A soft knock broke the stillness of my room.

  It wasn’t loud—just firm enough to carry through the wood, deliberate enough to demand attention.

  “Aries? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Mother’s voice slipped through the door, gentle but threaded with concern. I could picture her even without opening it—standing straight in the narrow hallway, hands folded, worry restrained but present. Behind her, heavier, unmoving, was Father. I didn’t need to see him to know that his arms were crossed, his posture alert, his eyes already searching for lies.

  “We heard something. A very loud… boom.”

  Her words were calm, but her gaze betrayed her. Through the thin crack beneath the door, I saw her shadow shift slightly—toward the faint scorch mark crawling along the edge of the doorframe. Burned wood. Still warm.

  “You’re not hiding anything, right?”

  Father’s voice followed, lower, slower. Not accusatory. Probing. Like a blade pressed gently against skin—not cutting, but reminding you it could.

  My heart kicked against my ribs.

  I pulled the door open just a little. Enough for my face to be seen. Not enough for them to see the room behind me.

  “I’m fine, Father. Mother. Really.” I forced my shoulders to relax, kept my breathing steady. “That sound wasn’t from here. I was just sleeping. Maybe something from the eastern hills?”

  The words felt thin as they left my mouth. Brittle.

  A pause stretched.

  Mother studied my face, her eyes moving carefully—checking my pupils, the tension in my jaw, the way my fingers curled slightly into the edge of the door. She always noticed those things.

  Then she nodded, slowly.

  “Alright. If you say so.”

  Father didn’t speak. His shadow lingered a fraction longer before turning away.

  Their footsteps descended the stairs, wood creaking beneath familiar weight, until the house swallowed the sound.

  The moment silence returned, I shut the door hard and twisted the lock.

  “AAARGHH—WHAT DO I DO NOW?!”

  My voice bounced off stone walls, sharp and panicked. I spun toward the center of the room.

  The roof.

  Or what was left of it.

  A perfect circular scorch mark gaped above me, edges blackened, wood warped outward as if something had punched through from below. Thin threads of smoke still curled lazily toward the sky. My failed spell. My mistake.

  “Huff…” I dragged a hand through my hair. “I need to fix this. Fast. Before anyone finds out.”

  My pulse still hammered as I crossed the room and snatched the codex from the desk. The leather cover was warm beneath my fingers, as if it remembered what I’d done with it. Pages flipped rapidly under my thumb until my eyes caught a chapter near the back.

  Levels of Arcane Mastery

  I leaned in, breath shallow, reading faster than I should have—forcing the words into my skull.

  Level I – Conductor (Beginner)

  The spark awakens. The mage can perceive mana, channel it safely, and perform basic utility magic. Lighting candles. Lifting stones. Weak shields.

  Level II – Weaver (Intermediate)

  Threads of mana intertwine. The mage combines elemental forces, forms spells in combat, and can manipulate raw energy with precision.

  Level III – Resonant (Advanced)

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The arcane is no longer within—it is everywhere. These mages sense ley-lines, pull mana from the world itself, and shape the battlefield with will alone.

  My breath hitched.

  “This… this is the real structure. And I’m still not even a Conductor.”

  I slammed the book shut and let myself fall back against the chair. The wood creaked under my weight.

  “Well,” I muttered, staring at the ceiling I’d nearly destroyed, “I guess this much is enough for a regular twelve-year-old…”

  I stretched, muscles stiff, nerves still buzzing from mana overload.

  Then—

  Voices came from the outsides… familiar ones… Mirielle and Father.

  I was moving before I realized it—bolting from the room, feet pounding against the stairs. The front door stood ajar, wind slipping through the gap, carrying with it the smell of cut grass and iron.

  What’s going on? Why are they yelling?

  Then—

  CLANK! CLANK!

  Steel rang against steel.

  I stepped outside into bright sunlight—and froze.

  In the open field beyond the garden, Mirielle and Father were locked in a duel.

  Their blades moved fast—too fast. Metal screamed with every collision, sparks spraying into the air like fireflies torn apart mid-flight. Father’s stance was rooted, controlled, each step precise. Mirielle circled him, light on her feet, her sword flashing in tight arcs meant to test, provoke, break rhythm.

