Rania stood near the edge of the garden path, her hands folded gently in front of her, watching the children with a soft but unreadable gaze. They hadn't noticed her drifting slightly apart from the group, not stepping away, but no longer inside the moment either.
Rosin had just declared her challenge, chin raised high again like nothing had shaken her. The girl's pride was already rebuilding itself, fierce and unyielding. Matthew, ever calm, had simply smiled and accepted it.
And Rania? She smiled too—but only on the outside.
Inside, her heart stirred uneasily.
He had done it. He'd shown them. Fire, real fire. A child no older than her daughter had gathered the One Power and shaped it into flame.
Her heart was not proud. It was afraid.
Not of the boy.
Of her husband.
Even now, standing in the same garden where it had happened, where the spark had appeared—she could already feel it. The conflict to come. The quiet weight pressing against her chest.
The Fierce Lion had always forbidden the Arts under their roof. Even the Green Sage, when he visited, did not perform arts within their estate—not out of politeness, but respect. No Arts. Not here. That was his one unbreakable rule.
Because it wasn't about the rules. It was about pain.
She glanced at the ground, where the fireball had briefly floated, already gone. As if it had never been.
But the memories weren't so easy to brush aside.
Her husband had once tried, she remembered. In his youth, before he was the Lion, before he was feared or respected—he had tried to wield Arts like the others. Poured himself into study. Yearned to belong.
And the One Power had answered him… partially.
The threads were visible to him. He could touch them. When he fought, he could wrap them around his muscles, his weapon, strengthen his body, sharpen his strikes. Like a true Fighter.
But that was where the connection ended.
When he tried to shape the threads—bend them into flame, command wind, weave illusions of light—they slipped from his grasp. Refused to obey. Wouldn't form. Wouldn't listen.
And people—cruel boys from noble houses—had laughed.
They mocked him, taunted him. Said he was a dumb beast made for the sword, not the weave.
And he proved them wrong. Not by learning their ways, but by forging his own. With a spear in his hand, he climbed, faster than any of them. He silenced their laughter.
But not the pain.
No matter how many battles he won, how many praises he earned, that bitterness still lingered beneath the surface.
And when their first child was born, he had sworn—no Arts. Not in his home. Not for his children. Not because he hated power.
But because he feared himself.
He feared what it might awaken in him. Jealousy. Resentment. The thought that they—his own blood—could succeed where he had failed, could wield power that had never come to him...
It scared him more than death.
And now, that fear stood before her. Not in one of his children, but in this quiet boy. This kind, broken, gifted boy who held fire in his hand.
Matthew hadn't bragged. He hadn't gloated.
He had simply shown them.
And when Rosin challenged him, he hadn't laughed or scoffed.
He smiled.
Rania's eyes lingered on him. There was something in his expression… not just strength, but restraint. Humility.
And in that moment, her heart eased just slightly.
He wasn't her son.
But somehow, she felt a little proud.
And terribly afraid.
What will you do now, love? she wondered, her gaze lifting toward the house, the silent doorway through which the Fierce Lion had walked not long ago. What will you say when you learn?
The boy had already sparked a fire.
Not just in the air.
But in the heart of this home.
Asvin cleared his throat gently, and the sound pulled Rania from her thoughts.
She blinked, glancing over as her son stepped forward, his hands casually resting behind his back. "Alright, I think that's enough fire and awe for one morning," he said lightly. "You girls should head inside. It's nearly lunch. Theresia's probably pacing the halls thinking she's lost all of you."
Rosin rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. "She worries too much. Like a grandmother."
"A grandmother with a warhammer," Rania added under her breath, a small smile curling her lips.
Sonia chuckled, while Terria covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. "Still better than the time you called her a boar," Sonia teased, nudging Rosin.
"That was once. And she was being one," Rosin huffed, but her voice lacked any real sting.
"Uh huh. I'll tell her you said that," Asvin said, already turning with a mischievous grin.
"You wouldn't!" Rosin's eyes narrowed, but the spark in them was playful now.
"Would and will."
