The silence hung for another moment after her last words.I watched her through the edge of my vision.She hadn't moved since speaking—still cross-legged, still regal, still… unreadable.
I cleared my throat, unsure if I was allowed to speak, or if breathing too loudly might get me turned into ash.
"Is… is this the capital?"
A small pause.
"You're within the Inner Wall. The heart of it, yes," she replied, her tone casual, almost bored. "Though it's not the capital you imagine. Most commoners never see past the outer rings."
"Why… am I here?"
It slipped out before I could filter it. Stupid. Risky.
But she didn't seem offended. If anything, she gave a slow, measured blink—like a cat watching a fly struggle.
"Because you're not from here."
That froze me.
She finally turned her head, just slightly—just enough to glance at me from the corner of her eye.
"I know that much," she continued. "You don't walk like us. You don't speak like us. And there's something behind your eyes that's not been touched by this world."
"I—"
"I don't care where you're truly from," she said, cutting me off softly. "Not yet."
That "yet" did a number on my spine.
"So why… take me in?"
She turned back to the window.
"Because anomalies intrigue me. And you," she said, tapping one gloved finger against the glass, "have too many blank pages."
"Pages?"
"Your aura. Your soul. Your magic. There's something carved out, as if something's hiding you from it."
I didn't answer.
Neither did Serenya.Which was somehow worse.
"Don't worry," Elowynn added, tone turning as dry as paper, "I won't dissect you."
She gave the faintest smirk.
"Yet."
"Still," I asked cautiously, "what do you mean I'm not from here?"
Elowynn didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the window, watching the passing scenery with the same cold indifference she gave the market.
"Your posture. Your tone. The way you reacted to certain sights. It's all too… foreign."
She glanced at me now, just slightly.
"You're not from any known province. I thought perhaps another continent."
Ah. So that's what she meant.
A foreigner. From another country. Not another world.I could work with that.
"You could say that," I replied, careful with my tone.
She studied me again, her gaze a slow, analytical sweep.
"So, what language is spoken where you're from?"
"Language? Well… we mostly use something called English," I said, trying to keep it simple. "It's the common one. But yeah, some people speak in their native tongues too. Depends on their culture."
That made her pause.
"English," she repeated, like tasting a strange fruit. "That doesn't match any trade tongue in the neighboring lands."
She tapped her finger against her leg.
"So it's your world's lingua franca, yet not connected to the Old Realms. Curious."
"It's just the most practical," I said quickly. "Used for business, politics, everyday talk. But back home, there's hundreds—maybe thousands—of other languages spoken."
She nodded slowly, processing.
"A land of fractured voices but shared speech," she mused. "Efficient. And dangerous."
I blinked.
"Dangerous?"
"Unity through language is rare. Those who can rally diverse peoples under a single tongue often become the ones rewriting the world."
There was no judgment in her voice.Only recognition.
And for a moment, she looked almost amused.
"So you are not of this land. But you are no simple wanderer either. Interesting."
She returned to the window, her interest seemingly satisfied—for now.
"The world is changing," she said softly. "And so are the players."
"Players?" I asked, raising a brow.
"That is what I call us," she replied, still looking out the window. "Awakeners. Those with the power to reshape the world. We don't follow the rules—we write new ones."
There was no pride in her tone. Just a quiet certainty.
"I see…"
"You are not one, then?" she asked, without looking back.
"No. I'm not."
She finally turned, her gaze sharpening just slightly.
"Strange," she said, voice cooling. "Then why are you contracted with a spirit?"
My stomach knotted.
I blinked, trying to keep my expression neutral.
"What makes you think that?"
"I don't think, Ezekiel. I know."
The way she said my name was deliberate. Measured.
"Your aura is faint, but I noticed the tether. Unusual… most contracts leave a residue of mana flux. Yours is quiet. Subtle. Almost like it's stitched to your soul."
My hands tightened around the edge of the seat.
"I didn't make a contract," I lied. "At least, not intentionally."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. Then leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.
"Even more interesting."
"Look, I just—"
"You're not an awakener. You don't have a mana core. You don't follow any known initiation rite. Yet, a spirit follows you."She tilted her head."And it listens."
Serenya didn't say a word in my mind, but I could feel her presence stir. Tense.
"Either you're a liar," Elowynn continued calmly, "or something outside the system we understand."
"I didn't choose this," I said flatly.
That made her smile. Just a sliver.
"No one ever does."
The carriage began to slow, the sound of distant bells and chatter filling the air as we neared the capital's inner ring.
"You may not be an awakener," she said, voice quieting, "but the board has shifted to make room for you."
She looked at me once more.
"The question is… what piece are you?"
"Piece?" I echoed, confused.
She didn't explain. Just stared at me, waiting.
I thought for something to say—some kind of answer that wouldn't raise more questions—until she spoke again, her tone now more analytical, almost clinical.
"Well… there are recorded cases," she said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve, "where a spirit contracts with a human through inheritance—passed down through bloodlines—or through an encounter with death."
She said it like reciting from an old scholar's tome.Detached. Orderly.
