The house room smelled of old wood and cheaper soap, a familiar combination that had become something like home over the past year. Ash turned the brass key in the lock and let his shoulders drop for the first time since dawn. The camera case hit the floor with a soft thud, followed by his worn leather jacket.
He stood before the cracked mirror mounted above the washbasin, studying the face that looked back at him. Average, he'd always thought. Black hair that never quite lay flat, black eyes that revealed nothing unless he wanted them to. The kind of face that disappeared in crowds, that slipped past security guards and worried servants without a second glance.
Useful features, in his line of work.
"Another successful day of professional voyeurism," he muttered, pulling off the thin cotton mask he wore during surveillance. The fabric had absorbed the day's sweat and grime, leaving red marks along his cheekbones. He tossed it into the wash bucket and splashed cold water on his face.
The reflection showed tired eyes in a young face—too young to be thinking about the things he thought about, too old to pretend the world was anything other than what it was. Twelve years old and already fluent in the language of other people's secrets.
He dried his face with a threadbare towel and moved to the small table where he'd left the morning's bread purchase. The loaf was still relatively fresh, bought from Mrs. Chen's bakery on Copper Street, where the prices were reasonable and questions weren't asked about why a boy his age had silver to spend.
The bread was dense and filling, flavoured with herbs that reminded him of the orphanage kitchen.
By seven o'clock, exhaustion had settled into his bones like fog. The early morning climb, the hours of careful surveillance, and the mental strain all caught up with him at once. He pulled off his boots and collapsed onto the narrow bed without bothering to undress properly.
Sleep came quickly, dreamless and deep.
___
Morning arrived with the sound of mana-powered delivery carts rumbling past his window. Ash stretched, surprised to find sunlight already streaming through the thin curtains. He'd slept nearly twelve hours—longer than he had in weeks.
After a quick wash and a breakfast of yesterday's remaining bread, he made his way to "The Daily Whisper's" offices. The streets were busy with the usual mix of commuters, merchants, and early-rising nobles heading to various appointments. The city's morning rhythm was as predictable as clockwork.
Mrs. Hartwell looked up from her ledger as he entered.
Ash knocked and entered Corwin's office, finding the man bent over a collection of photographs spread across his desk. The images from yesterday's surveillance had already been processed and enhanced, ready for the printing presses.
"Ash," Corwin said without looking up. "Good work yesterday. The Blackthorne-Thorne story is going to run as our lead feature." He gestured to the photographs with obvious satisfaction. "However, I have some news about tonight's assignment."
"The Merchant's Association gala?"
"Postponed until next week. Some nonsense about security concerns—probably means one of the members got wind of our interest." Corwin leaned back in his chair, studying Ash with calculating eyes. "Which means you have an unexpected week of freedom ahead of you."
A week off. When was the last time that happened? Ash kept his expression neutral, but internally, he felt something that might have been relief.
"Since you'll be idle until next week's assignment, consider this your promised leave. Full week off, as we discussed." Corwin's tone was businesslike, but not unkind. "Try not to spend all yesterday's earnings on books."
The comment was meant as a joke, but it wasn't far from the truth. Books were one of Ash's few indulgences, one of the few ways he could imagine a future beyond climbing buildings and capturing other people's secrets.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it. Literally—you know the rules."
___
The University District occupied the northern quarter of the capital, where the old imperial architecture gave way to more practical buildings designed for learning rather than display. The streets were wider here, lined with bookshops, supply stores, and the occasional café where students gathered to debate philosophy and complain about professors.
The Imperial Library was impressive but sterile. The university bookshops were expensive and focused on current texts. But the secondhand stores and private collections—those held treasures.
"Meridian's Curiosities" occupied the ground floor of a narrow building wedged between a map-maker's shop and a store that sold various alchemical supplies. The sign above the door was painted in faded gold letters, and the windows displayed an eclectic collection of books, instruments, and artefacts that seemed to change daily.
The bell above the door chimed softly as Ash entered, triggering a familiar sense of peace. The shop smelled of old leather, parchment, and the faint metallic tang that clung to anything exposed to concentrated mana over long periods. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with volumes on everything from basic mathematics to theoretical thaumaturgy.
"Ash!" The voice came from somewhere behind a towering stack of books. "I was wondering when you'd find your way back here."
John Meridian emerged from the depths of his shop like a scholar's ghost, all wild white hair and ink-stained fingers. He was thin in the way of men who forgot to eat when absorbed in interesting problems, and his clothes bore the casual relationship to fashion typical of lifelong academics. At seventy-six, he moved with the careful precision of someone whose mind remained sharp even as his body acknowledged the passage of time.
"Hello, Mr. Meridian." Ash had tried calling him John once, at the old man's insistence, but it had felt wrong. Some people earned their titles through accomplishment rather than birth.
"Still 'Mr. Meridian,' I see. Well, I suppose respect for one's elders is becoming a lost art." His eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. "What brings you to my humble establishment this fine Tuesday morning? Looking for something specific, or just browsing?"