Rania shook her head, amused. It was these moments that made it easy to forget all the heavier things.
"Go on," Asvin said, gesturing toward the house. "Before she storms out here in full armor."
The girls nodded, still giggling, and began to walk off toward the estate, their steps light on the garden path.
Then Asvin turned to Matthew. "Walk with me for a bit?"
Matthew met his eyes, then nodded once. "Alright."
The two began walking side by side, quiet for now, the air between them warm with unspoken things.
As they walked along the stone path, Matthew found his eyes drifting over the garden around them.
The hedges weren't just trimmed—they were sculpted. Swords raised high, pages of a book fluttering open mid-art, a teacup tilted in the breeze as if mid-sip. The artistry in each bush caught the light differently, and the afternoon sun played gently off the soft greens, making the shapes feel almost alive.
Matthew slowed just a little, marveling quietly.
"You like it here?" Asvin asked beside him.
Matthew turned, lips parting to reply, but Asvin cut in gently before he could. "I'm not asking if you'll stay," he clarified, his voice softer now. "Just if you like it."
Matthew didn't hesitate. He nodded once, firmly. "Yes."
He glanced down, then up again. "Your mother is very kind. Warm, like… she makes you feel safe just by being there." A pause. "Theresia too, even if she glares a lot."
Asvin smirked at that.
"And Rosin…" Matthew let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "She's… something."
That drew a genuine laugh from Asvin, light and knowing. "Yeah," he agreed. "She's definitely something."
There was a brief silence, but it wasn't awkward. Just comfortable.
"I'm glad they're kind to you," Asvin added after a moment. "To you and the Marlston sisters. It matters."
Matthew nodded again, slower this time, eyes drifting once more to the garden—those still sculptures of green that somehow echoed the quiet, soft joy blooming inside him.
Asvin's voice came gently, almost hesitant. "Are you really going to leave?"
Matthew stopped in his tracks.
The breeze rustled the leaves around them, but he didn't move. His back was to Asvin, head slightly bowed, hands curling into light fists at his sides. For a moment, he didn't speak. When he finally did, his voice was soft—gentle, like he was holding something fragile in his chest.
"I really love it here," he said, and turned slightly, just enough for Asvin to see the small smile forming on his face. "I mean… really. It's the perfect place."
His eyes roamed across the garden again as he spoke, almost like he needed the shapes to steady his thoughts.
"I'd get a kind mother who looks at me like I matter. A real home. I'd get a big sister who'd probably scold me a lot but still watch over me," he said, with a faint chuckle. "And a little one who already made me promise to walk with her."
A small smile tugged at Asvin's lips, and Matthew glanced up, meeting his eyes.
"I'd get a cool brother too," Matthew added.
Asvin smirked, arms crossing over his chest as if trying to play it off, but there was a flicker of pride in his gaze.
Matthew's smile faded slightly—only slightly—and his voice lowered.
"And I'd get a legend for a father," he murmured. "The Fierce Lion himself…"
His throat bobbed with a swallow. He stared down at the path beneath his feet, voice quieter still.
"But most importantly… I'd get to stay with Sonia and Terria."
He looked up again, straight at Asvin now. His expression was open, unguarded, raw.
"That would mean everything to me."
His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but then he stopped. His mouth closed again. His shoulders sank, just a little.
"…But."
"But?"
Asvin's smirk faded. His shoulders dropped slightly as he exhaled, already sensing what Matthew would say next. He didn't interrupt—just waited.
Matthew glanced down at his hand, weaving a few blue threads between his fingers. They danced and coiled, glowing faintly in the sunlight as if alive, responding to his will. He watched them quietly for a moment, as if drawing strength from their presence.
"The Arts are… important to me," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper.
He swallowed.
"I promised my parents… yesterday… when they…"His breath hitched.
His fingers froze mid-weave. His small chest rose and fell a little too quickly. And for a moment, he looked like nothing more than what he was—a child. A boy just seven years old, clinging to something bigger than himself. Tears welled up, threatening to break through.
But he bit them back.
