Night had settled over Redfern Street.
The air carried a stubborn chill—March marked the first weeks of summer, but in Cindrallis the cold lingered in stone and cobblestone.
Inside the Stormvale household, warmth prevailed. The dining room glowed beneath a not-so-big polished chandelier against the deep oak of the long table. A thick rug, patterned in reds and golds, stretched beneath, muting the sound of chairs against the floor.
Sebastian sat at the table with his mother and younger sister. His coat hung neatly on the rack; now he wore only his white linen shirt, its collar slightly undone. His white hair, parted naturally, fell neatly to the side rather than slicked back as fashion dictated. A quiet dignity clung to him, sharpened by the way his crimson red eyes caught and held the lamplight.
His mother served hot stew with fresh bread and tender chicken seasoned with green herbs.
"Your father should be home by now," she murmured, placing a bowl before Sebastian. Her snow-white hair was tied into a loose bun, and her red eyes—identical to her son's—carried a thoughtful weight.
"Church work doesn't end with the hour," Sebastian replied softly, breaking bread in his hands. "Especially for an Archbishop. He'll return when duty allows him to."
His sister, lively and sharp-eyed, leaned forward with a mischievous grin. Her hair gleamed like silvery-white threads under the lamp, but unlike the rest of her family present, her eyes were oceanic blue. "Which means he'll stumble home past midnight again. Maybe someday he'll forget what we even look like."
Sebastian glanced at her sister Aria and said humorously, "Careful. If you say it too often, Father might start to believe it."
"I'd be delighted if he scolded me," she giggled. "At least that would mean he's here."
Their mother shook her head, smiling faintly as she lifted her glass. Humour filled the air along with the food's rich aroma.
When the meal was nearly done, she rested her chin against her hand and regarded Sebastian. "Three days until your graduation. Have you prepared your speech?"
Sebastian finished his spoonful of stew before answering. "I'll keep it short. A few words about science, the value of patience in study… nothing too grand."
"Short," his sister repeated with a laugh. "Good. That way people might actually listen."
"And afterward?" their mother pressed gently. "You've studied science with diligence, but you still drown yourself in history every night. You cannot graduate twice, Sebastian."
"I know." His voice was calm, though his gaze lingered on the rest of the food. "Science gives me existence and structure. History gives me reason and meaning. I'll keep both close, even if only one will be written on paper."
Her eyes softened. "You've always been different. Other children ran after games but you ran after books."
"Must be the books…but brother still did better than those stupid people who ran after nothing ," his sister teased.
"Son, are you…still being affected from "that" incident?
"Not really. Whatever I'm doing and my life has nothing to do with "that" incident anymore" he replied.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair. "Mother… I think this world has something beyond we can observe or understand right now. And "that" incident is actually a proof of it…though I'm trying, books aren't really enough. Not all answers rest on sheets of paper."
"I don't know about that. But, be careful," his mother said—not a scold, but a warning. "mysteries draw men the way the sea draws ships. Some never even return."
"What?! What are you two talking about"Aria curiously asked.
"You are not supposed to know right now, Aria. Finish your food first", their mother scolded her.
"But—ughh, whatever…I don't want to know anymore. And stop treating me like I'm some brat"
"You're a brat though" Sebastian laughed, while he was thinking about some other stuff.
They chatted about this and that while slowly finishing their dinner.
…
Later, in his room, the air felt cooler, touched by the stone walls. His desk stood beneath a tall window. Two wooden wardrobe fitted perfectly on both sides of the desk without covering the window. A shelf lined the wall beside, It had rows of various kind of books arranged with quiet precision. The bed was tightly made, a dark wool blanket folded at the foot. Beside it was a yellow lamp which rested over a small table at the height of the bed.
Sebastian went near the book shelf as he reached for an old notebook on it. Its leather cover was scuffed, corners frayed, spine marked with thin cracks from years of use. The yellowed pages bore his handwriting in dense lines, still faintly scented of ink and dust.
He flipped through pages until his gaze caught a scribbled note from months ago—a reference to a book he had meant to find, then forgotten.
His eyes sharpened. To confirm first, he scanned his shelves again, his fingertips brushing spines. But nothing matched the title.
After several minutes, he exhaled, slipping the notebook into his coat pocket. "If it's not here, then I didn't buy it. I should go outside and find a bookstore."
Pulling on his coat and fastening it neatly, he stepped into the hall. His sister was already asleep, and his mother's lamp had gone dark. Quietly, he opened the front door.