"So which are you?" she asked, her eyes now fixed on me again. "The heir? Or the one who met death?"
I let out a dry breath.
"I guess… I did meet death when I first got here."
Her brow arched slightly, intrigued.
"Oh?"
"Fell from the sky. Nearly became a stain on the forest floor."
There was a moment of silence.Not even the carriage wheels dared to creak.
Then, finally—just barely—Elowynn's lips twitched into what might've been a smile.
"Dramatic."
"Painful," I muttered.
"That kind of brush with death…" she mused, now speaking more to herself, "could explain the soul fracture. It would open you—unintentionally—to spiritual resonance. Like a cracked door, letting things slip through."
She stared a bit longer than I liked, as if looking not at me—but into me.
"And yet… no visible mana core. No documented lineage. You fall from the sky and make a contract without ritual or knowledge."A pause."You're chaos."
"I prefer 'misunderstood.'"
That earned me nothing.
She leaned back again, eyes closing for a moment, as if filing everything into mental archives.
"You are… unfinished," she said, voice almost quiet. "Unlabeled. And the world doesn't like things it can't categorize."
The carriage finally came to a stop, wheels slowing as the air shifted around us—cleaner, colder, touched by magic.
"We're here," she said softly. "Let's see what kind of piece you truly are."
As the carriage doors opened with a soft mechanical click, Elowynn stepped out first—graceful, precise, and commanding. The moment her boots touched the polished stone path, the air shifted.
A line of servants had already assembled before the estate gates.They stood in two perfect rows, dressed in deep charcoal uniforms trimmed with silver thread, their posture rigid, eyes lowered in respectful silence. Not a single movement was wasted—no idle fidgeting, no curious glances. They were well-trained. Almost unnaturally so.
The estate behind them was... enormous.
A sprawling mansion of ivory stone and obsidian-veined marble, its arched windows reflected the late afternoon light like sheets of frozen glass. Four central towers framed the main hall, each crowned with sapphire-colored banners bearing Elowynn's crest—something like a sun split in half, one side burning, the other in eclipse.
The architecture was an intricate blend of regal minimalism and arcane craftsmanship. The walls shimmered faintly, not with paint, but with imbued runes etched beneath the surface—sigils of protection, concealment, and probably worse. The kind of enchantments that don't let you leave once you enter without permission.
Dozens of planted crystal lanterns lined the pathway like stars frozen mid-flicker, and the garden beside them was not natural—it was cultivated. Each tree, each flower, each hedge was placed with obsessive intent. Even the wind felt like it flowed only where the estate allowed it to.
I swallowed thickly.
This wasn't a noble home.This was a fortress of quiet authority.
And she lived here alone?
"Lady Elowynn," one of the head butlers bowed, voice cool and measured, "the south wing has been prepared. As per your request, the lesser chamber has been reinforced to receive… the guest."
My skin prickled at the phrasing.
"Good," Elowynn replied, already walking. "And make sure the archives on planar anomalies and unknown dialects are reopened. I want the Third Scholar brought in by morning."
"As you command."
I stepped down from the carriage last, and as I looked around at the perfectly coordinated staff, I realized—
Everyone here moved like clockwork. No chatter. No curiosity. Just precision.
Elowynn didn't lead an estate. She commanded a small kingdom of silence.
And now I was inside it.
I was escorted by one of the younger servants—no older than me, by the looks of it—but not once did he glance my way.He simply walked, footsteps silent over the obsidian-and-glass tiles, guiding me down one of the many branching halls like I was just another delivery to be dropped off.
The silence in this estate was unnerving.
Even my own footsteps felt like an intrusion.
Eventually, we stopped before a tall set of double doors carved with the image of two dragons circling a tower—one made of fire, the other of shadow. As the servant opened them without a word, I was greeted by the guest chamber Elowynn had "prepared."
And by prepared, she might've meant "watching."
The room was… luxurious, but not in the comforting way.More like something you'd see in a noble's gallery: pristine, cold, and far too immaculate to feel lived in.
The bed was large—canopy-style with sheer black curtains tied back like ceremonial bindings. Sheets crisp, untouched. The floors were polished stone, inlaid with thin gold lines forming circular motifs that looked far too close to magical arrays. I wasn't going to step on those unless I had to.
A crystal basin rested atop a blackwood stand in the corner, filled with water that glowed faintly, like it was breathing. There were no mirrors—only a single pane of polished obsidian mounted on the far wall. I wasn't sure if it reflected me or something else entirely.
On the desk sat a quill that wrote nothing, but refused to stop moving.
The windows didn't open.
And though the room was warm, there was no fire.
I stepped inside cautiously. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the faint sensation of pressure settled onto my shoulders. Subtle—but present. Like the room itself was taking note of me.
"This doesn't feel like hospitality," I muttered under my breath.
Serenya stirred faintly in my mind.
"This isn't hospitality," she said. "It's containment. She wants to keep you close… and measured."
"Wonderful," I whispered. "From one cage to another."
I sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand over my face.
For a moment, everything felt quiet again.
And I wasn't sure if I was more afraid of Elowynn…or of how easily I'd started to adapt to all of this.