He inhaled sharply and wiped his cheek before any tear could fall, holding himself together with the shaky resilience only a child could summon. Then he nodded to himself, and kept going.
"I told them I'd become the Red Sage one day," he said, a bit firmer now, his voice trying to hold.
"If I wait too long to start… maybe I won't be able to. Maybe it'll be too late. But if I start now… if I train from here, with the gifts I've been given…"
He let the threads curl and dissolve between his fingers, lifting his eyes toward the horizon.
"…Then maybe… maybe I really can do it."
But behind that determined look, something darker began to settle in his gaze. Something colder.
But even more than that…Even more than becoming the Red Sage… I have to destroy them. I have to find the Black Tower. And I have to erase it from existence.
His brows lowered, his lips tightening into a line. The gentle blue of the threads seemed to dim for just a second in the sunlight.
Asvin noticed the shift in his expression. The shadows that passed over the boy's face. But he didn't ask. Didn't press.
He simply let the silence sit between them.
Matthew let out a long, quiet sigh. He tilted his head up toward Asvin, his eyes wide with something between hope and resignation. "If I stayed here… if I lived with all of you… do you think your father would let me learn the Arts?"
Asvin's gaze faltered. He looked away, lips pressing into a thin line. He didn't need to think long—the answer was already in his heart. Even after becoming friends with the Green Sage, even after that man had saved Rosin's life, the Fierce Lion had never once changed his stance.
It wasn't that he denied the importance of the Arts. Everyone knew Arts Users were stronger, more versatile, more dangerous. They were the peak of warfare. But none of that had ever mattered to his father when it came to their home.
He just wouldn't allow it.
And so Asvin said nothing.
Matthew didn't need to hear the answer out loud. He saw it in the way Asvin avoided his gaze.
He gave a small nod, mostly to himself.
"Then… I can't stay," he said gently. "I really want to… more than anything. But learning the Arts… it means more to me than anything else in the world."
Asvin turned back to him, eyes narrowing a little. "More than Sonia and Terria being happy?"
That made Matthew pause.
He looked down, ashamed of the question and ashamed of the answer.
His hand clenched at his side.
He didn't speak for a moment. But finally, his small voice returned—quiet, steady.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "Even more than that."
And when he looked back up, his eyes were shining—not with tears, but with painful honesty.
...
The scent of roasted venison filled the grand dining hall, rich and earthy, spiced with rosemary and garlic. Matthew sat at a long, polished table that reflected the warm glow of the chandelier overhead. Fine silverware clinked softly against porcelain as the family quietly enjoyed their meal.
To his left sat Terria, her short legs swinging slightly under the chair, whispering to him between bites. On his other side was Sonia, more quiet, more observant, her blue eyes flicking between her sister and Matthew with a small smile. Beside her sat Rosin, chewing with the steady focus of someone determined not to speak unless she had to.
To Matthew's right was Asvin, calm and noble, posture straight but relaxed—watching over the table with the quiet awareness of an heir apparent. Opposite Matthew sat Theresia, whose piercing gaze met his only every so often, a curious softness behind her teasing smile. And at the head of the table, one seat down from her, sat Rania, elegant in her composed silence, a gentle queen among them.
But at the center of it all, commanding without words, sat the man himself.
The Fierce Lion.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure, golden-bearded and still powerful despite the lines on his face, dressed in rich black noble garb lined with gold—imperial in cut and bearing. His eyes were a deep blue, cold and focused like a winter sea. He carved his portion of meat with ease, every motion precise, every movement controlled.
This was the man who had hunted their meal just this morning, in the forests near Coupitia City.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The servants lined the walls in still silence, awaiting commands that likely wouldn't come—trained to know the habits of a man who preferred efficiency over chatter.
Matthew sat straight, mindful of every movement, his fork and knife held properly as Terria kept chattering beside him. But beneath his careful manners and quiet nods, his thoughts swirled.
He could feel it—this was the calm before something.
Something important.
