It was early morning, and the sunlight had not yet fully lit the room.
The house was quiet. Roxy lay on her back without moving. Her eyes were open. She waited until her body decided on its own that it was time to get up. There was no reason or desire to wake earlier.
She lay like that for perhaps another hour, maybe longer. She didn't know for sure; she only saw the sun rising higher and the rays gradually flooding the room.
She sat up, straightening her back slowly, blinked, stretched, feeling her muscles pull along her back and shoulders.
First thing — the mirror.
It stood by the wall, not very tall, with a crack in the lower right corner, but it reflected enough to see what she needed. Roxy stepped closer and stopped a step away from the mirror.
In the reflection was a familiar face, a bit paler than usual, eyes tired, hair tousled from sleep.
She ran a hand over her cheek, then reached for her hair. She lifted a strand toward the light, pulled it straight, and slowly checked the roots — light and clean, without blue highlights. Not a trace of her clan's color. It would last for a couple more weeks.
She sighed and tucked the strand behind her ear.
Then she went to her bag and took out a small bottle. It was dull, dark green, with a faint residue on the neck.
She shook it — the liquid inside confirmed that there was only a little left. Enough for now. After that, she would need to either brew it herself or travel somewhere to buy more. But this wasn't Sharia, nor even the Asuran capital; finding it would be difficult.
Even though she had long grown used to living while hiding her true origin, the quiet fear never went away. She wasn't human but a demon, and it was clearly better not to reveal that when living among humans.
So the fear had become part of her everyday life, more like a habit. She was careful and didn't allow herself to relax.
She had said her name. Said she was from Sharia, too. She hadn't lied about her clan. She just hadn't specified anything. And why should she, and who would even ask? One could always say it was something unpleasant to talk about. People didn't like Migurds. Better not draw attention. The less they knew, the easier it was to live.
Roxy looked at herself once more. Ready. Time to go.
***
Roxy left her room and immediately noticed that the house was already awake.
She stepped barefoot onto the cool floor and walked through the hallway carefully, her attention sharpened by habit, avoiding every object or uneven floorboard that could squeak unpleasantly and reveal her steps.
She didn't want to call attention to herself more than necessary in someone else's home.
She approached the stairs and began descending to the first floor.
Lilia was already standing by the wall when Roxy reached the stairs. Her back was straight, her shoulders gathered, and her gaze direct and attentive, as if noting every movement in the hallway.
Roxy met her eyes and nodded without unnecessary words. Lilia inclined her head slightly and, in the same calm, strict tone, said:
"Good morning, Roxy. I hope you slept well."
"Yes, thank you."
Roxy answered and continued toward the kitchen hall, feeling the intense gaze following her until she turned the corner.
That gaze made her tense unpleasantly, but she stayed silent.
The kitchen was pleasantly warm, and a thin stream of steam rose from a bowl of porridge. Roxy breathed in the smell and felt her mouth water immediately. Paul stood by the window, leaning against the sill, drinking wine from a mug.
He noticed her, nodded, and smiled softly, almost carelessly:
"Good morning, Ruby!" he said before taking another sip.
"Who? I'm Roxy..."
"Ah… Good morning, Roxy," he repeated and nodded again as if trying to make up for his lack of attention.
Paul clearly wasn't known for sharp insight — or intelligence in general. Roxy barely held back a biting remark, took a deep breath, then shook her head and approached the table.
She pulled out a chair and leaned closer, inhaling the scent of the hot porridge.
"M-mm~" slipped from her quietly, almost involuntarily.
The smell was simple and homey — fresh grain, a bit of butter, and a slight sweetness that immediately soothed. The sight of the bowl was just as pleasant: the surface of the porridge trembled faintly from the heat, and tiny droplets of melted butter glistened along the edges.
Roxy felt a pleasant warmth spread through her stomach in anticipation, and she didn't hide the faint look of contentment.
She wanted to eat, but she held herself back and waited for the others.
A few seconds later Zenith appeared in the doorway — her hair messy, dark circles under her eyes, her movements slightly sluggish, but her hands still precise. She headed straight for the pitcher and poured herself red wine.
Zenith lifted the mug to her lips, took several sweet gulps, and exhaled softly with a blissful smile.
"Mornin', Roxy…" she said when she noticed her.
"And to you…"
Roxy nodded and let her gaze slide over her hands. Her fingers were strong, with calluses and small scars. Hands like those belonged to someone who had held a weapon for a long time.
