Chapter 42 42- Do Not Let Him Teach You Anything
LEXI
I sit and listen attentively as Layla explains the process for healing a bruise. Called it, by the way. Go me! She’s partway through explaining that to heal properly I need to understand the cause of a bruise, damaged blood vessels leaking beneath the skin, and that effective healing magic focuses on repairing those vessels rather than just making the bruise disappear. It’s careful, methodical, and fascinating. I’m so absorbed that I don’t hear footsteps. Then, from somewhere near the doorway, Blake clears his throat. Loudly. I jolt upright so fast my chair shifts beneath me.
“Blake!” I blurt out, heat rushing to my face.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait!” I quickly apologise. Guilt hits immediately. That was rude. I should have at LEAST texted him. Blake’s eyes flick over me in a single, sharp sweep, posture, face, hands, checking before he even answers.
“What’s going on?” He asks, his voice calm but edged with something protective.
“Are you alright?” He demands. Oh. Right. From his perspective, this probably looks… Bad. Me alone in a classroom after hours with a professor. I suddenly realise how easily this could be read as trouble. Or another professor warning me off of him or something.
“I’m fine.” I say quickly. At his doubtful expression I continue.
“I promise. I’m actually great.”I add, softening my tone. I turn slightly so he can see Layla as well.
“Professor Young, Layla, offered to help me learn some actual healing magic. The rest of the class isn’t doing it yet.” I gesture vaguely to the desk, the notes, my own very obvious excitement.
“It’s extra stuff. Optional.” I explain. Blake studies me for another moment, then something in his expression eases. The tension in his shoulders loosens just a fraction.
“That explains why you look so excited.” He says quietly. I nod, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face.
“Yep.” I agree. There’s a pause. Then Blake speaks again, more decisively.
“I want to watch.” He insists. Both Layla and I look at him.
“It might help me to figure out more clues about what you are.” He continues, completely unapologetic. He is making a demand technically, but there’s no aggression in it. Just certainty. I turn to Layla, hands clasped together in front of me without even realising it, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Is it okay if Blake stays?” I ask, pitching my voice just this side of pleading. Layla hesitates. Just briefly. Her gaze moves from Blake to me and back again, not disapproving, but evaluating. She looks… Cautious. Wary, and a little curious.
“As long as you are comfortable with him being here…” She says slowly, choosing her words.
“Then… I suppose it’s acceptable. Dragons don’t generally possess much in the way of healing magic, so I’m not particularly concerned about him attempting anything beyond his skill level.” She adds. I don’t even have to think.
“I’d like him to stay.” I say immediately. Blake gives a single, satisfied nod, like that was the only answer he’d been expecting. He moves to a nearby chair and sits where he can see clearly without crowding us, close enough to feel solid and present, far enough to give me space. Honestly, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have left regardless of what Layla said. So it’s probably a good thing she agreed.
Layla spends another fifteen minutes explaining the magic I’ll need to use, and then, more importantly, how to use it. A lot of it seems to hinge on visualisation. On intention. On being able to find the feeling of magic inside myself and guide it with purpose instead of force. That part… I’m not totally sure about. I understand the theory. I just don’t know if I can actually do it. Still, I nod along, listening carefully, absorbing every word. Even if I don’t understand it yet, I want to.
“So, do you have a handy bruise somewhere that you can practice on?” Layla asks eventually, her tone light and encouraging.
“Oh… Yeah.” I glance down at my arm.
“I’ve got one on my elbow from when I…” I hesitate for half a second.
“Tripped.” I finish. I almost said ‘from when I fell into the fountain’, but I really don’t feel like explaining that entire disaster right now, especially not with Blake sitting right there. His eyes narrow instantly, zeroing in on the bruise like it’s personally offended him. I smile at him, quick and reassuring, silently saying it’s fine, I promise. After a moment, he exhales and leans back in his chair again, tension easing out of his posture. Thank goodness. No interrogation. No looming dragon fury.
“Perfect.” Layla says, missing none of it.
“It helps that it’s somewhere you can see easily. That’s not technically required, but it makes things simpler for beginners.” She gestures as she speaks, clearly slipping into teacher mode again.
“Eventually, I’ll teach you a spell that allows you to perform a sort of full body scan, checking someone for injuries without relying on sight. But that’s a second-year topic. And it requires a volunteer. It’s difficult to use on yourself because you already know what hurts, and it can be a bit… Invasive.” She tells me as she grimaces faintly.
“People don’t always like others poking around magically inside their bodies. Understandably. But anyway, off topic.” She refocuses on me.
“I want you to draw on your magic and try the visualisation exercise we discussed. Take it slow. If you feel any discomfort, stop immediately and tell me.” She instructs, then she smiles, calm and reassuring. I nod. Hesitant. Then I just… Stare at my arm. At the faint, yellowing bruise near my elbow.
“Um… How do I actually… Draw on my magic? I don’t really know what that means.” I say quietly. Layla’s brow furrows.
