The morning came quietly.
Elias stirred in his bed, tangled in silk sheets, an unfamiliar warmth wrapping around him like mist. For a moment, he forgot where he was, until he turned his head and saw the wooden beams above, the sun slipping through curtains embroidered with clouds.
Not a hospital ceiling.Not his old apartment.
And the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
He sat up slowly, muscles aching. The room looked exactly as it had the night before: orderly, calm, carrying a strange nostalgia—like a childhood he had never lived. A tray of food rested on the bedside table. Warm porridge. Bread with honey. Stewed apples.
Elias stared at it.
Then at the door.
There was a knock.
Before he could answer, the door creaked open and a young maid stepped inside. She was no older than sixteen, with brown hair braided neatly, a cautious smile on her lips.
"Good morning, young master," she said with a bow. "Lady Emily says you may walk the halls if you feel better. She asked me to show you the library, if you'd like."
The word caught his attention.
Library.
He nodded.
The girl's smile widened. "This way, then."
The manor's corridors looked different in daylight—less like a painting, more like a place that breathed. Servants moved through them like streams of a river, bowing slightly as Elias passed. Some offered faint smiles. Others only watched, their eyes full of unspoken words.
Recognition, again.
And something else.
Pity?
No. Respect.
As if he were someone important.
Or fragile.
Or both.
The maid led him up to the third floor, right turn at the stairs, until they reached a double door flanked by carved stone lions. She pushed it open with effort.
And there it was.
The library.
Dust motes danced in beams of stained-glass sunlight. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with leather tomes and rolled manuscripts. A spiral staircase coiled up to a shadowed loft, where more books waited.
Elias held his breath.
It was nothing like the libraries he remembered.
It was alive.
The scent of parchment and ink stirred something old and comforting in him. The maid pointed toward a long reading table.
"I'll fetch some tea," she said. "I'll leave you to it."
He nodded again, still staring.
She left.
He approached the shelves like a pilgrim. Titles stood out: A Treatise on Soul Bonds, The Noble Houses of Validorn, Masters and the Bound, The Celestial Orders of the Royal Court.
He pulled out the first—the cover heavy, embossed with silver leaves.
Soul Bonds.
And the hours slipped by in quiet study.
At first, the language was difficult—archaic, winding—but something in his mind adapted quickly, like muscle memory. He read of the four elemental pillars—fire, water, wind, and stone—and how individuals formed pacts with spirits to gain power.
Some spirits were minor—the Whispering Flame, the Nymphs of the Brooks, the Dustlings.
Others… mentioned only in passing, their titles veiled or wrapped in warnings.
Most important of all: the bonding process.
To form a pact, one had to awaken the "heart star" within. The number of stars inside a person determined the strength of the bond. Most people had one star, maybe two. Exceptional figures—heroes, nobles—were rumored to have three.
The process was dangerous.
Some who attempted it too early never woke again.
Others went mad.
Elias leaned back, rubbing his temples.
And yet…
Nothing of this had been spoken of when he entered the gate.
The voice—Luna—had spoken of trials, not contracts.
And yet, here he was. In a child's body. In a world where strength was bound to something else.
Was that what had happened?
Was he bound?
And to what?
Later that afternoon, he sat with Emily in the sunroom.
She was knitting something—perhaps a scarf—but her hands moved without focus. Her gaze lingered on him, as if afraid he would vanish again.
"You spent the whole morning in the library," she said gently.
He nodded.
"Did you find anything interesting?"
He hesitated.
"Books about spirits."
Her fingers stilled.
"Ah," she said after a moment. "That's… a common subject here."
Emily blinked. Then she smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You've always been curious, even as a little boy. Asking about stars and spirits and the heart of the world." She reached out, touching his hand. "You'll understand everything in time, Elias. Don't rush."
But Elias was not satisfied.
He needed to know.
What this place was.Why was he here?What rules did it follow?What dangers it hid.
Emily must have seen something in his eyes, because she leaned closer.
"I'm not a magus," she said. "I never forged a bond. That wasn't… my path. But your father… well, he knows. He can explain better than I."
"When will he return?"
Her expression changed. Softened. Darkened.
"Soon," she said quietly. "He's away on business. Something important. But he'll want to see you. He'll be proud."
She rose, brushing her skirt. "Come. Let's get some air."
They walked together through the manor grounds—rose gardens, tree-lined paths, past a quiet fountain where birds nested.
Everywhere they went, people greeted Elias with respect and reverence.
But no one asked questions.
No one asked where he had been.
Emily spoke lightly—of the servants, of the trees he used to climb, of how he hated onion soup. Elias tried to smile.
But his mind spun.
He wasn't this boy.
He hadn't climbed those trees.
He didn't hate onions.
And yet here he was, in a life that welcomed him back without a single doubt.