As Zenith moved, a thin chain flashed. On it hung a medallion with an old church seal, familiar to the point of discomfort. The metal had darkened, the relief was nearly worn away, but the shape was still clear.
Roxy lifted her head slightly and looked more closely.
Despite her relaxed manner, Zenith's movements were trained and sharp. She always turned on her strong foot, picked up the cup in a way that didn't expose her side, kept her back straight, and her center of gravity steady under her chest.
Combat training… Yes, definitely. Not a simple priestess. She didn't spend her life only preaching, Roxy thought.
A chill ran down her back. She knew too well the type of people Zenith belonged to. Too many times she had needed to retreat from their harsh, precise fire. Battle priestesses didn't hesitate and rarely asked if you were ready to be burned by the Creator's righteous flame.
She lowered her gaze to the porridge and pretended to be interested only in the rising steam, though her appetite vanished instantly.
As if the child wasn't enough…
The household was far from simple. Paul — a swordsman. Lilia was too composed to be mere help. Zenith was a battle priestess, and Roxy still didn't understand how she had ended up in this backwater. And their child was a walking disaster.
"Roxy, want some wine?" Zenith asked, sitting down beside her.
"Huh? No, thank you. I don't like drinking, it makes me sick right away…" Roxy shook her head, refusing without hesitation.
She took a spoon, scooped up some porridge, and put it into her mouth. She should have…
"M-mm~"
…thought of something, but the thought broke off.
The taste was warm and soft, and the tension melted away almost instantly.
The porridge was tender, slightly sweet, with a light buttery note that wrapped around her tongue and seemed to calm her from within.
She even closed her eyes for a moment, letting the taste fully push away her anxiety.
Zenith noticed her reaction and laughed quietly, leaning a little closer.
"You like it? Lilia is the best cook in the world," she said with lazy confidence, as if every living creature knew that.
Somewhere deeper in the house Lilia's voice responded:
"My lady is too kind. I am far from the best."
Zenith waved a hand dismissively without even looking, as if arguing about it was ridiculous.
Roxy scooped up more porridge and felt calm gradually returning, though her thoughts about the people around her still lingered in the background — but that already seemed less important.
Roxy kept eating, taking warm bread and almost ignoring the noise around her. On the other side, a chair scraped, and Paul sat down, barely settling before immediately starting a conversation with his wife:
"I saw these swamp rats in the marsh…" he muttered, as if sharing something important.
Zenith arched a brow and smirked:
"What were you even doing in the marsh?.."
...
They kept chatting for a long while, but Roxy let their voices pass through her without listening. Bits and pieces of phrases reached her, and it made her feel slightly awkward.
"You're doing that on purpose."
Zenith smiled widely, lazy and pleased with herself, like someone who had won without even trying:
"Of course. And you still fall for it, which makes it even better..."
"I've finished eating… Thank you, Lilia!" Roxy called deeper into the house.
She had no idea how she was supposed to react to this family bickering, so she simply turned and hurried upstairs to her room.
In the room, she sat down on the bed and opened her bag. Feeling the familiar edge, she pulled out an old thick notebook. Roxy opened the diary to a new page, took a pencil, and immediately began writing without choosing her words.
Alright. The house. Strange to an indecent degree.
Lilia. Strict, quiet, composed to the point of irritation, and I'm already running through my head what other words suit people of her kind. I notice the way she looks at Paul. There's something… odd in it?
Paul. Says everything that comes to mind, and most of the time it's pointless. Apparently, he's mentally deficient.
I'll write about Zenith too. Battle priestess. A real one.
And yes. I'm once again living among people who could snap my neck faster than I could blink. Wonderful. Truly feels like home...
Step. Creak.
The sound behind the door made Roxy pause. He had already gone outside. Roxy stood up.
***
Roxy and I stood in the yard.
It had rained yesterday, and the ground had already dried. It was a bit chilly, but tolerably so — the kind of pleasant, fresh coolness that didn't interfere and even helped gather one's thoughts.
Roxy stood near an old tree, leaning on her staff just slightly. Her left hand held an open notebook, and her fingers flipped through the pages one after another.
Her eyes slid over the notes, and each new paragraph made her frown. Sometimes she muttered quietly to herself.
"Damn… I need to write more clearly. 'Language for language'… would be nice to understand what I even meant," she rubbed the bridge of her nose, closed the notebook, and stepped away from the tree. Then she lifted her gaze to me.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off and stepped closer.
