…
Sebastian slept like the dead.
The moment he had closed the door of his home the previous night he had trudged up the stairs and collapsed onto his bed without even changing.
He didn't hear the sounds of carriages, the distant bells of midnight, or the stray dogs barking in the alleys.
When he finally opened his eyes again, the sunlight was already slanting through his curtains at a sharp angle. He blinked and sat up.His head felt stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy. He turned his head toward the clock on the wall.
It was past 9 am.
"…Wonderful," he muttered. "A proper scholar's hour."
Dragging himself out of bed, he washed up in a daze and went downstairs. The air smelled of fried eggs, toast, and a hint of smoke from the kitchen.
It wasn't her presence that made him stop mid-step.
At the dining table sat his father.
One of the 10 Archbishop of the church of Imagination was a tall man even when seated, his shoulders draped in the kind of dark suit that marked both faith and rank.
His long snow like white hair had a few streaks of silver now which naturally fell down to his shoulder but with specially parting haircut, though his ocean blue eyes remained sharp. His face barely had a any wrinkles and facial hair which made him look younger than he actually was and he had a sharp jaw with a high nose bridge, he had a look of masculinity in his face. Overall he was a charming man in his late 50s.
His name was Frankstein Stormvale.
Sebastian's father, Frankstein rarely came home unannounced. More often he was in the middle of capital Cindrallis where the Church's head quarters is located or at the cathedral, swallowed by his duties.
Sebastian hesitated, then forced a smile. "Father,I didn't expect you here today."
His father gestured at the chair across from him. "Sit son. You've grown thinner as I can see. Have you been eating properly?"
Sebastian sat, reached for toast to cover his nerves. "Yeah, I've been at home for few days now. And the university doesn't let its students starve anyways."
"Nor it should ." The Archbishop's gaze lingered. "Your graduation is on Thursday, the day after tomorrow as I could remember, right? I'll be present there. I expect to see you stand with pride. Not as my son, but as yourself."
Sebastian lowered his eyes to his plate. He wanted to reply something reassuring—but the words tangled and knotted. In the end, he only nodded.
The rest of breakfast passed with short exchanges: a mention of the city's unrest, a reminder to visit his sister later, a warning about keeping his studies from consuming him entirely. When the last bite was gone, his father rose with the grace of a man long used to audiences and wore a black hat matching his attire.
"I will return to the cathedral before evening. Try the cathedral and pray to the goddess some time…But son, Don't let knowledge and faith blind you."
With that, he left. The house seemed larger and emptier.
Sebastian stood in the quiet dining room for a long moment then turned and went back upstairs. He closed his door, sat at his desk and placed the heavy book on the table.
"Foundations of Esoterica"
The dark green leather cover looked full mysteries and secrets. The edges of the pages were a bit yellowed. He ran a hand over the embossed letters, then opened it.
The words were strange but familiar. The text written contained various words and letters derived from many languages. The lines didn't make sense at all.
But as a Scholar Sebastian planned to use his knowledge to decipher it with science and history. He began to read.
…
Back at night after the both of them parted ways.
Reinhardt was wandering while having a goal of going back to the place of the ball gathering.
He had wandered without aim since parting from Sebastian. His hands in his pockets and mind restless.
Finally his steps carried him back toward the hall where the ball gathering had been held. The square around it was already emptying. Nobles in velvet coats and gowns drifted to waiting carriages, their laughter bright and sharp against the gray morning.
Reinhardt slowed down. Something about endings always tugged at him—the sight of a place emptied after the lights were gone. He moved closer as his boots scraping against scattered confetti.
A hand clamped around his arm.
He almost tore free on instinct-spinning toward the shadow beside the building. His heart jumped before his mind caught up. It was because he was afraid of Lucy and his father scolding him- even at that age.
"Lucy?"
The maid's face was calm. Her plain maid dress was out of place among silks yet her presence carried more weight than the rest combined.
"Young master," she said in a low voice, "the carriage is waiting there. Please."
Reinhardt opened his mouth to argue and then closed it. Her eyes left no room. He nodded once while letting her guide him toward the side street where the family's carriage stood.
They got in and the carriage started moving for Norham.
Reinhardt leaned back with arms crossed. Lucy sat opposite with hands at her lap and watching him.
Minutes passed with nothing but silence.
Finally she broke it.
"You were very reckless, young master," she said quietly. "Walking alone through these streets like a thug, vanishing from the ball like that… Do you understand what risk you carry?"