Asvin took a long sip from his cup, then leaned back slightly and shot Matthew a sideways grin. "So… tell me, how does it feel eating something hunted by the Fierce Lion himself?"
Terria, seated beside Matthew, blinked in awe. "He hunted this?"
Sonia's brows rose as well. "really?"
Asvin nodded smugly. "Early this morning. Took down the stag himself in the woods near Coupitia."
Terria's eyes widened. "That's so cool!"
"Does he always do that?" Sonia asked.
"Not always," Theresia chimed in from across the table. "But often enough that the servants grumble when the kitchen smells like fur at dawn."
A soft laugh circled the table, and even Rania—seated at the top right—smiled warmly. "Don't let them fool you. They like it. Gives them something to brag about when guests visit."
"Still," Sonia said with a smile, "it's really good. And warm."
Matthew gave a soft nod, glancing around the table at the smiling faces, the lit chandeliers above, the steam rising from their plates. "It's kind of… perfect."
"Perfect?" Asvin echoed playfully. "Better than bread crusts and bandit stew?"
Terria snorted a laugh, nearly choking on a bite.
"Aunt Nia," Sonia whispered with a little glance toward Rania. "He's teasing him again."
Rania leaned her cheek on her hand, amusement dancing in her eyes. "He always does. It's how he shows affection."
"I do not," Asvin defended, smirking.
"You do," Theresia said flatly.
Rosin shrugged. "It's a very punchable kind of affection."
That earned another soft ripple of laughter.
Matthew grinned shyly, eyes flicking to Rania. "I like the name they call you… 'Aunt Nia.' It sounds sweet."
Rania's smile deepened, touched and gentle. "I like it too."
"It's easy to say," Terria added cheerfully. "Way better than, like, Lady Rania or something boring."
Rosin smirked as she cut into her food. "Still feels like we're bribing him, though."
Theresia didn't look up, but her voice came out dry. "At least you didn't scare him off yet."
Rosin shot her a look. "Yet?"
Asvin chuckled. "She means it as a compliment, I think."
"Obviously," Rosin muttered, rolling her eyes.
Theresia gave Matthew a small smile, her tone softening instantly as she glanced his way. "We like having you here. Even the grumpy ones."
"Speak for yourself," Rosin said, but the tease was light.
Asvin leaned in toward Matthew with a spark in his eyes. "You know… it wouldn't be that hard to keep calling her Aunt Nia."
Matthew froze for a moment, spoon halfway up, then slowly set it down. The room stilled just a little—almost imperceptibly.
Sonia blinked, confused. "Why wouldn't he?"
Terria tilted her head, looking from one face to another.
Rosin squinted. "This some weird rich-people pressure thing?"
Asvin lifted both hands, grinning. "I'm just saying. Good food. Cozy beds. Aunt Nia. Cute girls on both sides of you. It's not the worst deal."
Matthew didn't respond. He looked down at his plate, smile fading a little, lips pressed together in a line of thought he didn't voice.
There was a pause—quiet enough that the sound of a fork against a plate could be heard.
Then, finally, the man at the head of the table spoke.
His voice was deep and calm, like gravel beneath river water.
"I did hunt the deer," he said, setting his utensils down with quiet precision. "But Nia's the one who makes this house feel full."
Everyone turned slightly, surprised by the sudden entry of the Fierce Lion into the conversation.
He didn't smile, not quite, but his gaze lingered on his wife a second longer than needed.
Rania's cheeks colored slightly as she ducked her head with a little laugh. "Honestly, you only say things like that when people are watching."
"Hm," was all he offered in reply.
But the faint curl of his mouth told the truth.
Matthew peeked up at him with wide eyes, then looked to Rania. A slow, unsure smile began to return to his lips.
Theresia, quietly, never stopped watching him.
The weight of the Fierce Lion's words still hung in the air when Matthew reached for his cup, quietly sipping, eyes fixed on the rippling surface within. His shoulders, which had briefly relaxed, now held a quiet tension again.
Across the table, Asvin leaned back in his chair, his gaze on the flickering chandelier overhead. His smile had faded. He hadn't meant to press so hard. He just… didn't want the boy to go.