"Let's skip the unnecessary talk and start with the language right away. You won't be able to maintain a spell if you don't understand how it's constructed. It's not just words. It's a structure. Like a skeleton for mana. Without it, mana spreads out like water on the floor."
She took a bookmark from the notebook and opened another page, where the lines were written in uneven, slightly angular handwriting.
Roxy ran her finger over the first symbol, paused, then lifted her eyes. She sat down on the grass after drying it with a short burst of flame, and gestured for me to sit across from her.
"Repeat after me. Don't rush. Speed isn't the point. The point is to keep the word from falling apart in your head before you reach the end of the formula."
She paused briefly to check that I was listening, then exhaled softly and pronounced the first sound:
"Ra-en," she said. "Today you won't be invoking anything. You'll be watching. Memorizing. Later you'll try composing, but without mana. First understand how everything works. Without that, everything will go wrong."
She handed me the notebook and pointed to the word with her fingertip, tapping the margin three times. Tap-tap-tap — the notebook responded faintly.
"Can you repeat it? With the same rhythm."
"Ramen?"
I could go for a bowl right now. Too bad nothing like that exists in this world.
"No," she shook her head and tapped the word again. "Look at the symbol. It pulls the sound downward, not sideways. Again."
She leaned forward slightly, pushed the notebook closer, and said:
"Ra-en."
I sighed and repeated:
"Ra-en."
We kept breaking down the sounds, and she guided me patiently through the lines until the notebook started to blur before my eyes.
My head buzzed from the effort, and I could barely hold the last symbols in my memory. When the next sound slipped off my tongue halfway, we stopped.
***
A bucket stood by the wall. Just a simple piece of tin with a dent on the side. Inside was warm, stagnant water with a thin film already formed on the surface.
I stood there staring without blinking. My thoughts were focused on one spot, and with my hands spread, I said:
"Water grasp. Become form."
At first it seemed like nothing happened. But inside the bucket, the water twitched, as if from a short push from below. Ripples spread across the surface and pushed the thin film toward the edges.
"Water grasp. Become form."
I repeated it, louder this time.
The sensation sharpened; I clearly felt the water respond to my words, as if I had touched it with my hand.
The bucket jerked again, stronger than before. I narrowed my eyes. This was happening for real. I had just activated micro-magic for first-level beggars. Maybe something like Water Shake I? I'll call you that now. I wonder if I level it up, will it turn into Aqua Edge?
"Water grasp. Become form."
With that thought, I recited the spell for the third time.
But this time something went wrong, as if a hidden switch flipped inside me, and mana burst out in an uncontrolled flow. The water exploded upward in a whirl, rose, and then twisted into a spiral.
Bang! The bucket split apart, and pieces of metal flew in all directions. One of them struck my forehead on the edge.
Clang! The sound rang sharply into my ears, like someone hit stone with metal from the side. Blood filled my eye. I staggered but didn't fall.
Pain washed over me in a wave. But there was no time for it.
Right in front of me a small whirl of water held together. It trembled, barely keeping its shape. Mana seemed to still be surging out in bursts.
The whirl contracted and expanded, sending droplets flying each time. I stepped closer and lifted my hands to hold the flow for even a second.
That made my temple throb sharply, and the blood flowed heavier. It ran down my chin and dripped to the ground. It hurt. I took a short breath. I wondered—if I tried to imagine Aqua Edge, could I make a narrow stream of water and use the pressure to cut?
"What the…?!" a sharp voice came from behind.
It snapped me out of it, and I turned slightly. Roxy was hurrying toward me, and her face did not look pleased.
"What are you doing?!" Roxy grabbed my shoulder sharply.
I swayed but didn't resist.
"It did it on its own…"
"Not 'on its own'!" She stared at my face, at my temple. "Damn. Are you okay?"
I blinked. Blood slid down my cheek. A murky drop fell from my chin.
"I'm fine…"
"You're not fine!" she hissed through her teeth, already checking my forehead with her hands. "You just… Oh for—"
Roxy looked at the water whirl. She raised her hand and tested the strength of the flow still stretching between me and it. Her expression hardened.
"Stop. Now."
I didn't argue. I weakened the flow and released the remains of the force. The whirl shuddered, lost its shape, and vanished. A moment later, everything was over.
"That's enough from you for today. You just crossed a line normal mages spend months reaching…"
"But…"
Her eyes went cold.
"Try that again and I'll cut off your hand myself so you can't cast!"
Roxy took me by the elbow and led me toward the house. Each step echoed in my temple, but I went without arguing. The last thing in my head was: Zenith is definitely not going to like this.