Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: If power genuinely protects you from being harmed, when does becoming harder to hurt stop being preparation—and become an inability to live anywhere that does not require strength?
The first dose made Sera strong enough to lift the wagon.
That was all she needed.
Her brother was underneath it.
The axle had snapped on the north road.
The wagon rolled.
Davin pushed Sera away.
Then disappeared beneath the wheel.
When the dust settled, he was alive.
Barely.
His chest was pinned.
Three travelers tried lifting the wagon.
Nothing.
Sera screamed for help.
There was nobody.
Then the merchant opened his case.
“I have something.”
Sera looked at the tiny red bottle.
“What?”
“Strength.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means drink it.”
She did.
The world became light.
That was how Sera remembered it.
Not that she became strong.
Everything else became light.
The wagon.
The crates.
Her own body.
She grabbed the frame and lifted.
The travelers pulled Davin free.
Sera held the wagon alone.
Someone shouted:
“Put it down!”
She almost laughed.
Why?
It weighed nothing.
The strength lasted six hours.
Then disappeared.
Sera slept for fourteen.
Davin survived.
The physician said another minute beneath the wagon might have killed him.
Sera found the merchant.
“How much?”
The bottles were expensive.
She bought three.
“For emergencies,” she told Davin.
He was still wrapped in bandages.
“Good.”
“One saved you.”
“I know.”
“So keeping some makes sense.”
“Yes.”
Neither saw a problem.
There wasn’t one yet.
Sera worked as a courier.
Most routes were safe.
Some weren’t.
Bandits occasionally stopped travelers.
Usually Sera handed over a few coins.
That was cheaper than being stabbed.
Then one evening, three men blocked the road.
“Bag.”
Sera reached inside.
Her fingers touched the red bottle.
She thought:
Emergency.
She drank.
The first man flew into a ditch.
Sera had not meant to throw him that far.
The second drew a knife.
She broke his wrist.
The third ran.
Sera could have let him.
She chased him.
That part bothered her later.
She caught him easily.
Held him against a tree.
He was terrified.
Sera liked that.
That part bothered her more.
Afterward, she sat beside the road.
The first bandit groaned in the ditch.
Alive.
Good.
Sera looked at her hands.
No shaking.
No fear.
She had been robbed six times in her life.
Threatened more.
Once beaten badly enough that she lost two teeth.
For the first time, the road felt like it belonged to her too.
She bought six more bottles.
Her work improved.
She took dangerous routes.
Night deliveries.
Mountain passes.
Places other couriers avoided.
She made more money.
People called her brave.
Sera knew the truth.
Bravery had become much easier once she could throw people into ditches.
Then she started taking a dose before trouble.
Not during.
A dangerous road?
Dose.
Bad neighborhood?
Dose.
Traveling alone?
Dose.
Someone at the tavern staring too long?
Maybe.
Just in case.
Davin noticed.
“You’re bigger.”
Sera looked down.
He was right.
Not dramatically.
Her shoulders had widened.
Arms thicker.
The merchant had said nothing about that.
She found him.
“Does it change you permanently?”
He shrugged.
“A little.”
“A little?”
“Repeated use accumulates.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Sera hated that answer.
“How much does it accumulate?”
The merchant smiled.
“Depends how strong you need to become.”
She stopped.
For twelve days.
Then a dog charged her.
Large dog.
Probably frightened.
Possibly dangerous.
Sera reached for the bottle.
Stopped.
The dog barked.
She drank.
Later she realized there had been a fence between them.
She stopped again.
Then someone followed her home at night.
Dose.
Then a bar fight.
Dose.
Then she heard something outside her window.
Dose.
It was Davin.
He had brought bread.
“You need to stop.”
“I know.”
“No, you say that.”
“I am stopping.”
“You’re holding a bottle.”
Sera looked at her hand.
She hadn’t noticed.
Davin reached for it.
Sera pulled away.
His face changed.
Not fear.
Almost.
That was enough.
Sera put the bottle down.
“I would never hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you look at me like that?”
Davin was quiet.
“Because you don’t know how strong you are anymore.”
Sera smashed the bottles.
All of them.
Except one.
For emergencies.
Three months later, she was attacked.
No bottle.
Two men.
She ran.
Sera had forgotten running was allowed.
She escaped.
Barely.
Hid beneath a bridge until sunrise.
She shook for hours.
When she reached Davin’s house, she was furious.
“I hate this.”
“What?”
“Being afraid.”
Davin made tea.
“I know.”
“I could have beaten them.”
“Yes.”
“I could have broken both of them.”
“Probably.”
“I felt weak.”
Davin handed her the cup.
“You escaped.”
Sera stared.
“That doesn’t feel strong.”
“Maybe that’s not the same question.”
She began training.
Not with the bottles.
With people.
Running.
Climbing.
Fighting.
De-escalation.
First aid.
She learned which roads were dangerous.
Which taverns had reliable owners.
How to notice someone following her.
How to leave before trouble became a contest.
It was slower.
Less impressive.
Also much more useful.
The permanent strength remained.
Some of it.
Sera was stronger than she had been before the wagon.
She couldn’t undo that.
She didn’t particularly want to.
Power itself had not betrayed her.
It had saved Davin.
It had saved her.
The problem was subtler.
Every time strength solved a problem, Sera became slightly less willing to solve problems any other way.
Years later, she became a trainer for couriers.
New recruits loved hearing the stories.
“Is it true you threw a bandit twenty feet?”
“Probably fifteen.”
“Still.”
“Yes.”
“Could you do it now?”
“No.”
“Would you?”
Sera considered.
“If necessary.”
The recruit grinned.
Sera held up a finger.
“That word will ruin you if you don’t examine it.”
She taught them fighting.
Seriously.
No romantic nonsense.
Where to strike.
How to escape a grip.
How to use terrain.
How to hurt someone badly if survival required it.
Then she spent twice as long teaching everything that came before the fight.
Awareness.
Distance.
Boundaries.
Leaving.
Calling attention.
Travel planning.
Recognizing pride.
One student complained.
“When do we learn the powerful stuff?”
Sera smiled.
“We started with it.”
Near the end of her career, Sera still had the final bottle.
She kept it in a locked wooden box.
Davin discovered this.
“You said you smashed them.”
“I said I smashed the bottles.”
“You kept one.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sera looked at the box.
“I don’t know.”
Davin raised an eyebrow.
She sighed.
“Because once in my life there was a wagon on your chest.”
He became quiet.
“Will you ever use it?”
“If there’s another wagon.”
“What counts as a wagon?”
Sera smiled.
“That took me thirty years to learn.”
When Sera retired, she gave the bottle to the courier guild.
Not to use.
To display.
Beneath it was a small plaque.
It did not say:
POWER CORRUPTS.
Sera thought that was too easy.
It did not say:
VIOLENCE IS NEVER THE ANSWER.
She knew that wasn’t true.
It said:
THIS SAVED A LIFE.
Underneath:
THAT IS WHY IT WAS DIFFICULT TO LEARN WHEN NOT TO USE IT.
And beneath that, in smaller letters:
BECOME STRONG.
THEN LEARN WHAT DOESN’T REQUIRE YOUR STRENGTH.
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