A fine, misty rain—so faint it blurred the view—quietly drifted down from the gray sky over London.
In the days that followed, Favia began to notice subtle changes in Baobhan Sith's demeanor. Her behavior now carried an odd blend—at times mature, at others childlike.
But perhaps that was only natural. For the fairy girl, this life was something she had never dared to dream of before. Though she still didn't fully understand Favia's shipbuilding techniques and could only offer assistance, she felt uneasy doing merely that.
It was simply too easy. Compared to the amount of work Favia did, she sometimes felt like she was slowing him down instead of helping. Many of the human tools were unfamiliar to her, and even something as simple as buying ingredients or cooking required Favia to teach her by hand.
What puzzled him, though, was that fairies should, by nature, be quick learners. Yet for some reason, her progress in these mundane matters was unusually slow.
As time passed, two unexpected events occurred in the year 1515—events Favia had not anticipated at all.
First, the Reformation, which by rights should have taken place two years later, erupted ahead of time. Martin Luther—both a priest and Doctor of Theology—witnessed the Church selling indulgences throughout Germany, and heard rumors of simony and corruption among the clergy. Enraged, he nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to the door of the Wittenberg church.
Thanks to Gutenberg's printing press—commercialized for over two generations by then—the theses spread across all of Germany within three days, and across Western Europe within a week.
When Pope Alexander VI learned of this, he immediately excommunicated Luther and expelled him from the Church.
In truth, Luther had only hoped to reform some of the Church's corrupt practices. But once excommunicated, he established his own denomination, rejecting papal authority altogether. Many followed him, and soon the Protestant or Reformed Churches arose in opposition to the old Roman Catholic Church, which came to be known as the Old Faith.
The second event came as a ripple from the first. Upon receiving word of the religious unrest sweeping Europe, the King of England conceived a bold idea—to break the English Church away from Rome's authority and declare himself its supreme religious leader.
This worldly conflict sent tremors even through the Clock Tower, prompting yet another Grand Assembly to be convened.
The Assembly was, in theory, meant to transcend factional divides and discuss the administration of the Clock Tower by bringing together the Lords and their representatives.
But in truth—it had long become nothing more than an arena for political suppression under the guise of formality.
This time, facing pressure from the three Great Noble Houses, the faction led by Lord El-Melloi directly challenged the Department of Law. "A department tasked with overseeing magi that cannot even manage itself," they argued, "has no right to oversee others." Thus they proposed the dissolution of the Department, reducing the Twelve Departments to Eleven.
Though the proposal failed to pass, it left the atmosphere of the Clock Tower strained—like a string pulled to its limit.
According to the official Clock Tower chronologies, this internal conflict should have taken place around the year 1600—yet it had all come a century early.
Favia could only clutch the pendant at his chest and sigh. Everything felt as if a fuse had been lit upon a powder keg.
"You bear the blood of El-Melloi."
Favia froze, hand tightening on his tools.
He had been alone in the shipyard moments before—most workers had been dismissed due to the rain, and Baobhan Sith had gone to fetch a letter sent from Rome by Leonardo da Vinci.
And now, standing before him, was none other than the current Lord El-Melloi, the woman who commanded five Departments and opposed the three Great Noble Houses with six of her own.
"I think you're mistaken," he replied. "I'm not affiliated with the El-Melloi family."
"No, I'm quite certain," the Lord said with calm conviction. "You must be one of the lost scions of our house."
"I don't possess any El-Melloi Magic Crest."
"That's hardly an issue. Perhaps one of your ancestors suffered an accident. If you wish to have a Crest transplanted, it's easily arranged."
Since the end of the Age of Gods, mankind had gradually driven away mystery. With the rise of science, the shadows of the arcane grew weaker, and no magus—no matter how talented—could reverse that tide.
To resist this decay of mystery, magi had created something enduring: the Magic Crest, a crystallized form of fixed mystery capable of being inherited across generations.
A magus family referred to the lineage of inheritance of such a Crest. Because the Crest's transfer mattered more than mere blood, even if the biological line were broken, as long as the Crest was passed to another body, the lineage lived on.
Conversely, even if descendants with magical potential remained, if the Crest were lost, the bloodline was deemed extinct as magi.
Normally, a magus would choose a successor of strong aptitude within their kin, ensuring the Crest's unbroken inheritance.
A Crest was not strictly singular—it could be divided, its offshoots passed to branch families. Thus, most Clock Tower factions established branch houses through Crest division, while the original was known as the Source Crest.
"Won't you have a drink?"
The Lord casually raised a wine bottle, utterly unconcerned by the shipyard's dim, stifling air.
"I don't drink," Favia said flatly.
"Ah—not that you can't, but that you won't? How strange. Especially when I brought such fine wine myself."
She poured herself a glass, letting the faint intoxication sway her senses. Closing her eyes, she savored the wine's aroma, then looked back at Favia.
Up close, he did indeed resemble the portrait. The resemblance was uncanny—could it really be mere coincidence?
But in the world of magi, coincidence was a meaningless word.
Even if something appeared to happen by chance, it was but the result of inevitable convergence—the hidden flow of causality beneath all things.
That was why magi sought the Root, proclaiming: We must reach the Source.
Perhaps even the Atlas Alchemists' so-called "predictions of the future" were born from this same distorted inevitability.
When she had succeeded the title of Lord, her predecessor had told her a legend:
"A thousand years ago, the only one to bear the title of Lord El-Melloi without being of the family by name—the Hunnic King, Avia—left descendants within our bloodline."
She had once questioned that claim.
"But didn't Avia vanish after sacking Rome and destroying the Church?"