The question brought back memories of their first real conversation, six years ago in the orphanage's small library. Ash had been pestering the visiting scholar with questions about everything from why books smelled different to how the mana-lights worked, expecting to be dismissed like most adults did. Instead, Mr. Meridian had sat down and answered each question seriously, treating a curious child like a fellow scholar rather than a nuisance.
"Actually, I was hoping you might have time to answer some questions."
"Ah, my favorite kind of customer. Questions cost nothing and often lead to the most interesting discoveries." Meridian gestured toward a small sitting area he'd carved out between the philosophy and history sections. "Tea?"
They settled into worn armchairs that had probably been elegant twenty years ago. Meridian bustled about with a small mana-heated kettle, preparing tea with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd performed the ritual thousands of times.
"So," he said, settling into his chair with a steaming cup. "What's captured your curiosity this time?"
Ash had been thinking about this conversation for days, trying to figure out how to ask his questions without revealing too much about why he was interested. In the end, he decided on directness—Mr. Meridian had never judged him for his circumstances.
"Magic," he said simply. "How it works. Why some people can use it and others can't."
Meridian's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah, the eternal questions. Most people are content to know that mana makes their streetlights work and their food stay fresh. What's sparked your interest in the deeper mechanics?"
"I see it everywhere. The camera equipment I... work with. The public transport. The buildings that seem to defy normal construction principles. But I don't understand what makes it possible."
"A practical approach—I like that." Meridian sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Most of my former students wanted to start with theory and work their way down to application. You're approaching it from the opposite direction."
He set down his cup and moved to one of the nearby shelves, returning with a slim volume bound in dark blue leather. "This might help. "Fundamental Principles of Mana Manipulation" by Professor Adelaide Blackwood—distant cousin to our Chancellor's family, though she chose scholarship over politics."
Ash accepted the book, feeling the slight tingle that always accompanied objects that had been exposed to significant magical energies. The pages fell open to a detailed diagram of what looked like a cross-section of a human torso.
"The essence core," Meridian explained, settling back into his chair. "Every human is born with one, though not everyone develops it properly."
The diagram showed a small, crystalline structure nestled near the heart, connected to the major blood vessels by delicate filaments. Text annotations described their function in dense academic language that would take time to decipher.
"It starts as a separate organ," Meridian continued, his voice taking on the measured cadence of a born teacher. "Small, dormant, essentially useless. We call that the Seeded stage—most children remain there until puberty, if they advance at all."
"What determines whether someone advances?"
"Ah, that's where it gets interesting. Training helps, certainly. Exposure to concentrated mana can stimulate development. But there seems to be an element of... let's call it natural aptitude. Some people's cores respond readily to stimulation. Others remain dormant despite the best instruction."
Ash studied the diagram, noting the way the filaments connected to major organs. "What happens as it develops?"
"The Spark stage is next—basic activation, but crude. Raw power without focus or control. Imagine trying to paint a portrait using a bucket of paint rather than a brush. The energy is there, but the precision isn't."
Meridian stood and moved to a cabinet near the back of the sitting area, returning with what looked like a glass sphere filled with swirling, luminous mist.
"This is a practice focus—nothing fancy, but it demonstrates the principle." He held the sphere loosely in his palm, and the mist began to respond, forming simple shapes and patterns. "Tempered stage allows for controlled use, known spellforms, predictable results."
The shapes in the sphere became more complex—geometric patterns that seemed to exist in more dimensions than the space they occupied. Ash found himself leaning forward, fascinated despite himself.
"Forged stage is where it becomes truly personal," Meridian continued. "Custom spells, weapon bonding, the ability to impose your will on reality in ways that reflect your nature. The essence core has, by this point, begun to fuse with the heart itself, becoming integrated into the body's fundamental systems."
"And beyond that?"
Meridian's expression grew more serious. "Ascended stage is... well, it's more legend than common experience. Bending reality, physical mutation, power that transforms not just what you can do but what you are. The number of confirmed Ascended practitioners in the empire can be counted on one hand."
He set the sphere aside, its contents gradually settling back into random patterns. "Why the sudden interest in thaumaturgical theory? Planning a career change?"
Ash hesitated. The truth was complicated—he was curious about magic partly because he encountered it daily in his work, but also because he'd begun to wonder about his capabilities. There had been moments during recent assignments where his reflexes seemed faster than they should be, where his balance and coordination exceeded what his training could account for.
"I think I might have some aptitude," he said finally. "Small things, but... consistent."
Meridian studied him with new interest. "Have you had any formal testing?"
"No. The orphanage provided basic education, but magical instruction wasn't part of the curriculum for commoners."
"Hmm. That's a significant oversight, though not uncommon." Meridian rose and moved to another shelf, returning with a different sort of sphere—this one clear crystal, about the size of an apple. "This is a resonance detector. Simple enough that anyone can use it safely."
He placed the crystal in Ash's palm. "Just hold it, relax, and think about... well, anything that makes you feel focused and alert."