Why?
That night, as he sat again by the window, he whispered to the stars.
What do I do now?
No answer.
Only the wind.
But when he turned back to the room, something flickered in the mirror across from the bed.
A shadow.
Not his own.
Gone in an instant.
But not forgotten.
Elias stepped toward the mirror.
Paused.
Then whispered, without knowing why:
"I'm ready."
At that moment, at the far end of the manor, the great hall doors groaned open.
A tall, severe man entered, his boots echoing against the stone.
Black hair. Crimson eyes. A presence like steel wrapped in flesh.
A servant bowed low.
"Welcome home, my lord."
Reinhardt stepped inside.
And smiled.
The next morning, Elias woke to the sound of boots outside his door.
Heavy. Deliberate. Marching.
A sharp knock.
He sat up, heart racing. Something in their rhythm told him they did not belong to a servant.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped inside.
Tall, straight-backed. Wearing a long black coat embroidered with silver thread, a crimson sash at his waist. The same insignia—a fang piercing a golden sun—gleamed at his collar.
His hair was jet-black, slicked back with precision. His eyes—
They burned.
Not with cruelty.
But with clarity.
Precision.
Like a scalpel.
"Elias," he said. Not a question, but a statement. An affirmation.
Elias couldn't move.
The man's gaze swept over him—not harsh, but unreadable. He stepped closer, and the air seemed to shift, gravity redistributing itself.
"You're thinner than I expected," the man said. "But alive. That's what matters."
Alive.
Not safe. Not well. Alive.
Elias swallowed. "Are you…?"
"I am Reinhardt," the man said simply. "Your father. By blood, and by bond."
The words struck deeper than Elias had expected.
"Father," he echoed.
Reinhardt tilted his head.
"You speak the word as if it's foreign to you."
Elias hesitated. "I don't remember much."
The lie again.
But Reinhardt did not react. He clasped his hands behind his back.
"In time, you will. Or not. Memory is not necessary for duty."
"Duty?" Elias repeated.
Reinhardt turned to the window, morning light carving sharp edges across his face.
"You were chosen for something, Elias. Long before the forest. Long before forgetting. This house does not raise useless sons."
He turned back.
Elias said nothing.
The man stepped forward. Elias tensed.
But Reinhardt only placed his hand—lightly, almost uncertainly—on top of his head.
"I am glad you've returned," he said. "Even if you don't yet know why."
And without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.
Elias sat frozen for a long while.
His hands trembled, but not from fear.
That presence. That stillness.
It reminded him of the operating room, the chief surgeon standing beside him in gloves, waiting for him to act.
Reinhardt carried the same energy.
Cold, but not cruel.Demanding, but not violent.A man who never faltered.
Which made him dangerous.
That afternoon, the servants' tone shifted.
They bowed deeper. Spoke quicker. Avoided lingering glances.
The Marquis was home.
The order had returned.
Emily grew quieter, too. Smiled less, watched more. And sometimes, her gaze wandered toward the manor's eastern wing—where Reinhardt's chambers lay.
Elias found himself wandering.
Not aimlessly, but searching.
For patterns.
For cracks.
The library revealed new layers beneath its familiar books. He discovered a section he hadn't noticed before: The Sealed Histories. Locked behind a gate, guarded by a sigil.
In the gardens, he found stone markers half-buried in moss. Old names. Forgotten titles.
That evening, Reinhardt summoned him.
Not formally. Not warmly.
Just a message delivered by a page: The Lord wishes to speak.
Elias followed.
Through dim halls, into a chamber unlike the others—a stone room filled with weapons. Blades, staves, bows, relics of past wars. At the far end, Reinhardt stood before a wall etched with glowing runes.
As Elias entered, the runes flickered.
Responded.
Reinhardt turned.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked.
Elias nodded.
"Good."
He moved to a central table—maps, soul diagrams, anatomical sketches of human and inhuman alike spread across it.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, pointing to a faint rune drawn inside the shape of a heart.
Elias stared.
"…A binding mark?"
Reinhardt's eyes narrowed with interest.
"You remember more than you claim."
Elias looked away.
Reinhardt's voice softened.
"This is what forms when spirit and man align. Not just in agreement, but in purpose. Few ever reach this point. Most take power. But not unity."
He paused.
"But you… You were born with one already forming."
Elias's heart stumbled.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Reinhardt said, "something chose you before you even knew it."
He circled the table, kneeling slightly to meet Elias's eyes.
"You don't need to be strong yet. You only need obedience. Learning. Adaptation. When the time comes, you'll be given a choice. A choice you won't understand until it's too late to refuse."
His hand gripped Elias's shoulder—not gently, not harshly. Just firmly.
"Will you be ready?"
Elias thought of Luna.
From the forest.
He nodded.
And this time, it wasn't a lie.