But he'd seen it—that little flicker of pain in Matthew's eyes. The tightening of his jaw. The silence.
He hated it.
Theresia, catching the shift, decided to rescue the moment.
"Well," she began, sliding her fork through the roasted vegetables with a graceful hand, "I'm glad we didn't let Rosin do the cooking again. Last time she made deer meat, I think it ran off in shame."
Rosin let out a bark of laughter. "Bold of you to assume I'd waste time cooking for any of you."
"Oh, don't worry, darling," Theresia replied dryly. "No one would mistake your food for something edible."
Terria giggled, cheeks puffed with bread. "Big Sis Sia is so mean!"
"I'm honest," she said, but her eyes sparkled gently as she reached to straighten Terria's messy collar. "And someone has to protect your little taste buds."
Matthew managed a quiet chuckle, looking up through his lashes.
Rania grinned. "I remember that deer roast. I still have nightmares."
"Excuse me," Rosin said, scandalized. "That was experimental. A bold flavor profile. Citrus and—"
"—and tragedy," Asvin added helpfully, trying to match the mood as he shook his head, clearly relieved by the shift. "Citrus and tragedy."
Rosin gave him a narrow-eyed glare. "I should throw my plate at you."
"You'd miss," he said, smiling faintly.
Theresia glanced across the table at Matthew. She saw how the boy's shoulders had eased again. Good. The topic had been sidestepped without fanfare. He was too young to be cornered like that.
She reached for her cup, sipped slowly, and didn't say anything more.
Asvin, quiet now, toyed with the edge of his plate. He didn't join the laughter that followed Rosin's threats, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifted back to Matthew—who was laughing again now, softly, as Sonia whispered something in his ear.
And despite the laughter, despite the food, despite the warmth in the room… Asvin felt the creeping edge of time.
And the unspoken goodbye inching closer.
Lunch continued with a quiet hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. Plates were slowly emptied, bread baskets raided for the last warm slices. The scent of venison and spice still lingered faintly in the air, though the meal was winding to its close.
The Fierce Lion, ever composed, dabbed the corners of his beard with a linen napkin, then set it down and rose to his feet. His chair scraped softly against the polished stone floor.
The room grew still.
"Matthew," he said, voice calm but firm. "Come with me."
A moment passed.
Sonia glanced up from her plate, blinking. "Where are you going?"
Terria stuffed the last bit of her roll into her mouth and shrugged. "Probably to talk about grown-up stuff."
Rosin leaned back in her chair, uninterested, lazily swirling the last drops of her juice.
Rania, however, straightened sharply. Her brows furrowed just a little, and her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass. "John," she said quietly but didn't follow it up with anything more.
Theresia had stilled mid-movement, fork hovering just above her plate.
Asvin looked up sharply, eyes flicking from his father to Matthew and back again. His stomach sank.
Matthew wiped his mouth with his napkin, stood, and nodded.
"Yes, sir."
His voice was soft but steady.
He stepped away from the table, offering a polite glance at the others, then followed the tall, broad-shouldered man as he turned and began walking toward the double doors at the far end of the dining room.
The room remained silent until the doors closed behind them with a dull, final thud.
Asvin exhaled slowly, hands resting on the table's edge. He didn't look at anyone.
Theresia pushed back her chair with more force than necessary and stood. She didn't leave, but she paced—slow, deliberate steps near the window.
Rania's eyes lingered on the doors, her jaw tight. "What now?" she murmured. "The boy just lost everything…"
No one had an answer. Only the silence of the empty plates, and the echo of footsteps now fading beyond the door.
...
Matthew walked behind the Fierce Lion in silence.
The corridor stretched long and wide, the red carpet beneath his feet soft but unwelcoming. The walls around them carried the weight of generations—paintings, banners, and towering windows that bathed everything in muted gold light. But Matthew hardly looked at them.
He kept his eyes on the man's back.
