir.

  Il essaya de penser à autre chose.

  Des sortes de lévitation. Le souffle du vent.

  Une racine de rekta. Même la gueule de Tharion.

  Mais ?a ne sert à rien.

  Son esprit, tra?tre qu'il était, revenait sans cesser en arrière :

  Marenna, penchée… son odeur… la proximité…

  Et son corps réagit avant qu'il ne puisse l'arrêter.

  Comme s'il avait ses propres objectifs.

  Comme s'il n'était pas tout à fait d'accord avec le programme de ? concentration magique ?.

  Il gémit dans sa barbe, pris entre frustration et désespoir :

  — ? Pas maintenant… pas pour ?a… ?

  Une étrange chaleur monte dans ses entrailles.

  Puis dans sa poitrine.

  Puis dans sa main.

  Et sa main… prit feu.

  Pour certains, la magie était une science.

  Pour Garlan, c'était une impulsion nerveuse déguisée en miracle.

  L'émotion monte en moi.

  Pas vraiment de la peur.

  Un cocktail pervers : le souvenir de Marenna, son odeur, sa poitrine penchée…

  Et naturellement, son corps a choisi de convertir cela en énergie brute.

  La chaleur parcourut son torse, puis

  descendit le long de son bras.

  Et puis…

  — ? GARLAN, NON ! ? hurla Tharion en reculant.

  Trop tard.

  Une boule de feu jaillit, massive et palpitante comme une crise cardiaque d'adolescent.

  Elle s'élan?a avec la grace d'un cataplasme humide lancé par une fronde.

  Et elle vola…

  droit sur Tharion.

  Le centaure a à peine eu le temps de se baisser.

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  Résultat :

  la boule de feu ne lui a pas crevé l'?il.

  Mais elle lui a br?lé le sourcil gauche avec la douceur d'un briquet réglé sur MAX.

  Le cri qui suivit était mi-cheval, mi-humain, et étrangement aigu.

  — ? PAR LA FESSE BR?LéE D'ASTARION ! MON SOURCIL ! IL A BR?Lé MON SOURCIL ENSANGLé ! ?

  Garlan n'entendait plus rien.

  The spell, aimless, carved a glowing path through the sky.

  And far off, at that precise moment, a crow flapped by innocently…

  BOOM.

  The poor bird exploded in a burst of singed feathers, punctuated by an existential “caw!”

  Silence.

  Wind.

  A charred feather floated gently down…

  and landed on Garlan’s head.

  Tharion, one eye closed, tapped the ashes of his lost brow with a trembling finger.

  — “You’ve got no discipline.”

  — “No control.”

  — “But by the beard of a sterile goat…”

  He sighed, grabbed his keg, and took a long swig.

  — “You’ve got some bloody potential, kid.”

  — “But… how did you know I was thinking about her?”

  The question blurted out, like a nervous fart during a speech.

  Tharion burst out laughing—a deep, raspy, nearly animalistic sound.

  He almost spat wine onto his own hooves.

  — “HA! You think I didn’t notice you two circling each other like flies on an overripe pudding?”

  Garlan stammered, searching for words like someone hunting for a tissue in a tornado.

  — “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about… Girls… Girls scare me.”

  Tharion raised an eyebrow—the one that survived—then lowered it again with a smirk.

  — “Sure. Girls, maybe.”

  Another swig.

  — “But not… perky pecs.”

  He punctuated that with a double hoof motion mimicking a pair of juicy hills that could break a monk’s vow in seconds.

  Garlan curled into himself, beet red, eyes glued to the ground like he hoped it might swallow him whole.

  — “I swear, master… I don’t even know what’s happening in there…”

  He gestured vaguely at his crotch, like the offending organ had committed high treason.

  Tharion stared at him—serious, for once.

  — “You’re growing up, kid. And your magic doesn’t just respond to spells or elements.

  It reacts to all the stuff you’re too young to get.

  Emotions. Urges. Instincts.”

  He lifted his snout to the stormy sky.

  — “One day, if you don’t learn to channel that…

  you’re gonna blow up an entire village just because a fruit vendor looked you in the eyes too long.”

  The rest of the training happened in sigh-punctuated silence.

  One of them channeled his last drops of mana.

  The other tested the limits of his keg.

  When the sun started licking the hills to the west, Garlan hovered a few more seconds… then collapsed like a sausage skin after market day.

  — “And that’s a K.O.!” declared Tharion, belching like a victory gong.

  He hoisted his apprentice with a rough tenderness, slung him over his back, and started home.

  The plain behind them fell quiet.

  The kind of post-storm hush where even the grass seemed tired.

  Tharion glanced at the sky.

  — “Y’know… Some days I think maybe you’re not completely brain-dead.”

  He looked over at the unconscious Garlan.

  — “Today, I’m still not sure.”

  He paused, sighed, and popped a dried plum seed into his mouth.

  The wind rustled through the grasses like an old giant snoring.

  — “But hey… you didn’t burn the whole plain.”

  He smiled.

  — “Just one crow. That’s a solid start.”

  Vinsart unfolded below them, nestled between two wooded arms of rolling hills.

  The village looked like it couldn’t quite decide which civilization to belong to.

  The elven homes—woven into trees or carved from living stone—blended into the landscape with grace. Pale woods, braided leaf roofs, crystal lanterns hanging like sleepy fireflies.

