Auther didn't sleep.
Not because of fear this time, but because his body wouldn't let him forget itself—the way his mana pooled uselessly in his chest, the way it pressed against veins too narrow to carry it anywhere meaningful. Every breath reminded him of the ceiling he hadn't known existed until it closed in.
When dawn finally thinned the darkness, Lana was already in his study.
She hadn't noticed him yet. She sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open, chalk dust smudged along her fingers, lines of calculation spiraling outward like she'd been arguing with the page all night and refusing to lose.
"You're up early," he said.
She startled, just a little—enough to betray exhaustion—and then relaxed. "I never really stopped."
He watched her hesitate before speaking again. Not shy. Careful. Lana was always careful when she was about to say something that mattered.
"I can see your veins," she said finally. "But not… all of them. Not the way I need to."
He leaned against the desk. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, tapping the notebook, "that your mana is too thinly expressed. It's there, it's alive, but it's… diluted. My sight needs denser ambient mana to trace the whole structure. Otherwise I'm guessing." She grimaced. "And guessing with bodies gets people killed."
The words landed heavier than she intended. She noticed and added quickly, "Not you. I mean—hypothetically."
Auther smiled faintly. "You don't do hypotheticals."
"No," she admitted. "I don't."
There was a pause. Not awkward—thinking.
"So," he said, voice low, "where is the mana cleanest?"
She looked at him, really looked this time, and shook her head. "If I knew somewhere safe, I would've told you already."
That was answer enough.
Later—much later—he stood outside the queen's chambers longer than necessary, hand hovering just short of the door. He hadn't gone to her in weeks. Not since he realized distance was the language she preferred.
When he finally knocked, the answer came immediately.
"Come in."
Elizabeth sat by the window, unmoving, dawn light caught in her hair like frost. She looked tired in a way that wasn't visible to courtiers—too still, too aware.
He didn't preface. Didn't soften it.
"Mother," he said, "where is the mana purest and cleanest in the world?"
That got her attention.
Not surprise—calculation.
She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing not the question but the reason behind it. Then, softly:
"Hestia."
The word settled between them.
"The dwarven holy land," she continued. "The first source. Natural mana, untainted by ley distortions or divine residue."
"And dangerous," he said.
"Yes."
She rose then, slow, deliberate. Not to approach him—but to pace. That was how she thought best.
"Hestia is neutral," she said. "The dwarves sell steel to everyone. Dragons are excluded. Demons do not interfere. Politics protect what armies cannot."
He frowned. "You're telling me to go."
"I'm answering your question," she corrected gently.
There it was. The distance. The permission without endorsement.
"So-Auther It's a five year journey so be sure if you want to go." She added Auther looked back at her smiling a bit.
"You can call me son if you want I'm too old to be having mommy issues." He answered both questions one answer broke her.
Viola, who had been stationed outside, shifted when he exited. She read his face instantly.
"Where?" she asked.
"Hestia. A far away land with the purest mana known to exist it's a five year journey you up for it?"
She inhaled once. Paused griped her rapier then said. "Then we leave quietly."
Lana went pale when she heard. Not fear—anticipation sharpened to a point. "If the mana there is what the records say…" Her hands clenched. "I could see everything."
Elizabeth arranged it so no one noticed.
That was her genius—not secrecy, but misdirection. Preparations disguised as routine. Guards rotated, schedules shifted, nothing abrupt enough to alarm the wrong eyes.
They left at night.
Not dramatically. Not heroically.
Just three figures slipping past a city that believed itself eternal.
The guide Elizabeth provided was older than he looked, quiet in the way of someone who'd survived by listening more than speaking. He led them into the forest without ceremony.
The forest road was narrower than Auther had imagined, the kind that felt worn into the earth by habit rather than design, and the guide walked ahead of them with easy confidence, humming softly as if the world beyond the trees had never invented danger.
"By dusk we'll reach the old marker stones," the guide said over his shoulder, voice light. "From there it's a straight shot east. You'll smell the iron in the air before you see—"
The sound cut off.
Not with a scream.
With a wet, confused breath.