“Oh.” She pauses, then exhales slowly.
“Right. I’m a witch, not a shifter, so for me it’s… Different. But usually it’s not that different from the magic you feel during shifting and...” She trails off.
“Except you’ve never shifted…” She finishes, her eyes widening slightly as the realisation hits.
“Damn.” She mutters. My shoulders slump before I can stop them. Does that mean I can’t do it? That I can’t try any spells until I learn how to shift? And what if I never figure it out? What if this is just another thing I’m locked out of? Before I can spiral any further, Blake clears his throat.
“I have an idea.” He says, his voice low. My head snaps up.
“You do?” I ask, hope flaring despite myself. He nods once. Calm. Certain. Layla looks hesitant, clearly unsure whether she should interrupt, but she stays silent, watching him carefully. I can’t tell if she’s giving him space out of professional curiosity or because, well… He’s a dragon.
“I want you to try the relaxation exercise we did earlier today. The one where you tense and release each muscle.” Blake says evenly. I nod automatically.
“When you reach that prickling sensation you described, I want you to imagine pulling that feeling inward. Gathering it. Focusing it into one place instead of letting it spread.” He explains. Then pauses, thinking.
“When I draw on magic, I imagine the sensation of my scales pushing through. That pressure. That shift.” He clarifies. His eyes flick to mine.
“It might be similar for you.” He finishes. That… Actually makes sense. Layla straightens slightly, thoughtful now rather than hesitant.
“It’s worth attempting.” She agrees.
“I don’t have extensive experience with shifters, especially when it comes to healing. Most of my students are witches or other magic-focused species. Healing potential in shifters is actually relatively uncommon.” She informs me. I hadn’t realised that. I glance at Blake, but he doesn’t look surprised at all. If anything, he looks like this just confirms something he already suspected. I inhale slowly.
“Okay, I’ll try.” I say, with more confidence than I feel. I square my shoulders, fix my gaze on the bruise on my elbow, and take a deep breath.
Doing the activity Blake taught me earlier takes longer than I would like. A lot longer. Probably because I suddenly have an audience. It was one thing doing this with just Blake earlier, when it felt low-stakes and private. But now Layla is watching me closely, attentive and focused in a way that makes me acutely aware of every second that passes without anything happening. I can almost feel the weight of expectation in the room, even though she hasn’t said a single impatient word. I force myself not to rush. Blake told me to go slow. So I do. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing first, trying to block out the room, the chairs, the faint scratch of someone shifting their weight nearby. I tense my muscles the way he taught me, starting at my forehead, my jaw, my neck, then slowly release them. Shoulders. Arms. Hands. I work my way down methodically, then back up again, just like before. At first, there’s nothing but distraction. My thoughts keep snagging on stupid things. What if this doesn’t work? What if I look ridiculous just sitting here with my eyes closed? What if Layla realises I’m completely hopeless? I push all of that aside and try again. Eventually, finally, that familiar sensation creeps back in. A faint prickling under my skin. Not unpleasant. Not painful. Just… There. Like static, or the moment before your foot falls asleep, except lighter. More scattered. It spreads across me in tiny points instead of one solid wave. Okay. That’s something. Now comes the hard part. I try to follow Blake’s instructions, to draw the feeling into one place, but the moment I think about it too literally, it slips through my grasp. How am I supposed to pull a sensation? It doesn’t have edges. It doesn’t have shape. It makes absolutely no sense. Frustration flares. I exhale slowly and force myself to stop thinking about it as prickling. Instead, I imagine each tiny sensation as a sparkle. Not sharp. Not electric. Just soft points of light, like glitter dust catching the sun. Hundreds of them, scattered through me. That image feels easier to hold onto. Kinder. Less abstract. I take another breath and picture the sparkles drifting. Not being yanked or forced, just gently gathering, like they’re being drawn by gravity. Slowly, patiently, they begin to move toward my left hand. One by one at first. Then more. The sensation shifts, thinning out everywhere else and growing denser in that single spot. The prickling changes. It’s no longer diffuse. It’s concentrated. A steady, low buzz hums beneath the skin of my left hand, warm and present, like something waiting there. My pulse quickens, not from fear, but from the sudden certainty that this is different. That this is more than imagination. I focus hard on keeping the feeling anchored there. Don’t lose it. Don’t scatter it again. Carefully, I open my eyes. The room swims for half a second as I adjust, then my gaze locks onto the small bruise on my elbow. Up close, it looks exactly like Layla described earlier, faintly yellowed at the edges, deeper purple at the center. I lift my buzzing hand slightly, holding it near the bruise without touching it. Then, just like Layla instructed, I start to visualise. I picture the damaged capillaries beneath the skin. Tiny fractures, leaking. I imagine them knitting back together, sealing themselves, the way torn fabric pulls tight under careful stitching. I don’t imagine the bruise vanishing, just the damage being repaired, piece by piece. I hold my breath. And hope. Really, truly hope. Because for the first time since arriving here, it feels like something inside me is actually listening.