  But all around, human discipline made itself known: straight ramparts, a squat stone church rooted like a fortress, and a town hall shaped more like a barricade than a welcome.

  Vinsart was a strange harmony.

  A village-bridge between two legacies.

  Tharion ambled through the streets without urgency.

  The villagers greeted him with simple nods, unfazed by the unconscious teenager slung over his back.

  In Vinsart, that was hardly out of the ordinary.

  He stopped in front of a round little house, half-swallowed by climbing plants, strings of dried herbs, and colorful vials swinging from a cord. A lantern spun gently in the breeze, etched with a sage flower.

  Two sharp hoof-taps on the doorstep.

  — “Marenna? You home? Got a half-cooked vegetable for you. Perfectly tender.”

  The door creaked open.

  Marenna appeared.

  And as always, Garlan’s heart—despite the exhaustion—attempted a somersault before tripping over his own ribs.

  She wasn’t like the others.

  Not quite human. Not quite elven.

  Human in stature, yes, and she carried herself with an unconscious authority.

  Her pointed ears hinted at her elven blood, as did that effortless beauty, fluid and natural—like she had stepped straight out of a forest ballad.

  But the rest…

  The rest was all human.

  Especially that generous chest, which Garlan had mentally classified—against his will—as a level-three magical hazard.

  She wore an apron hastily tied, brown strands slipping from her braid, with vials and herb sachets at her belt.

  A healer.

  And an alchemist.

  She knew the body.

  Knew the flows, the cures… and the silences no salve could fix.

  — “Worn out again?” she asked without judgment.

  — “Worn out, wrung out, dried out. But still a handsome devil,” Tharion replied, gently laying him down on a bed of fresh herbs. “Those genes are a menace.”

  She gave a faint smile, already placing two fingers against Garlan’s temple.

  — “I’ll prep him a rekta and yellow limbe infusion. Nothing too strong. Just enough to reboot his mana.”

  — “No pure limbe, yeah? Last time he ended up on the town hall roof in his underwear.”

  — “I remember. So does the mayor,” she replied, carefully measuring her doses.

  Garlan cracked one eye open.

  She was there.

  Leaning over him. Focused. Gentle.

  He felt her hand on his neck.

  Her hair brushing against his skin.

  The scent of mint, flowers, balm…

  And his brain, in true survival fashion, did what it always did in these moments:

  PANIC.

  — “Sip slowly,” she said, holding a steaming cup to his lips.

  He drank. He trembled.

  — “You’re shivering…”

  — “C-cold,” he stammered.

  She looked at him, but didn’t press.

  Tharion stretched in the corner, feigning a yawn.

  — “He’s tense,” he noted.

  — “It’s fine,” Marenna replied.

  She caressed Garlan’s cheek.

  — “He’s just… sensitive.”

  She stood, rolled up a sleeve, and added:

  — “Make sure he eats something before bed. Even a cold egg. I know you, Garlan.”

  Then she left.

  And in her wake remained only the scent, the confusion…

  and a boy adrift.

  He wandered home in a haze, swaying like a boat at sea.

  You’d think he drank as much as his mentor—

  but all he had in his belly was warm tea, an emotional overload, and the lingering perfume of Marenna in his nostrils.

  Night fell on Vinsart—gentle, quiet, studded with hanging lanterns and the soft chirping of night insects.

  Garlan stumbled, mind foggy with semi-epic thoughts, his heart thumping far too fast for someone who’d just sipped herbal tea.

  He reached his house: a small wooden shack leaning to one side, moss-covered, with a roof that leaked when it rained sideways.

  Two rooms. No basement. A lot of solitude.

  He pushed the door open and collapsed directly onto the bed.

  Wrinkled tunic, boots still on, limbs spread like some forgotten relic after a botched ritual.

  He breathed in.

  And still—Marenna’s scent clung to him.

  In his hair, on his skin…

  mint, flowers,

  and that soft, woody warmth he couldn’t quite name.

  — ? Je suis foutu ?, murmura-t-il dans l’oreiller.

  Il le savait.

  Il savait qu'il la désirait.

  Qu'il était attiré par elle.

  Qu'il n'avait aucune idée de ce qu'il ressentait,

  mais son corps avait déjà rendu son verdict.

  Il s'assit à moitié. Puis se rallongea.

  Puis se dépla?a. Encore.

  Puis encore.

  — ? Par tous les Saints du Flow… Pourquoi est-ce que cela me rend si stupide ? ?

  Il ferma les yeux.

  Et bien s?r, il rêvait d'elle.

  Marenna.

  Penchée sur lui.

  Mais cette fois, pas de tablier.

  Pas de barrière morale.

  Elle murmurait des choses comme :

  — ? Tu es tendu… Je vais devoir te détendre… ?

  Garlan gémit doucement, les yeux fermés, serrant son oreiller comme un bouclier de lin.

  Puis – pop – quelque chose céda.

  Et puis-

  éCLABOUSSURE.

  Un geyser de sang jaillit soudain de sa narine gauche, s'élève droit vers le plafond comme un volcan trop émotif.

  Une gouttet atterrit sur son front.

  Il se fige.

  — ? …Par tous les Saints du Flux. Même mon nez me trahit. ?

  Il soupira.

  Et je me suis finalement endormi.

  Mon nez tremblait encore.

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