Each step echoed faintly in the stillness, the only sound between them. Not a word had been spoken since they left the dining room. The man ahead of him moved with quiet authority, his black noble coat brushing his boots with each stride.
Matthew swallowed. His fingers fidgeted at his sides. The closer they got to wherever this path ended, the tighter his chest became.
He was walking behind a legend.
A war hero. A noble. A father.
The man who might've taken him in—who could've given him a family, a life.
But also the man who would probably deny him the very thing he wanted most: the Arts.
Matthew's throat felt dry. He didn't want to feel small, but he did. He didn't want to regret his answer, but part of him already did.
This was the world he'd been allowed into for a brief moment.
And he knew he'd have to walk away from it.
...
They reached a red door at the end of the corridor, deep within the manor after countless turns and winding hallways. It was only now that Matthew truly grasped the size of this place. The estate was far larger than he'd imagined, far grander than what little he'd seen during his earlier wandering.
The Fierce Lion opened the door without a word and motioned for Matthew to step inside.
He obeyed.
The room was small—surprisingly so. No windows. No decorations. Just stone walls, warm lantern light, and two chairs placed across from one another.
Matthew's heart beat a little faster.
He'd never been in a room like this before… but his father—
The thought hit like a cold wind. His chest tightened. For a moment, he wanted to turn around, to step back through the door. But he clenched his hands and forced the memory down.
His father once said interrogation rooms looked like this.
That was all.
The Fierce Lion moved quietly past him and took one of the seats. Then he gestured to the other.
Matthew nodded and sat down.
Silence settled between them like dust.
Matthew sat straight, legs swinging just slightly above the floor. He didn't fidget, but his eyes moved—first to the wall, then to the lantern, then briefly to the man before him.
John Cavias—the Fierce Lion—sat with his hands folded, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, gaze unreadable.
Then finally, he spoke. His voice was steady, deep. "What do you think of the Arts?"
Matthew blinked. He hadn't expected that question. Not like that.
He looked down at his knees, thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.
"I think…" he paused, brow furrowing slightly as he tried to find the right words. "I think the Arts are everything. They can protect people, or hurt people. And it depends on the person holding them. It's like... fire. You can cook with it. Or burn down a house."
His little hands gestured as he explained.
"The Green Sage always helps people," Matthew said, his voice picking up with a bit of admiration. "He fights monsters and bandits and even bullies in the towns where no nobles ever go. He's strong, but he doesn't act like he's better than anyone. He just… helps. Even when no one thanks him."
A small smile tugged at his lips, then grew a little as he went on, "And the White Dragon stopped a war by freezing an entire army. That's not just strong—it's... smart, too. He made them surrender without more fighting."
He paused, the light fading just a little from his eyes.
"And… even the Dark Crow, I guess." He looked away, voice quieter. "I hate him. Everyone should. But he's strong. Really strong. The strongest. And… I guess he's proof that Arts can also ruin everything if you use them wrong."
Matthew looked up again, this time more softly. "That's what I think. Arts are like tools. They don't choose what to do. People do."
And with that, he fell quiet again, legs swinging lightly as he waited.
The Fierce Lion—John Cavias—watched the boy for a moment longer before leaning back in his chair. His voice, when it came, was quieter than Matthew expected. Almost thoughtful.
"When I was about your age," he began, "I used to dream of being a great Arts user too. Someone like the White Dragon. Or even the Light Emperor from the old stories."
Matthew blinked, eyes wide with surprise.
John gave a slow shake of his head. "But no matter how hard I tried… I couldn't. I trained, studied, and pushed myself again and again. And still… nothing. No spark. No Art. Just me."
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. "So I chose the spear instead. I carved my own path. In time, I built the Red Lion Style of Swordsmanship, and during the Monster War… I made sure people remembered it."
Matthew's eyes lit up a little. He sat up straighter in the chair, nodding quickly. "That's when you became famous! In the whole kingdom! That's when everyone started calling you the Fierce Lion, right?"
John's lips curved just slightly at the corners.
He nodded. "That's right."
Matthew beamed, pride glowing on his face—as if he'd been the one to give him the title.