Ash closed his eyes and thought about the morning's climb to the rooftops, the sensation of perfect balance as he moved across narrow ledges, the clarity that came when everything depended on precision and timing.
The crystal grew warm in his palm, and when he opened his eyes, it was glowing with a faint, flickering light—barely more than a candle's flame.
"Well," Meridian said quietly. "That's an awakened Seeded core."
The light wavered uncertainly, like a flame in a gentle breeze. It wasn't steady or strong—just the faintest indication that something had stirred to life within his essence core.
"Just awakened?" Ash asked, trying not to sound disappointed.
"Recently awakened, I'd say. The instability suggests your core has only just begun to respond to stimulation." Meridian's eyes showed approval rather than disappointment. "Most people never even reach this stage. An awakened Seeded core is still quite rare among commoners."
"Security consulting," Ash said, which was technically true. "Climbing, observation, that sort of thing."
"Ah, that would explain it. Repeated exposure to situations requiring perfect body control, heightened awareness, split-second timing—all of that can stimulate core development even without formal training."
The crystal's glow was beginning to fade as Ash relaxed. He set it carefully on the table between them, mind racing with implications.
"What would proper training involve?"
"For someone at your stage? Patience, mostly." Meridian smiled at Ash's expression. "An awakened Seeded core is like a newly sprouted plant—it needs careful tending, not aggressive cultivation. Basic breathing exercises to help stabilise the awakening. Simple meditation techniques. Eventually, if you're fortunate, you might progress to the early Spark stage."
Of course, it would be slow. Everything worthwhile seemed to require either money Ash didn't have or time he couldn't spare. But the crystal's faint response had shown him something he hadn't expected—he wasn't completely ordinary.
"The book you showed me earlier—would that have the basic techniques you mentioned?"
"Some of them, yes. Though you'd benefit from practical instruction as well." Meridian's expression grew thoughtful. "I don't teach anymore—haven't for years—but I might be willing to provide some guidance. Informal sessions, nothing official."
"I couldn't afford to pay you properly."
"Who said anything about payment?" Meridian waved dismissively. "I'm an old man with more knowledge than time. Sharing what I know with someone genuinely interested would be payment enough."
Ash felt something shift inside his chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with magical resonance. When was the last time someone had offered to help him without expecting something in return?
"I would... I'd like that very much."
"Excellent. We can start with basic theory and see how you progress." Meridian stood and began gathering several books from various shelves. "These will give you a foundation. Read through them, practice the basic exercises, and come back next week. We'll see what you've absorbed."
The stack of books he assembled was worth more than Ash made in a month, but Meridian piled them into a canvas bag without comment. Academic generosity was another form of wealth that didn't translate directly to silver coins.
"One more thing," Meridian said as Ash prepared to leave. "Magical development at your age can be... unpredictable. If you experience any unusual symptoms—persistent headaches, unexpected temperature changes, anything that seems connected to your emotional state—come see me immediately. Better to address problems early than deal with complications later."
"What kind of complications?"
"Oh, nothing dramatic. Core instability, usually temporary. But it can be uncomfortable, and in rare cases, dangerous." Meridian's tone was casual, but his eyes were serious. "The transition from Seed to spark stage occasionally involves some physical adjustment as the core begins integrating more fully with your body's systems."
Great. Another risk to add to his growing collection. But as Ash shouldered the bag of books, he found he didn't care. For the first time in months, he had something to look forward to that didn't involve other people's secrets.
"Thank you, Mr. Meridian. For all of this."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you've struggled through Professor Blackwood's explanation of mana field dynamics. Then we'll see if you're still grateful."
___
The walk back to his boarding house took Ash through the heart of the city, where afternoon crowds were beginning to thin as people returned home from work. The bag of books felt heavier with each step, but it was a good weight—the weight of possibility rather than obligation.
He thought about the crystal's glow, about Meridian's offer of instruction, about the diagrams showing essence cores gradually fusing with human hearts. For years, his future had seemed fixed—a steady progression from small jobs to larger ones, from desperate survival to comfortable mediocrity.
Now, for the first time, he could imagine something different.
The house was quiet when he arrived; most residents were either still at work or already settling in for the evening. Ash climbed the narrow stairs to his room, unlocked the door, and spread the books across his small table.
"Fundamental Principles of Mana Manipulation". "Basic Meditation for Core Development". "Physical Integration of Thaumaturgical Practice". "A History of Magical Theory in the Valen Empire".
He opened the first book to its introduction, where Professor Adelaide Blackwood's precise handwriting had been preserved in crisp typeset:
"Magic is not a gift bestowed by fate or fortune, but a capacity inherent in human nature. Like any other aspect of human potential—strength, intelligence, creativity—it can be developed through proper understanding and dedicated practice. The question is not whether one possesses magical ability, but whether one chooses to cultivate it."
Ash smiled and settled into his chair. Outside, the evening bells were beginning to chime, calling the faithful to their devotions. But he had found his form of worship—the pursuit of knowledge that might, someday, set him free.
He turned the page and began to read.