"Yes," her predecessor had answered, "but the truth is he grew weary of mortal conflict. He returned to the Clock Tower, leaving his lineage among the El-Melloi as the main branch. In a sense, we are all his heirs."
So saying, the old Lord had given her a faded painting—supposedly sketched in secret by an El-Melloi magus who had followed Avia during the fall of the Western Roman Empire.
And when asked how he knew all this?
He had simply replied that his predecessor had told him the same—and so it had been passed down from Lord to Lord since the 8th century.
It was said that in those days, by invoking the name of Avia, the Lord who once bore that title, the House of El-Melloi had gained the favor of Charlemagne, the unifier of Western Europe.
"Paracelsus has already joined the Department of Mineralogy," the golden-haired Lord continued. "And if you intend to continue shipbuilding, returning to the family would be wise. I can arrange for someone to assist you."
"If El-Melloi's goal is to abolish the Department of Law, I imagine you still have plenty to keep you occupied," Favia replied calmly.
At that, the golden-haired Lord gently swirled the wine in her glass. The candlelight flickering in the corner of the shipyard overlapped with the velvet hue of the wine—melting together as if one. In each drop, one could glimpse the pride of the vintner.
She let out a soft sigh and spoke earnestly.
"Please, at least give it some thought."
"With Paracelsus already involved, I'd say that's more than enough."
"Because you are of El-Melloi," she said, as though it were only natural. "I'm asking you as family."
Meanwhile, Baobhan Sith—who had already returned but was now crouched behind the door of the shipyard, eavesdropping—panicked the moment she heard footsteps approaching. She tried to back away quietly, meaning to slip into the shadows, but the steady rhythm of the approaching presence left her no time.
A second later, the golden-haired Lord appeared, stepping gracefully through the doorway. Her sharp eyes fell upon the fairy girl immediately.
"Hm… a fairy, is it? But of a rather fine class, I see. Not bad—acceptable."
Leaving those words behind, the Lord waved a hand dismissively and departed. Her elegant silhouette vanished into the curtain of rain, soon swallowed by the storm until even Baobhan Sith's sharp eyes could no longer make her out.
"...Eh?"
Realizing she had been exposed, Baobhan Sith stood frozen, gazing after the Lord's retreating figure, completely at a loss.
Then, just as the sound of rain drowned everything else, a faint whisper drifted to her ears:
"No... A... Fá..."
As a fairy, her ears never missed a sound—but the meaning eluded her entirely.
Out in the rain, the departing Lord El-Melloi projected a shimmering parchment map in the air—an oblique rendering of London drawn in precise alchemical lines.
Beneath the city, according to that map, lay three colossal carcasses, remnants of beasts that had once tried to devour the world itself.
What could it mean? And… were humans truly so kind toward fairies?
Still clutching her confusion in her heart, Baobhan Sith ran toward the shipyard, clutching the sealed letter she had gone to retrieve.
"I'm back!"
Panting lightly, she adjusted her breathing as she stepped inside and approached Favia.
"You didn't get caught in the rain, did you?"
The silver-haired boy looked up, eyes calm as ever.
"No, no! Even though it was pouring, I had the umbrella you gave me, Favia, so it was perfectly fine. See—my clothes are still completely dry!"
She spun in place with a proud twirl, showing off the hem of her dress before holding out the letter.
"Here—it's from that person named da Vinci."
The girl stepped behind him, the faint chill of wind brushing through the room, and after a short silence, she asked casually,
"Favia, you and her… are you friends too?"
"Her? You mean the El-Melloi Lord just now?"
"Mm-hmm, that one."
"I can count the number of times I've spoken to her on one hand. Not friends—barely acquaintances, really."
Favia's tone was honest and even. Truth be told, he had no idea when that Lord had decided he was some lost scion of the El-Melloi family.
He had once been called the head of the Department of Mineralogy, but that title had been forced upon him by the Jewel Wizard himself—and at the time, he hadn't even set foot in the Clock Tower, let alone met anyone from El-Melloi.
"I see! Got it!"
Baobhan Sith's reply was unusually bright. Her voice bubbled with cheer, and before she knew it, a smile tugged at her lips—then, on impulse, she wrapped her arms around Favia from behind.
Even she was startled by the act—it was entirely instinctive.
She did worry, of course, that such boldness might anger him. But every time she felt happy, she just couldn't hold herself back…
Still, the fairy girl felt at ease. After all, Favia had never once gotten angry when she did something like this. Perhaps… he even liked it?
That single, unexpected thought—he likes it—made her cheeks flush crimson. Her heart began to race. Feeling strangely embarrassed by her own emotions, she pressed her soft fingers lightly against Favia's abdomen.
"So… what does this person named da Vinci want from you?"
"Hmm... apparently, he wants me to go to Rome."
Just another ordinary conversation.
Just another moment in their calm, steady flow of days.
This embrace felt like a prayer—a quiet, sacred wish for peace, and for the hope of the future.
If she could make just one wish come true, Baobhan Sith thought, it would be to live like this forever—peacefully, simply, and together.
"Rome?" she asked softly. "What's the difference between Rome and London?"
"Rome, huh…" Favia smiled faintly. "It's a place I know very well."
"Really? As well as you know me?"
"That's... not the same thing."
The letter from da Vinci was long and meandering—filled with greetings, well-wishes, talk of health, and idle chatter about art and invention.
But in the end, it all came down to a single matter:
Come to Rome at once—Pope Alexander VI is going to engage in a public theological debate with Martin Luther within the city.
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Read advanced chapter ahead of everyone else on my P@treon.
P@treon/GodDragcell