The night greeted him with fog and silence. Lamps flickered along Redfern Street, their light trembling against the cold mist. A few shops still glowed faintly—bookshops in Norham often kept late hours for scholars who read past midnight. Adjusting his collar against the cold, Sebastian walked on.
…
The capital of Cindrallis did not sleep.
The ballroom shone with fancy lights and music, chandeliers scattering gold across polished marble floors. Musicians wove a waltz like orchestras. Smell of perfume hung heavy in the air, mingling with wine and laughter.
Reinhardt Van Astraelis stood at the edge of it all. His crimson hair caught the eyes of many, blue eyes sharp yet faintly bored. His suit was flawless: dark velvet traced with silver embroidery, gloves pale as snow. To the watching crowd, he was every inch the noble heir—though he was not. His family belonged to the Church, his father the High Priest himself, equal in rank to any noble house.
To Reinhardt, however, the ballroom felt more like a cage.
People were busy in talks while he was observing things.
But suddenly someone called his name.
"Lord Reinhardt," a cardinal ranked man greeted, crimson robes flowing. His voice bore the weight of command. "The Church of the All-Seeing Sage is honored by your presence. May your family remain blessed."
Reinhardt inclined his head politely. "Blessings are welcome. Though they are rarely free."
The man chuckled, then asked, "Did His Grace sir Aldric come?"
"Father will arrive later," Reinhardt answered smoothly.
The cardinal gave a knowing smile and drifted back into the crowd.
Next came a member from the parliament, his waistcoat straining against his belly, his eyes glittering with calculation. "I greet you, Young master Reinhardt. The future belongs to the careful noble voices. Parliament is watching for the promising ones."
"I've been told I speak too little to be promising," Reinhardt replied coolly.
The man laughed ,before moving on, though it was just a facade.
Then a merchant—skin dark, rings flashing on every finger—bowed low. His accent was heavy but clear. "Ivansia grows strong, young lord. I heard you have luxurious taste in riches. Trade with our ports will bring coin richer than some bloodlines. Please remember who offered first."
"I will, don't worry. Thanks for the offer," Reinhardt said politely. shaking his hand briefly before turning away. "I guess even merchants are allowed in political balls nowadays. Though he might be some bigshot like a tycoon" he though as he sighed unnoticingly.
Then came the pretty and noble ladies.
Silk swept the floor, perfume sweetened the air. One offered champagne, another praised his dressing sense, a third boldly asked for a dance.
Each time Reinhardt smiled gently and declined with clipped courtesy. The waltz spun on, couples turning, but he remained rooted at the edges, untouched by the rest.
At his side, Lucy leaned in. Her maid's dress was plain yet graceful, dark fabric shaping her slender figure. Short brown hair framed her sharp, feminine face, and her amber eyes shone like blazing embers.
She whispered, teasing, "As a young lord, wouldn't you rather dance with one of them? Aren't they all beautiful? Or do you plan to stand here all night, pretending the music amuses you?"
Reinhardt's lips curved. "A fair question."
He moved suddenly—leaning down until his face hovered just short of hers. His voice dropped, playful yet edged, as his hand caught hers in a gentleman's grip and pressed her lightly against the wall.
"But if I wanted to dance, Lucy," he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek, his eyes locked on hers, "wouldn't you be my first choice, Miss beautiful maid?"
Her cheeks burned scarlet. She stammered, "Y-Young master… wh—what nonsense—"
But before the words could form, Reinhardt had already stepped back, vanishing into the swirl of guests with a faint smile. Lucy remained there frozen, eyes wide, face blushing red.
…
The night outside was cooler, quieter. Reinhardt descended the wide steps, breathing in the crisp air as lanterns flickered along Cindrallis' streets. Taverns spilled laughter into the night, but most windows glowed faintly with tired light.
"Finally," Reinhardt muttered with relief. "Escaped that nightmare of a ballroom." He chuckled. "Though I'll be hearing an earful from Lucy for that little stunt. But seriously that line was very bold. Even my body was cringing…"
His boots clicked softly on stone floor as he walked without hurry. His thoughts drifted, not to politics or parties, but to books—the tales that had shaped him since childhood, the one resting still in his room, the questions that tugged restlessly at the edge of his mind.
"I'm bored and have nothing to do now sobce I've already left the ball. I should go find a bookshop nearby and buy some books to read", he thought.
Ahead, a sign swung gently in the night breeze: a bookshop, its windows still glowing, shelves lined like furnitures behind displaying glass.
Reinhardt's smile returned. He pushed the door open, the bell above rung slightly as he went inside.
