Back to the present.
James arrived at the manor.
Lady Arcturus, who had been away, returned the moment she heard what had happened. As he opened the door, she rushed forward and embraced him tightly.
"My boy… are you alright? Nothing happened to you, did it? I heard you were attacked by a vile creature," she said, placing a hand over his heart and whispering a small prayer.
A soft white light bloomed from her palm, crystallizing into dust that drifted gently, settling on James's head.
"Well done keeping yourself safe, boy," came Olivia's voice.
Her tone was unexpectedly gentle—almost warm. It was unusual. James couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about Aunt Olivia had shifted.
"Yes… thank you," James replied softly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers.Maybe it's because people actually died this time… Maybe she feared I'd be next, he thought.
They walked deeper into the manor.
The house was vibrant—very different from Doddington's cold, ancient castle. Though both were built from stone, the manor's grey stone gleamed with warmth. Massive wooden beams held the high ceiling, and golden pipes snaked from a strange box near a grand oak bookshelf all the way up to a chandelier. Five flames danced inside glass bulbs, scattering their light across the polished floor. Small crystals hung from the fixture, casting broken rainbows across the walls.
In one corner of the room stood a round table, a half-read book left open. Portraits filled the walls—clearly, this family adored their history, or at least how it looked in oil and frame.
"James, do you still have the pendant I gave you on your birthday?" Olivia asked suddenly.
He patted himself down, eyes widening. He had barely thought of it since she gave it to him, but somehow, it was always on him. Almost subconsciously, he never left it behind.
"Oh… here it is," he said, drawing the silver thing out.
The chain was nearly as long as his arm. Its face bore a carving of a crown surrounded by two fish chasing each other in a ring—simple but elegant. It was beautiful, yet battered. One side was bent inward, oddly shaped like a warped bowl.
Ha… I wonder what caused it to bend like this, James mused, but no memory came.
"I had enchanted it for protection," Olivia said, taking the pendant carefully.
"I wonder what might've happened if your essence hadn't held," said Arthur, adjusting a one-eyed glass and peering at James with analytical interest.
"Wait… what do you mean, torn my essence?" James asked, a cold sweat breaking on his brow. This was clearly the first he was hearing of it.
"Well, considering how recklessly you've been using your magic since childhood, I'd say you'll survive," Alexandre cut in casually.
James's confused expression stood out like a sore thumb.
"Boy… did they really not teach you about the risks of spellcasting?"
"No…" James muttered, eyes darting away in embarrassment.
"Ah—what has Doddington become, if they're not even teaching basics anymore…" Alexandre sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"Let him rest," Lady Arcturus interrupted, clearly displeased. "You can lecture him in the morning."
Like the wind, she swept in and took James by the wrist, leading him to the dining hall. He followed without complaint—drawn, as if by a magnet.
Moments later, James found himself seated at the grand table. Family surrounded him. Angus, his little cousin, sat beside him, eyes sparkling with excitement. The younger children had been pampered and sheltered most of their lives—rarely leaving the manor except for functions, winter balls, or political gatherings. Even at their age, they were expected to learn how the world worked.
Though James missed the freedom he had at school, sitting here among family brought a deep sense of comfort he hadn't felt in a long while.
"You know," Alexandre said, setting down his goblet, "I ran into that Jar Guard, the old man Marquis. That man has no tact—talking about balls and festivities while the masses grieve. Might as well invite them to revolt against us."
His voice trembled slightly. Small vines began to form along the edges of the scarring on his face.
"Now, now…" Lady Arcturus soothed, patting Alexandre's arm gently. "He's a close ally to our house, remember."
Her touch and voice worked like magic—literally. Alexandre's breathing slowed. The vines shrank and disappeared into his skin.
Cutlery clinked. The room filled with conversation. For the first time in a long while, the Arcturus family shared a meal in peace. Dinner continued until the third bottle of wine ran dry. The bottle was green-glass, with a branded parchment bearing an ancient ship and writing in an old tongue. As the bottle passed from hand to hand, the ship and its waves seemed to shimmer and shift on the label, like a tiny moving painting.
Later that night, James and Angus climbed the grand staircase to their rooms. As they walked through the upper halls, James stopped.
"Run… run…"
The whisper came from one of the unused rooms. The voice was familiar—frighteningly so.
"Shhh. Did you hear that?" James whispered, halting mid-step, ears straining.
But the voice was gone. Only silence.
After standing still for a few moments, James sighed and continued on.
My brain must be playing tricks on me again, he told himself.
That night, he drifted into sleep.
The sun shone lazily through the windows the next morning, casting patterned reflections across the walls. Some rays touched James's face gently, rousing him.
"Ahhhmm," he mumbled, stretching as he sat up.
He took his time getting ready, moving slowly down the staircase. As usual, he gripped the cold steel railing, letting the chill rush through his hands. It was part of his routine—a quiet, refreshing ritual that helped him feel grounded.
