Surviving A Novel I Don't Remember: A Tutor's Guide To Staying Alive

"Fine, I will go, but before that, I want to send a message to Lucien."

"You want to involve the Northern Grand Duke of the Viremount Empire in our fight?" Elian asked, surprised, but Julian immediately corrected him.

"I am not sending him a message for you, Purifier. Do not forget his son is here. And he will hold the church responsible for any danger that his son is exposed to. Right now, he needs to know that the area his son is staying at is being threatened by demons. For this, I shall make no compromise." He spoke, firm and hard, in ways that Elian could never refute. "So, get me a carrier bird."

Elian’s jaw tightened, his silver eyes flashing with irritation. He clearly didn’t like being reminded that the Church was currently babysitting the cub of the North’s most dangerous wolf. But the logic was undeniable; if anything happened to Lucius, Alaric wouldn’t just send a letter—he would bring an army.

​"Fine," Elian spat, waving a hand toward one of the acolytes standing in the hallway. "Bring a swift-wing. Immediately."

​A few minutes later, a sleek, white bird was brought into the room. Julian sat at the desk, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. He didn’t write a long, emotional plea. He wrote with the cold, calculated precision of a scholar who knew exactly which buttons to press.

​The Southern pass has been breached by a demon surge. The Sanctum is deploying me to the front lines against my will. Lucius remains in the Inner Sanctum, but the city is in turmoil. The Church’s ’protection’ has failed. Do what you must.

​— J.

​He rolled the parchment tight and sealed it with a drop of wax, his eyes fixed on the bird as it was released into the darkening sky. He watched it head North, a small white speck against the bruised purple horizon.

​He turned back to Elian, his expression unreadable. "Now, give me those robes."

​Julian pulled the reinforced traveling robes over his blue silks. The fabric was heavy, lined with thin silver threads meant to ward off miasma. It felt like a shroud.

​"Master?" Lucius’s voice was small. He had stood by the bed, clutching his book so hard his knuckles were white.

​Julian walked over and knelt in front of the boy, grabbing his shoulders. "Lucius, listen to me. I have to go help the people at the gate. You stay here with Castor. Do not leave this room, do not open the door for anyone except Elian or the Pope. Do you understand?"

​"But Master—"

​"Promise me," Julian urged, his voice cracking slightly.

​"I promise," Lucius whispered, a tear finally escaping. He was scared and upset, but his fear was greater. What if his master never came back?

What if something happened?

He wished he were bigger. If he were, he would protect Julian properly, just like his father.

​Julian stood up and glanced at the bed. Castor was awake, leaning weakly against the headboard. His amber eyes were wide with a mix of fear and guilt. He knew Julian was going into danger because of the power Julian had shown while saving him.

​"Don’t die," Castor croaked. "If you die... I’ll never forgive them."

​"I’m not dying, so just stay alive and look after Lucius for me, Castor," Julian replied. "That’s all I need from you."

​He turned to Elian, who was already holding the door open. The hallway outside was a sea of moving white robes and clanking silver plate armor. The smell of incense was being replaced by something sharper—something that smelled like steel and dried blood.

This was the sight of men going to the battlefield.

​"Let’s go," Julian said.

The journey to the southern pass took nearly an hour by horseback. Julian rode in silence, his fingers white as he gripped the reins, following Elian’s silver-clad figure through the outskirts of the city.

As they moved further from the polished marble of the White Holy City, the air grew thick and heavy, tasting of ash and something metallic.

Julian tried to brace himself for what was to come, but what he saw was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

​When they finally crested the hill overlooking the pass, the devastation hit Julian like a blow to his heart.

​It wasn’t a battlefield; it was a slaughterhouse. The southern pass, once a beautiful stone gateway carved into the mountains, was now a ruin of smoke and jagged shadows.

The ground was littered with the fallen—knights in shattered silver armor plate and acolytes whose white robes were soaked through with dark, pulsing corruption.

​The sound was the worst part. It wasn’t the roar of monsters, but the low, collective groan of hundreds of men in agony.

The ’miasma’ Elian had mentioned hung over the valley like a poisonous violet fog, coiling around the wounded and slowly snuffing out their lives.

​Julian’s heart began to race, a sharp, stabbing pain blooming in his chest. He had spent his life in libraries and quiet studies, far away from the visceral horror of war. To see such suffering on this scale—the vacant stares of the dying, the frantic weeping of the survivors—made his vision swim.

He could almost feel their agony as if it were his own, a thousand needles of grief pressing into his soul.

​He didn’t wait for Elian’s command. He slid off his horse, his boots hitting the blood-stained earth with a soft thud.

​Ignoring the dirt and the smoke, Julian sank to his knees right there in the mud. He didn’t look at the high priests or the knights watching him. He closed his eyes, his hands clasped so tightly they trembled.

This was the first time since he had arrived in this city that he didn’t feel like a scholar or a pawn. This was the first time... he decided to pray.

​He whispered, his voice a hushed, desperate plea that barely rose above the wind.

​"These people have not done anything wrong to deserve this. They are in pain... they are suffering. They need to see the light." He choked back a sob, his forehead pressing against his joined thumbs. "Please, help them. If you truly gave me these powers for a reason, then use them. Use me. Save them."

​At that moment, Julian didn’t think about treaties, or the Pope, or his own safety. He surrendered everything to the singular, burning desire to stop the hurting.

​Suddenly, the world went silent.

​A massive, blinding burst of gold-and-white light erupted from Julian’s chest. It wasn’t the cold, sharp light of the Sanctum; it was warm, like a summer afternoon in the North. The radiance expanded in a perfect circle, rushing outward with the force of a tidal wave.

​As the light touched the fallen, the violet miasma didn’t just fade—it evaporated. Wounds closed, the grey tint of corruption vanished from pale skin, and the low groans of pain turned into gasps of life.