Chapter 72: Healing Spell

Chapter 72: Healing Spell

Olivia's POV

My name rippled through the stands, end to end, like a pebble dropped in still water. And I could tell plenty of them weren't thrilled.

A few people on the red team looked pretty unhappy. One girl's mouth twisted into a pout.

Some looked totally confused. They didn't know me, hadn't heard my name, had no idea who this random person was who had snagged the last spot.

I stood in the center of the field, sunlight burning on my face. The light disc hung heavy in my hand, the grip slick with sweat.

Rowan said something, but I didn't catch it. My brain was still processing the message—I made it.

Six people to represent the academy at the Bindlight Tournament.

Hundreds of people here, six spots, and one was mine.

I scanned the crowd for Ethan. Back row of the stands, that corner.

He was standing up, solid as a post.

I flashed him a goofy thumbs-up.

Too far away to know if he saw it. But I knew, and that was enough.

The next day there were no classes, but I asked my professor for time off anyway. I said I had twisted my hand and couldn't write.

The professor asked cautiously—wasn't my hand fine during yesterday's tryouts? I obviously didn't tell the truth.

I said that was during the match. Adrenaline kept me going, and I didn't feel the pain. Now that I had rested, I noticed it was swollen. She gave me a look that basically said "you're full of shit," but let me go anyway.

Ethan and I agreed to meet under the old oak tree on the back hill. I brought a picnic blanket and food: bread, cheese, a box of cut fruit, two bottles of pumpkin juice.

When I got there, Ethan was already waiting. He sat leaning against the trunk, one leg stretched out, one bent. No book in his hands, no light disc, just sitting there, looking into the distance.

I walked over, spread out the blanket, and laid everything out one by one. He watched me arrange things, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"You came for a picnic?" Ethan said with a smile.

"What else?"

"Feels kind of like an elementary school field trip."

I almost punched him.

He also pulled some food from his bag, all the trendy stuff from the magic shop lately, like he had gone out of his way to buy it.

The blanket wasn't big, a bit cramped for two people, shoulders touching. He didn't move away, and neither did I.

We ate for a while without talking. The wind blew through, oak leaves rustling. Sunlight leaked through the leaves, printing scattered gold all over the blanket.

"I really didn't think I'd have a place," I said softly. "That the last spot would be mine. I thought it would be someone else."

"Why someone else?" Ethan looked up, speaking gently.

I thought about it. "Because I don't know if I deserve it."

Ethan turned to look at me, completely serious. "What kind of person do you think deserves it?"

I couldn't say. I just felt like everyone else could shift. Everyone else had known what they were since childhood. Everyone else wasn't like me—clueless, helpless, stumbling along the whole way.

"You passed three rounds," Ethan said flatly. "All on your own, going to class and practicing hard. If you don't deserve it, who does?"

"I know, but..." My nose tingled.

"No buts."

He had that way of speaking. Hard. Permanent. Like nails in plaster. Leaving no room for argument. But I knew he wasn't scolding me—he was blocking all those things I said to beat myself up.

And in front of him, I didn't need to act tough or pretend. He could see through my vulnerability, yet still gave me strength.

I swallowed my bread, took a sip of pumpkin juice. Sweet.

"So... want to have sex?" I glanced at him. No one would come to the back hill anyway.

"Reward you?"

He was just joking. But I gently touched his waist, looking at him with longing eyes.

His eyes held desire too, as he gently lifted my shirt.

I realized my nipples had already hardened, the brown areolas large circles. Ethan stared for two seconds before burying his head to suck them.

His tongue teased my nipples up and down, making me twist my hips uncontrollably. Then his teeth gently grazed them, and I trembled like I had been shocked, both painful and itchy.

Though I didn't know why he still stopped at the last step, didn't push his cock inside me. But just this was almost enough to drive me crazy with pleasure. Finally, after I begged over and over, he reluctantly restrained himself and let me go.

The next day was healing magic class.

This class was different from others, held in a small classroom next to the infirmary. Not many people came—mainly those with some interest or talent in healing arts.

I enrolled in this class last term, but I couldn't even grasp the fundamentals of healing magic back then.

Others would apply ointment to wounds, chant spells, watch wounds slowly heal. I would sit there with ointment in hand, not knowing where to apply it, because I couldn't even do the most basic "sensing the wound."

Clementine never rushed me. She just said, "Your time hasn't come yet."

Whether the "time" she mentioned had come now, I didn't know. But I wanted to try.

This class covered treating surface wounds. Clementine explained the theory first, then had everyone pair up to practice.

I turned to look beside me. Ethan sat on my left, flipping through notes.

"Want to partner with me?"

He glanced at me. "Yeah."

I didn't know if he came specifically to accompany me or had enrolled in this class anyway. But I didn't ask—him being here was enough.

The others in the classroom quickly paired up. Some people made light cuts on their arms with small knives—not too deep, just breaking the skin—and their partners healed them with spells.

Ethan rolled up his sleeve, exposing his forearm.

His forearm had several scars. Long and short, dark and light. Some clearly old injuries, some still tinged pink.

I stared for two seconds, didn't dare ask where all those scars came from.

"Don't just stand there," he said.

I took a deep breath, placed my hand over his forearm, covering the wound.

Closed my eyes.

At first I felt nothing. Under my hand was just warm skin, and his pulse beating, steady and strong.

Slowly, I sensed a very fine crack, like a piece of fabric torn with a small opening. The edges of the tear were hot—not normal body temperature, but that burning heat of a wound. Blood surged out from the opening, not much, but constantly flowing.

My hand began to heat up. A gentle warmth, like placing your hand near a cup of warm water, heat slowly seeping out from my palm.

I felt that crack closing bit by bit beneath my palm.

I opened my eyes and lifted my hand.

Gone. The wound was gone. The skin was smooth, not even a white mark left behind.

He looked down at his forearm, turning it over and back.

"It's healed," he said.

"Really healed?"