Tangled in Magic

🕯️3 – AN UNUSUAL BEAT

Sunlight slowly streamed through the slats of the wooden window, spreading warmth across the quiet healing room.

Only the rustling of leaves outside and the soft breeze swaying the sheer curtains could be heard.

Ozra blinked slowly. The world looked blurry, swaying like the surface of water just struck by a pebble. A sharp pain pierced her temple, dragging her consciousness back.

A wooden ceiling. The scent of herbs. A thin cloth wrapped around her forehead, damp with dried blood. Her head throbbed.

Her hand moved slowly to touch the fabric on her brow, trying to remember...

The crystal stone that held her power. A staggering, armed man on the altar. Then... her own body collapsing behind the bars.

She exhaled and sat up slowly. The bed creaked softly. And that was when she saw him.

At the side of the bed—head bowed in sleep on a wooden chair leaning toward her—Aren. His black hair fell messily over his forehead.

His face looked peaceful in slumber, his breath steady, though a thin line of worry still marked his brow. Shadows of exhaustion lingered beneath his eyes, perhaps from keeping watch too long.

For a moment, Ozra just stared at him.

This man was a witch-hunter. And yet, he was now the one carrying her power.

She leaned closer, kneeling in front of the chair. Her hand hesitated before reaching out to touch Aren’s chest over his dark clothing—right above his heart.

Warm.

Then she felt it. A faint ripple of energy vibrating from within his body—unstable. Still dormant.

The man was unaware that within him resided a power that once shook the world of magic.

Ozra furrowed her brows gently. Her heart stirred, not only from surprise, but from something more tender.

There was a strange calmness when she touched him. As if her power recognized him. As if her magic did not reject this body.

Still kneeling in front of Aren, Ozra pressed her ear near his chest, listening to the rapid thump of his heart, beating like a war drum.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why is his heart beating so fast?”

Aren’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched, and without thinking, he said,

“That’s because you’re too close to me.”

Ozra jolted back in shock. Her face flushed, but she quickly masked it behind a flat tone.

“Relax,” Aren continued with a slight smirk, “I’m still alive. If you’re not sure, go ahead and check my pulse. See for yourself whether I’m dead or not.”

“That’s not what I was doing,” Ozra denied, turning her face away.

Silence hung between them.

Aren slowly sat up straighter, his eyes examining the bruises still marking Ozra’s face and hands.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. “My teacher must’ve caused you trouble these past few days. If only I’d woken up sooner…”

Ozra glanced at him, her eyes briefly dimmed.

“I’m fine. Wounds like this won’t kill me,” she answered flatly, though weariness flickered in her voice.

Aren stood and stretched. “Alright. If you’ve recovered, you should go home. I still need to train.”

Panic flared in Ozra’s mind. Go home? She had no home.

More than that—she couldn’t let Aren walk away. He was the only one carrying her power. She had to stay close to him.

In her mind, she imagined grabbing Aren’s hand and slamming him against the wall with magic.

It would have been so easy in the old days—with just a flick of her finger. But now…

All she could do was grip his arm—and nothing happened.

Aren didn’t even flinch.

He turned to her in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Ozra quickly released his arm and stood tall, trying to salvage her dignity.

“I... don’t have a home,” she finally said, lifting her shoulders as if it wasn’t shameful. “I’m homeless. Let me come with you.”

Aren squinted. “You... want to come with me?”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Ozra shot back, unwilling to lose control.

Aren fell silent for a moment. The image of the woman statue at the altar resurfaced in his mind. That face—and this one. Identical.

Could this really be... Ozra?

But if it were, why hadn’t she used her magic? If she were truly the legendary sorceress, Aren would have been dead yesterday.

Ozra sensed the situation faltering. She quickly crafted an excuse.

“That night...” she said slowly, “I saved you. After you passed out, a dark sorcerer tried to kill you. I chased him away. I saved your

life.”

She paused. Her mind raced to find another lie, but her lips remained shut. Aren knew.

He sighed. “Fine. Do what you want. Just don’t bother me.”

Ozra gave a faint smile. A small victory in her hands.

But her eyes—drooping slightly—subconsciously glanced at Aren’s chest where she had touched earlier.

The beat of power was still there, and… its shape was quite appealing.

Aren caught her look. He quickly covered his chest with both hands. “Are you obsessed with my chest?”

Ozra jolted. “You’re insane! That’s impossible!” Her cheeks reddened quickly, and she turned her face away as if indifferent.

But Aren only chuckled softly, amused. He looked out the window, then back at the woman.

Behind her stubbornness and calm demeanor, Aren knew—this woman was hiding something.

And for some reason… he let her.

His soft laughter still hung in the air when heavy footsteps approached the door.

Before anyone could speak, the door burst open, revealing a guard panting hard.

“Master Aren! Someone’s challenging you in the central field!”

Aren immediately stood, his face hardening. “Who?”

“One of the hunters. Name’s Bram. He keeps shouting for you.”

Ozra raised an eyebrow. In her heart, she muttered,

‘So... his name is Aren.’

Aren didn’t wait. He strode out quickly, and Ozra followed without hesitation.

The midday sky loomed gray. Clouds thickened, wind blowing gently, carrying the scent of earth and leaves.

The market was emptying. Merchants pulling in goods, children ceasing play, and townsfolk gathering at the central field, curiosity burning.

In the middle stood a burly man with messy, tied-back hair.

Bram, one of the most stubborn hunters under Master Sio. His voice roared like thunder.

“AREN!” he shouted, pointing in challenge. “I heard you caught a witch. Ha! I don’t believe it! Someone weak like you? Who can’t even fight a dog alone?!”

Aren walked forward calmly, but his jaw tightened. His eyes fixed unblinking on Bram.

Ozra watched from the side, eyes following his movement.

Silently, she observed the change in his expression—not just from the insult, but from some deeper wound stirred from the past.

She stood near the crowd, surrounded by whispering townsfolk. Her gaze never left Aren.

‘Aren... you’re holding something back,’ she thought.

‘Something I can’t see from your body alone. But from the way you stand, the way you clench your jaw, the way you stay silent…’

Aren knew the crowd was waiting for a reaction. But he was no longer the impulsive teenager he used to be.

He took a deep breath, suppressing all the rage burning in his chest.

He knew Bram had always looked down on him.

“What’s your challenge for?” Aren asked flatly.

“To prove,” Bram replied, shrugging off his long coat to reveal a massive weapon on his back, “that you’re just a lucky coward. If you really caught a witch, prove it to me.”

Ozra could feel the heat pulsing from Aren’s chest. His hand clenched slightly, but his body didn’t move.

She remembered that wound—not a physical one, but the pain of being doubted. Of never being seen as good enough. Even by his own comrades.

Thunder rolled softly. The wind grew colder.

From among the townsfolk, Ozra tilted her head. Her lips moved faintly, barely audible.

“Aren... you hold a fury that isn’t small.”

But at that moment, Aren spoke. His voice was still calm, but cold.

“Fine. If that’s what you want...” Aren stared forward, his voice dropping an octave. “You’ll get it.”

Ozra stood silently behind the crowd. Her eyes locked onto the man who supposedly had “no power,” yet now stood like someone carrying something far greater.

And for the first time since waking up, Ozra wanted to know—not about her power—but about the man who somehow, had awakened her.