"I wanted a breather," Reinhardt replied. "And the ball seemed… noisy and annoying"
*sighhh* Her sigh was long. "You are not a boy anymore. You cannot act as though your actions leave no weight behind."
The words pricked him as sharp as needles…but then Lucy's gaze softened. The stern mask of a maid in service gave way to the quiet warmth of someone she had watched grow since childhood along with herself. Her voice lowered and calm.
"You're reckless, yes," she admitted, "but not hopeless. You only worry me because you never think of yourself first."
Her scolding bent into something gentler. The conversation gradually became positive. She began to speak of the household—how the servants had argued over decorations, how a guest had fainted from too much wine, how the ball had ended with laughter that still echoed in the corridors. Little mishaps, bits of gossip and parts of daily life.
Reinhardt leaned back against the velvet cushion as a smile tugged at his lips. Almost without thinking he added his own share to the conversation. "I made a friend tonight, Lucy. A peculiar one. His name is Sebastian Stormvale."
Her brows rose slightly. "A friend? That's rare for you, young master." She observed him with quiet curiosity. "What kind of man is this Sebastian?"
Reinhardt chuckled softly looking out the carriage window. "A stubborn scholar with a intelligent brain and a lot of secrets. The sort of man who makes you feel both special and… normal, all at once."
"Overall he's a interesting and knowledgeable gentleman. He's probably the same age as me or might be younger. But more importantly he is handsome just like me", Reinhardt scoffed.
Lucy said nothing at first but her faint smile told him she was listening.
By the time the carriage rolled through the gates of Norham, a proud city that lay just beside the capital and silence between them was no longer heavy.
…
Hawthorn Avenue,
Inside the mansion, Lucy went to her room after setting up necessary things like luggages and Reinhardt went straight to his chambers.
He stripped off his noble clothes, took. bath and changed into something lighter.
When the other servants had left him alone he sat by his desk and drew the book closer.
He opened it. He discovered that the book was not written in some normal "way" or language.
But he still tried to decipher it somehow using all his knowledge he received from various lessons in many subjects as a person related to church and the high society.
At first the words came slowly tangled in unfamiliar phrasing. But the more he pressed on the more the rhythm caught him. He could understand a few letters of the words written in it. He discovered that the languages were Froswick, Ivscron and Vorthain-at least at the first few pages. He knew two of them but he had no idea about Ivscron. Hours passed unnoticed. He had deciphered a a few words.
After some hours of deciphering and sleep finally dragged him under, he was still sprawled across the desk. The book open beside him. His lips moved as he slipped away.
"Concept… Verse…"
…
The evening light painted Sebastian's room in gold and orange.
He didn't notice. His eyes were locked on the final paragraph he had read. His hands trembling on the edges of the page. He hadn't read the whole book but he deciphered about the quarter of it. It contained a few things from science and history both. But most of it was about something from a completely different and unknown subject.
All of a sudden he slammed the book shut.
The information he got was neither something believable to a normal human nor it was ever heard of. But as a scholar he had to view it differently.
"This can't be…" His breath came sharp. He shoved back his chair. "This is… madness."
The words in "Foundations of Esoterica"swam in his mind, half-believed, half-feared. If they were true, then the world was nothing like what he had been taught. If they were lies, then someone had gone to impossible lengths to weave them.
He pressed his palms to his face.
Calm down-Calm down
"Oh Goddess". He made a gesture by touching his forehead then making a eye sign in the chest.
Slowly his thoughts found order. He turned back to his desk, pulled out a notebook, and opened it. His pen hovered over the page.
If the book's truth or deceptions were to be understood, they had to be broken into pieces. Written plainly in words anyone could follow.
So, Sebastian began to write.
First he noted the languages themselves. The text of the book shifted between Froswick- the common tongue of the continent and Vorthain the ancient scholarly language still used in science, scriptures and rituals. Here and there the fragments of Ivscron appeared. It is the mother tongue and the source of nearly every word known today.
As a full-fledged scholar he had studied them all. Every educated man had some knowledge of Vorthain. He had gone further to the point of memorizing whole stanzas of it. Ivscron was very complex but he had followed its traces in history. Without that, he might not have understood a single page.
His hand moved swiftly translating, reshaping and clarifying. He wrote until his wrist ached. Until the margins were filled with notes and symbols.
Finally he stopped. His pen tapped once against the page and then pressed firmly.
He wrote one word exceptionally higher and larger than the rest.
"Concept"