The night deepened while the glowy moon shone as pale through the fog outside.
Chapter 2: Threads of Glass and Smoke
Night had settled over Redfern Street.
The air carried a stubborn chill—March marked the first weeks of summer, but in Cindrallis the cold lingered in stone and cobblestone.
Inside the Stormvale household, warmth prevailed. The dining room glowed beneath a not-so-big polished chandelier against the deep oak of the long table. A thick rug, patterned in reds and golds, stretched beneath, muting the sound of chairs against the floor.
Sebastian sat at the table with his mother and younger sister. His coat hung neatly on the rack; now he wore only his white linen shirt, its collar slightly undone. His white hair, parted naturally, fell neatly to the side rather than slicked back as fashion dictated. A quiet dignity clung to him, sharpened by the way his crimson red eyes caught and held the lamplight.
His mother served hot stew with fresh bread and tender chicken seasoned with green herbs.
"Your father should be home by now," she murmured, placing a bowl before Sebastian. Her snow-white hair was tied into a loose bun, and her red eyes—identical to her son's—carried a thoughtful weight.
"Church work doesn't end with the hour," Sebastian replied softly, breaking bread in his hands. "Especially for an Archbishop. He'll return when duty allows him to."
His sister, lively and sharp-eyed, leaned forward with a mischievous grin. Her hair gleamed like silvery-white threads under the lamp, but unlike the rest of her family present, her eyes were oceanic blue. "Which means he'll stumble home past midnight again. Maybe someday he'll forget what we even look like."
Sebastian glanced at her sister Aria and said humorously, "Careful. If you say it too often, Father might start to believe it."
"I'd be delighted if he scolded me," she giggled. "At least that would mean he's here."
Their mother shook her head, smiling faintly as she lifted her glass. Humour filled the air along with the food's rich aroma.
When the meal was nearly done, she rested her chin against her hand and regarded Sebastian. "Three days until your graduation. Have you prepared your speech?"
Sebastian finished his spoonful of stew before answering. "I'll keep it short. A few words about science, the value of patience in study… nothing too grand."
"Short," his sister repeated with a laugh. "Good. That way people might actually listen."
"And afterward?" their mother pressed gently. "You've studied science with diligence, but you still drown yourself in history every night. You cannot graduate twice, Sebastian."
"I know." His voice was calm, though his gaze lingered on the rest of the food. "Science gives me existence and structure. History gives me reason and meaning. I'll keep both close, even if only one will be written on paper."
Her eyes softened. "You've always been different. Other children ran after games but you ran after books."
"Must be the books…but brother still did better than those stupid people who ran after nothing ," his sister teased.
"Son, are you…still being affected from "that" incident?
"Not really. Whatever I'm doing and my life has nothing to do with "that" incident anymore" he replied.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair. "Mother… I think this world has something beyond we can observe or understand right now. And "that" incident is actually a proof of it…though I'm trying, books aren't really enough. Not all answers rest on sheets of paper."
"I don't know about that. But, be careful," his mother said—not a scold, but a warning. "mysteries draw men the way the sea draws ships. Some never even return."
"What?! What are you two talking about"Aria curiously asked.
"You are not supposed to know right now, Aria. Finish your food first", their mother scolded her.
"But—ughh, whatever…I don't want to know anymore. And stop treating me like I'm some brat"
"You're a brat though" Sebastian laughed, while he was thinking about some other stuff.
They chatted about this and that while slowly finishing their dinner.
…
Later, in his room, the air felt cooler, touched by the stone walls. His desk stood beneath a tall window. Two wooden wardrobe fitted perfectly on both sides of the desk without covering the window. A shelf lined the wall beside, It had rows of various kind of books arranged with quiet precision. The bed was tightly made, a dark wool blanket folded at the foot. Beside it was a yellow lamp which rested over a small table at the height of the bed.
Sebastian went near the book shelf as he reached for an old notebook on it. Its leather cover was scuffed, corners frayed, spine marked with thin cracks from years of use. The yellowed pages bore his handwriting in dense lines, still faintly scented of ink and dust.
He flipped through pages until his gaze caught a scribbled note from months ago—a reference to a book he had meant to find, then forgotten.
His eyes sharpened. To confirm first, he scanned his shelves again, his fingertips brushing spines. But nothing matched the title.
After several minutes, he exhaled, slipping the notebook into his coat pocket. "If it's not here, then I didn't buy it. I should go outside and find a bookstore."
Pulling on his coat and fastening it neatly, he stepped into the hall. His sister was already asleep, and his mother's lamp had gone dark. Quietly, he opened the front door.