The guide staggered, one hand flying to their throat, fingers coming away slick and dark, and for half a heartbeat Auther didn't understand what he was seeing, because bodies weren't supposed to fail like that without warning, without drama, without time to react.
Then the guide collapsed.
Face-first into the dirt.
The smell hit a moment later—iron and copper and something warmer beneath it—and the forest seemed to lean inward, branches creaking softly as if curious.
Lana froze.
Her satchel slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud she barely heard, because all she could see was the way the guide's body twitched once, twice, and then didn't, eyes still open and staring at nothing.
Auther's stomach dropped.
His thoughts scattered, useless and loud all at once, because there should have been shouting, or warning, or something, but instead there was just a body on the ground and the horrible certainty that a person who had been speaking seconds ago was now very much not.
Viola moved.
Auther didn't see her draw her blade.
He only saw the air split.
A shape flickered at the edge of the path — too fast, too clean — and then there was a head rolling through leaves, expression frozen in surprise, the rest of the body collapsing a heartbeat later as if it had forgotten what it was supposed to do next.
The sound was… wrong.
Too neat.
The blood sprayed once and then settled, painting the undergrowth in dark, quiet arcs.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Lana's hand flew to her own neck.
Her fingers pressed there instinctively, memory colliding with reality — the cold touch of steel she had invited once, the blade at her throat, Viola's calm voice correcting her even then — and her knees went weak as she realized just how easily it could have been her.
Just like how there was nothing between living and being on the ground like that.
Auther swallowed hard.
His breath came shallow and fast, chest tight as his eyes kept flicking back to the guide, to the blood soaking into the soil, to the fact that they hadn't even learned his name.
Viola wiped her blade clean on the assassin's cloak, movements precise, practiced, as if this were nothing more than clearing brush from a path.
"Threat neutralized," she said calmly.
The words hit Auther like a slap.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Lana turned suddenly, hand over her mouth, and stumbled away from the path before anyone could stop her, the sound of retching tearing through the quiet forest.
Auther flinched at the sound.
Only then did it feel real.
Only then did the weight of it crash down — the guide's humming cut short, the assassin's headless body, the ease with which Viola had ended a life without question or hesitation — and something inside him recoiled hard.
Viola sheathed her rapier and finally looked back at him.
"We move," she said. "Now. Others may follow."
Auther stared at her.
At the woman who had protected him for years.
At the woman who had just erased two lives from the world in less time than it took him to draw breath.
"We could have asked him why," he said hoarsely.
Viola's eyes sharpened.
"Lowly plans fail at absolute power," she replied flatly. "Interrogation assumes time. Time assumes mercy."
Auther looked away, jaw tight.
He thought of all the powerful figures he had studied in his other life, all the ones who had believed that certainty made them untouchable, and he knew arguing now would lead nowhere.
Lana's retching echoed again from somewhere deeper in the trees.
Viola glanced in that direction, expression unreadable.
"I've seen people like her before," she said quietly. "They don't last."
Something snapped.
"Maybe people don't like you because you don't have empathy," Auther shot back, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Viola didn't answer.
She turned away instead, posture rigid, and began checking the perimeter with mechanical precision, as if nothing had been said at all.
Auther stood there for a second longer, chest heaving, then turned and went after Lana, already knowing the words had been wrong and knowing too that he couldn't make everyone happy, not all the time, not in a world like this.
He found her bent over near a fallen log, shaking.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, face pale and eyes glassy, and when she looked up and saw him, she let out a weak, breathless laugh.
"That was… awful," she said, voice trembling.
He nodded, swallowing.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "It really was."
She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly, something fragile and human breaking through the fear.
"Guess if she kills another person," Lana said shakily, "we'll just… puke together again."
Auther huffed despite himself.
"Deal."
As they stood there, breathing through the nausea and the shock, a strange warmth settled in his chest — a memory of university nights long ago, drunken laughter, shared misery, friendships forged in moments that were embarrassing and painful and oddly precious.
He smiled, small and genuine, and thought distantly:
I never imagined something this graphic would make me feel nostalgic.
Behind them, Viola stood watch, blade ready, her face turned away — and for the first time, the distance between them felt real, heavy, and unresolved.