John sighed, his gaze heavy on the boy. "Do you want to learn the Arts, Matthew?"
Matthew nodded slowly, but with certainty. "I do."
Silence stretched between them again. Not tense—but thoughtful. John looked down at his hands, calloused and scarred, then back up at the child across from him.
"You're… blessed," he said at last. "Far more than I ever was."
He raised one hand, palm open.
From around him, faint blue strands shimmered into view—soft and thin, like wisps of fog in the morning. They wavered in and out of existence, weak and few. "This… is what I was given," he said. "Enough to fight. Enough to rise to Rank Five. But never enough to shape the One Power into true Arts. Not once."
Then he looked at Matthew.
And the room… shifted.
The very air around the boy seemed alive. Blue threads bloomed around him in every direction, coiling and dancing like rivers of silk. They sparkled faintly in the sunlight that slipped through the closed curtains, clinging to his shoulders, his chest, even his fingers, as if drawn to him by instinct. Dozens. Hundreds.
"I've seen the Green Sage up close," John said, voice low with a hint of awe. "Stood beside the Yellow Sun during the war. But neither of them had this. Not like you."
Matthew sat very still.
He didn't fully understand what it meant—but he could feel it. Like the world around him was listening. Like it wanted him to speak, to move, to do something.
"…Oh," he whispered, his legs suddenly still.
The blue threads swirled gently around him, quiet and waiting.
John leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but probing. "I understand not wanting to waste your blessing, Matthew. But… is that the real reason you want to learn the Arts? Or is there something more?"
Matthew didn't hesitate. He nodded, but there was a shift in his eyes. A flicker of something softer. Hurt.
John saw it.
Still, the boy answered, voice a little quieter now, a little more guarded. "My blessing's… part of it. Yeah. But not all of it."
He looked down at his hands in his lap, fingers curling in.
"I promised my parents," he said. "I told them… I'd become the Red Sage. Someday. That's why I have to start now. I have to."
His voice cracked a little at the end. But he didn't cry. He wasn't going to cry.
John nodded, slowly, his expression growing heavier. His shoulders, broad and strong, sagged ever so slightly—as if the words weighed more than they should have.
"…I understand," he said. Then, after a pause, "But I'm sorry, Matthew. I can't adopt you."
The words landed like a stone in the boy's chest.
He already knew. Asvin had told him. He'd braced himself for it. He told himself again and again that he wouldn't hope—couldn't hope.
But hearing it now, from John Cavias himself… it still hurt. A lot.
His throat tightened. He kept his head down.
He hadn't wanted to get comfortable. He'd told himself not to love this place. But it had already happened.
Aunt Nia, always smiling at him. Big Sis Sia, kind and gentle, always rubbing his hair. Big Bro Vin, trying to act cool but never letting him fall behind. Even Rosin, with her smug little grins. And of course… Sonia and Terria.
His last pieces of the village. Not by blood—but like sisters all the same.
This had felt like home.
And now…
He swallowed hard, hands gripping his knees tight.
"…Okay," he whispered.
Matthew gulped, the lump in his throat almost too big to swallow. But he managed. His voice came out quiet, shaky.
"…Why not?"
John turned his gaze away. Shame lined the creases in his strong face, the kind of shame that had lived there for years—maybe decades.
"I forbade learning the Arts in this house," he began, his voice slow, tired, like it was dragging itself out of some old wound. "Because I'm afraid, Matthew."
He paused, his hand tightening slightly over his knee.
"When I was young… my whole world was the Arts. I dreamed of being great—of being like the Light Emperor, or the White Dragon. But no matter how hard I tried… I couldn't shape the One Power. Not even a spark."
He exhaled, eyes distant.
"People mocked me. Nobles, commoners, strangers—everyone. 'The Lion Cub with no Roar.' That's what they called me." His jaw clenched faintly. "I buried it deep. Buried it with my spear. But it still haunts me."