When he reached the dining room, he found Alexandre already seated at the tea table, sipping from a steaming cup while reading the newspaper.
"You know," Alexandre was saying to Lady Arcturus, "King Henry III is planning to step down. Apparently, he's ready to hand Spaði's throne to someone else."
Lady Arcturus gasped slightly. "Oh my… what is happening to this country? Things are getting more unstable by the day. Did the Duke mention who will inherit the throne?"
"No," said Alexandre, frowning. "I haven't received word of that yet."
"I suppose we'll have to wait and see," murmured Lady Arcturus, knitting a scarf with steady hands.
"Good morning," James greeted them, smiling.
"Ah—good morning," they both replied in unison.
"Eat up, boy," Alexandre added, glancing at him. "Once you're done, we're heading to the garden. Seems I'll have to teach you myself. The standards of Doddington have truly fallen."
He seemed genuinely frustrated. He had held the school in high regard—it was where he'd studied himself in his youth.
James wasted no time, shoveling food into his mouth so fast he nearly choked on a piece of toast.
"Slow down, James. There's no need to inhale it," Lady Arcturus chuckled.
His face as he coughed caught her by surprise, and she let out a soft laugh.
Not long after, James stepped outside. The snow had risen overnight, brushing up to his ankles, though the brick path had been cleared. He strode along it, heading toward the garden shed—though calling it a shed was an understatement. To anyone less fortunate, it would be mistaken for a glass mansion.
Inside, his grandfather was already at work, tending to the plants.
Some were vibrant and colorful—blooming with soft bioluminescence. Tiny glowing creatures flitted from pod to pod, gathering pollen. At the center of the space stood a massive tree whose leaves chimed faintly as they swayed. Its fruits were shaped like bells—some silver, some gold—and hanging from within were luminous strands, glowing pink and blue.
"Grandfather! Here I am," James called out.
"Good. Let's begin," Alexandre said, climbing down from a ladder.
"To start with—you must understand what spellcasting actually is. It's not simply tossing out magic randomly, not if you want to survive it."
He walked over to a round table where an open book displayed illustrations of magical plants.
"Spellwork is the process of borrowing rules from nature. When we murmur spells, we form contracts with the world—agreements to bend or borrow its laws temporarily. In return, it takes something from us."
James listened closely.
"The cost is paid in essence. The true name is Sar. It recovers on its own, yes—but only if you don't push it too far."
Alexandre leaned over the table, brushing some pollen off a parchment.
"That's why creating things that provide sustenance is nearly impossible," he said. "You can't just conjure food. First, you must understand how every ingredient is grown, then how they mix, and finally, how the structure holds together. Only then can you form a fair contract with nature. It's far too demanding for someone with normal Sar."
He paused for a moment, voice lowering almost to a whisper.
"True Magic could probably do it… and the boy probably has it," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" James asked, leaning forward.
"Mm-mm, forget about that," Alexandre said quickly, clearing his throat and waving dismissively. He turned away, feigning interest in a hanging vine. "Just old man ramblings."
He quickly moved on. "You should also know there are five stages to spellcasting. Arthur told me you reached Ar, which is Level Two. The highest level, San, belongs to those we call Sages."
James's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Are you a San, Grandfather?"
Alexandre chuckled. "Hah. Barely. I'm only just within the threshold. But yes."
His expression turned serious. "The more complicated the spell, the steeper the price. Don't reach beyond your means, James. Attempt only what you understand—or the cost might be more than your Sar."
James nodded slowly.
The small lecture continued for a while longer. Afterward, Alexandre returned to tending his garden, and James helped in silence—his thoughts full of runes, whispers, and all the things he still didn't know.
As they turned into the deeper part of the garden, shimmering, wobbly creatures emerged from a bed of lunar flowers.
From a distance, they looked like plants—silver and green, unmoving. But as they stepped into the light, James could see their strange, human-like shapes. Yellow flowers bloomed from their heads, glowing softly. They wobbled as they walked, as if their heads were too heavy to carry.
The creatures toddled forward and began climbing up James's arms. He froze in place, startled.
"Ahh—" he gasped.
"They're Nymphs," Alexandre said, smiling. "They help tend the garden. They've been here since long before the manor was built. They mean no harm."
James stood still as the Nymphs climbed over him, their tiny feet like cool petals brushing his skin. One settled on top of his head, nestling in his hair like a sleepy sprout.
Alexandre chuckled. "They clearly like you."
He gently lifted the Nymph from James's head and placed it back near the great bell tree. The creatures wobbled onward, disappearing inside the hollow golden fruits with a soft chime.
James stared after them, still stunned.
"They live inside the bells?" he asked.
"Yes," Alexandre said. "Most things in this world do not ask for understanding. Only kindness."
They spent the rest of the day together in the warmth of the greenhouse, tending vines, sharing stories, and letting the snow-covered world beyond the glass fade quietly into the distance.