The night greeted him with fog and silence. Lamps flickered along Redfern Street, their light trembling against the cold mist. A few shops still glowed faintly—bookshops in Norham often kept late hours for scholars who read past midnight. Adjusting his collar against the cold, Sebastian walked on.
…
The capital of Cindrallis did not sleep.
The ballroom shone with fancy lights and music, chandeliers scattering gold across polished marble floors. Musicians wove a waltz like orchestras. Smell of perfume hung heavy in the air, mingling with wine and laughter.
Reinhardt Van Astraelis stood at the edge of it all. His crimson hair caught the eyes of many, blue eyes sharp yet faintly bored. His suit was flawless: dark velvet traced with silver embroidery, gloves pale as snow. To the watching crowd, he was every inch the noble heir—though he was not. His family belonged to the Church, his father the High Priest himself, equal in rank to any noble house.
To Reinhardt, however, the ballroom felt more like a cage.
People were busy in talks while he was observing things.
But suddenly someone called his name.
"Lord Reinhardt," a cardinal ranked man greeted, crimson robes flowing. His voice bore the weight of command. "The Church of the All-Seeing Sage is honored by your presence. May your family remain blessed."
Reinhardt inclined his head politely. "Blessings are welcome. Though they are rarely free."
The man chuckled, then asked, "Did His Grace sir Aldric come?"
"Father will arrive later," Reinhardt answered smoothly.
The cardinal gave a knowing smile and drifted back into the crowd.
Next came a member from the parliament, his waistcoat straining against his belly, his eyes glittering with calculation. "I greet you, Young master Reinhardt. The future belongs to the careful noble voices. Parliament is watching for the promising ones."
"I've been told I speak too little to be promising," Reinhardt replied coolly.
The man laughed ,before moving on, though it was just a facade.
Then a merchant—skin dark, rings flashing on every finger—bowed low. His accent was heavy but clear. "Ivansia grows strong, young lord. I heard you have luxurious taste in riches. Trade with our ports will bring coin richer than some bloodlines. Please remember who offered first."
"I remember everything," Reinhardt said, shaking his hand briefly before turning away. "I guess even merchants are allowed in political balls nowadays. Though he might be someone important" he thought.
Then came the pretty and noble ladies.
Silk swept the floor, perfume sweetened the air. One offered champagne, another praised his dressing sense, a third boldly asked for a dance.
Each time Reinhardt smiled gently and declined with clipped courtesy. The waltz spun on, couples turning, but he remained rooted at the edges, untouched by the rest.
At his side, Lucy leaned in. Her maid's dress was plain yet graceful, dark fabric shaping her slender figure. Short brown hair framed her sharp, feminine face, and her amber eyes shone like blazing embers.
She whispered, teasing, "As a young lord, wouldn't you rather dance with one of them? Aren't they all beautiful? Or do you plan to stand here all night, pretending the music amuses you?"
Reinhardt's lips curved. "A fair question."
He moved suddenly—leaning down until his face hovered just short of hers. His voice dropped, playful yet edged, as his hand caught hers in a gentleman's grip and pressed her lightly against the wall.
"But if I wanted to dance, Lucy," he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek, his eyes locked on hers, "wouldn't you be my first choice, Miss Beautiful?"
Her cheeks burned scarlet. She stammered, "Y-Young master… wh—what nonsense—"
But before the words could form, Reinhardt had already stepped back, vanishing into the swirl of guests with a faint smile. Lucy remained frozen, eyes wide, face blushing red.
…
The night outside was cooler, quieter. Reinhardt descended the wide steps, breathing in the crisp air as lanterns flickered along Cindrallis' streets. Taverns spilled laughter into the night, but most windows glowed faintly with tired light.
"Finally," Reinhardt muttered with relief. "Escaped that nightmare of a ballroom." He chuckled. "Though I'll be hearing an earful from Lucy for that little stunt. But seriously that line was very bold. Even my body was cringing…"
His boots clicked softly on stone floor as he walked without hurry. His thoughts drifted, not to politics or parties, but to books—the tales that had shaped him since childhood, the one resting still in his room, the questions that tugged restlessly at the edge of his mind.
"I'm bored and have nothing to do now. I should find a bookshop nearby and buy some books to read", he thought.
Ahead, a sign swung gently in the night breeze: "Cael's Read and Mysteries"- its windows still glowing, shelves lined like furnitures behind displaying glass.
Reinhardt's smile returned. He pushed the door open, the bell above rung slightly as he went inside the bookshop.