The chatter filled the hall. Reinhart's voice cut through it.
"Prince Johan," he called. "Come to the training room in 10 minutes." I nodded.
I turned toward the raised platform. Rodrick stood there—the very picture of effortless power, bathed in the Tower's fractured light. Young Bluds and alchemists orbited him, their faces rapt with admiration. His golden hair seemed to drink the light, radiating a brilliance that made my eyes ache. Our gazes met, and a slow, devilish grin spread across his face. He peeled away from his audience, striding purposefully toward me.
"Brother," I said, bowing.
Rodrick waved a hand. "No need for bows here, Johan. We're among equals." His golden eyes, bright as new coins, met mine. "Walk with me? I'm heading to the inventors' wing."
I nodded, falling in step beside him. We were quiet for a moment before Rodrick spoke.
"Heard some whispers, Johan. Rumors. They say Father might let you into the Royal Court." He paused. "A special exception, for you despite your age ."
My breath caught. The Royal Court. I'd been barred from it—too young, they said. But now… pure glee surged in my chest. I fought to keep my face straight, but a smile tugged at my lips. Too late.
Rodrick's laugh was soft. "Still just rumors, brother." He gave me a knowing look. "You should smile more. It suits you."
"I thank you for your help, elder brother," I said, voice flat as I regained control. Although "Rumors shift with the light."
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. Two young Blud apprentices, maybe ten, darted around the corner, laughing. One held a mana bomb. Behind them, their master—a frantic Navre—shouted after them.
Without warning, the bomb shrieked and burst.
There was no time. My instincts screamed. I tried to dodge, hands already conjuring flame—but it was too late.
Rodrick's golden eyes flared.
They glowed with intense radiance, seeming to pull the light around us inward. The air rippled, bending as his Light Mana erupted—pure, focused, alive. It wasn't an attack, but a living shield. A shimmering dome of golden brilliance surged around us, intercepting the blast. It pulsed once, then absorbed the force.
The thunderous boom became a muffled thump. The Tower's stone and steel were untouched. The shield dissolved, leaving only a faint, clean scent in the air.
One boy whimpered, clutching a bleeding arm. The other stood frozen. Healers rushed in,with their green robes chanting mending spells.
I knelt by the bomb's scattered pieces.
"These bombs usually only detonate when mana is applied to them," I said quietly, locking eyes with Rodrick.
He stood bathed in the Tower's light, his golden eyes still faintly glowing. A cold smile curled his lips.
"I do wonder."
Chapter 4 – Part 2: The Hidden Thread
I stepped into Training Room Gamma, the polished stone floor cool beneath my boots. My mind, however, was still fixed on Rodrick's unsettling grin.
"You're late," Reinhart said, not looking up.
"My apologies. There was an… incident."
"I heard." He waved a hand toward the center of the room. "Sit. Close your eyes."
I obeyed, settling onto the cold floor.
"Now," he instructed, his voice low. "Feel. Not with your hands, not with your eyes. With your essence. The mana in this room flows like a river. Reach for it."
I pushed past the lingering echo of the blast, trying to quiet my thoughts. I imagined extending invisible threads—not from my fingers, but from my entire being.
At first, there was only the Tower's hush—like a breath held too long. Then, slowly, I felt it: the mana. Not light or sound, but a presence in the air itself. It was dense, drifting like slow ocean currents, brushing against my skin in delicate pulses.
Some threads moved low, like warm mist clinging to the floor. Others danced higher—sharp, cool currents that coiled and unraveled in shifting patterns. The deeper I reached, the more I sensed: pressure, flow, intent.
It was like standing in a silent crowd, each presence brushing past, whispering, humming, retreating. I wasn't conjuring—I was listening. And the air was full of voices.
Beneath it all, Reinhart burned like a beacon. His Light Mana didn't shout. It simply was—steady, anchored, blinding in its depth. It bent the rest of the room without effort.
I reached further, letting my own mana extend—finer, lighter. Not to control, but to understand.
"You hesitated," Reinhart said, his voice flat.
My jaw clenched. "I reached for my flames… but it was too fast."
"You reached too late. Because you thought." His tone sharpened. "Sensing mana isn't something you choose to do in crisis. It must become reflex. Sharpened by failure. Burned into you."
I opened my eyes. "Rodrick reacted faster."
"Yes," he said simply. "He's older. More practiced. And unlike you, he doesn't second-guess himself."
My fists curled in my lap.
"But don't mistake speed for mastery," Reinhart added, stepping closer. "You feel everything. That's rare. You're not dulled by your magic—you're overwhelmed by it."
He tapped his finger lightly against my forehead.
"Your path isn't to sense more. It's to trust what you already do."
Then, silence.
"The lecture is over. You may go."
I bowed and turned to leave, his words lingering heavier than the room itself.