He looked back at the boy now, expression raw. "I'm scared, Matthew. Scared that if my children… if someone I love turns out better than me at the thing that hurt me the most… I might hate them for it. Not on purpose. But deep down, where the old bruises still live. And if that ever happened… if I ever hurt someone I love because of that…"
He trailed off, then shook his head.
"I couldn't live with myself."
His voice cracked, barely audible now.
"That's why. That's why I can't adopt you. Not because I don't want to… but because I do."
Matthew stared at him. The words made sense. The reasoning was real. But the ache in his chest didn't go away. It still hurt. It still felt like being pushed out of a dream he didn't even mean to fall into.
He nodded anyway, blinking fast, forcing the pain back down where it wouldn't show.
Then, after a moment, he asked softly, "What about Sonia and Terria?"
John blinked, surprised.
Matthew didn't look up when he clarified, "Are… are they gonna be adopted?"
The Fierce Lion's face softened. "Of course," he said. "But only if they accept it too."
His eyes narrowed slightly, looking at the boy with a heavy kind of sorrow.
"If they're willing to be separated from their last bond."
Matthew flinched. Just slightly. But enough.
His lips pressed together, his fingers curling tight on his lap. He couldn't meet John's eyes.
And John felt it too—felt the pain ripple from the boy to him, quiet and sharp.
He'd hurt him again. Even if he hadn't meant to.
Even if it was out of love.
The silence stretched between them—heavy, but not cold. Just… full. Full of everything neither of them knew how to say.
Then, once more, it was John who broke it.
"I'll make sure you're well taken care of at the orphanage," he said quietly. "I'll talk to the head caretaker myself. And… I'll keep looking. Maybe someone out there will want to adopt you. Someone good."
Matthew stayed quiet, but his legs had stopped swinging. He was listening.
"I'll also make sure Sonia and Terria visit you. At least once a week, I promise. And you can go see them anytime you want. I don't mind that."
He glanced at the boy gently.
"Just tell the staff you want to visit the Cavias Estate. If they ever say no for a bad reason—or if they're ever mean to you…" his voice grew lower, sharper, "…you tell me."
The weight behind his words was clear. Not loud, not cruel—but full of steel. A warning.
Matthew felt it. Not just the threat, but what it meant underneath.
Care.
Protectiveness.
The kind only a father showed.
He looked up, and though his chest still hurt and his heart felt bruised, he managed a small smile. Just a little one.
But real.
Because even if the Fierce Lion wasn't going to be his father, not truly… he cared.
Maybe not a lot.
But enough.
Matthew gave a quiet nod, the edges of his small smile lingering. "Thank you… for caring about me," he said, voice soft but sincere.
John didn't answer right away. His gaze dropped, drifting toward the floor, his jaw tightening faintly. The boy's gratitude only made the weight of his guilt heavier.
He couldn't bring himself to look at Matthew.
Before either could say anything else, a knock came at the door—firm and polite.
John straightened slightly. "Come in," he said, his voice calm once more.
The door opened and a young servant stepped in, "Apologies for the interruption, Lord Cavias. The leaders of the Cavias branch families have arrived. They await you in the main hall."
John's expression darkened a little at that, though only briefly. He gave a curt nod. "Understood."
The servant left as swiftly as he came, leaving the room in silence once more.
John sighed deeply, the sound thick with regret, and then spoke softly, "I'm sorry, Matthew… I truly am. I wish I were a better man."
Matthew opened his mouth to say something—to say it was okay, to pretend it didn't hurt—but nothing came out. The words stuck in his throat. His chest ached. All he could do was sit there, his eyes cast down, lips pressed together tightly.
John saw the pain in the boy's silence. And it crushed him.
He sighed again, heavier than before, then stood. "I have to go speak with the grown-ups now," he said, voice quiet, almost reluctant.
Matthew gave a small nod, still unable to speak.
John lingered a moment longer… then turned and walked to the door. Without looking back, he stepped out and gently closed it behind him.
The room grew still.
Matthew sat alone in the quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on his small frame. He didn't cry. He just… sat there, trying to breathe through the heaviness, his legs no longer swinging.
—End of Chapter.