  She struck first—three rapid slashes aimed high, low, then across the torso. Father parried all of them, blade sliding along blade, redirecting force instead of meeting it head-on. He countered with a single step forward, sword snapping toward her shoulder.

  Mirielle twisted away, cloak snapping, boots digging into dirt as she pivoted and struck again—this time aiming for his wrist.

  Father blocked. Again.

  The air around them crackled faintly with residual arcane heat, their movements pushing mana unconsciously, bending pressure with every swing.

  Five minutes passed in a blur.

  “Huuugh…”

  They broke apart at last, blades lowering, chests heaving. Sweat traced lines down their foreheads, catching the sun like dew.

  The duel was over.

  Father stepped forward and placed a hand on Mirielle’s shoulder.

  “You did well this time… Mirielle. Really well.”

  She looked up at him, breathing hard—defiant, exhausted—but the corner of her mouth lifted anyway. Pride, barely restrained.

  I realized I’d been crouched on the stone steps the entire time, fingers gripping the edge, eyes burning from not blinking. The way their blades had moved… the precision, the control, the sheer difference between raw strength and real power.

  Is that what real power looks like?

  Mother stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed, concern softening her voice.

  “That’s enough for now, dear. Your body has limits. Don’t push past them just to prove a point.”

  Mirielle rolled her shoulders, still catching her breath.

  “I have to, Mum. After all,… today’s the day.”

  The words landed heavier than they should have.

  Today?

  I stood, brushing dirt from my pants, walked toward them and asked casually—

  “What’s the occasion? She training for something… special?”

  Mirielle shot me a sideways glance, sharp and unreadable.

  Father answered instead, resting a hand on her head.

  “Well, since your sister is already fifteen, today’s the day she joins The Spire, Aries.”

  “…The Spire?”

  The name echoed inside me, unfamiliar yet weighty.

  “I’ve heard that before, right?”

  Father sighed, smiling faintly.

  “Come on, Aries, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

  “The Spire,” he continued, “is an organization. Mages, combatants—trained to take on real-world missions. Monster suppression, ruin exploration, magical law enforcement. You get ranked. Paid. Feared.”

  He paused.

  “It’s where mages go when they’re no longer learning how to fight.”

  The wind caught Mirielle’s cloak as she stepped past me, pouring water over her head.

  “Not that you’d know,” she muttered. “It’s not exactly a place for someone who can’t even feel their own mana, let alone control it.”

  Her words bit because they were sharp—and because they were close to the truth.

  “Mirielle…” Mother warned.

  “Not again,” Father muttered.

  But she was already walking away.

  Veins throbbed in my forehead as I watched her go.

  “Tch… that prideful brat.”

  _________________________________________________________________________

  By midday, we were on the road.

  Virelund rose ahead of us like a promise carved into stone—the ancient highland city that housed the mage citadel.

  As we moved farther from the village, the world changed. Roads widened. Noise thickened. Magic became visible.

  Market stalls spilled into the streets, vendors shouting over one another. Fruits glowed softly in woven baskets. Scrolls whispered as they unrolled themselves. Potions blinked like living things. Metallic birds hummed inside rune-etched cages.

  The air smelled of spice, ash, and something wild.

  Most people traveled by carriage—or atop beasts.

  Creatures glided inches above the ground on wings of wind-glass. Others stomped forward like living fortresses, armored backs stacked with cargo. Crystal-horned beasts powered merchant stands. Camouflage-furred mounts shifted color with their surroundings.

  Beasts weren’t just mounts. They were infrastructure. Protection. Survival.

  I stared.

  “What kind of weird creatures even exist in this world…?”

  Then I saw it.

  Tethered beside a water trough stood a creature that stole the breath from my lungs.

  Sleek, feline, tall as a warhorse. Fur shimmering silver-blue. Hooves split into three obsidian points. A spiraled horn crowned its brow. Its eyes—deep, calm—glowed like moonstone.

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped walking.

  I reached out and placed my hand against its fur.

  Warm. Soft. Alive.

  “It’s… warm. And soft. Like silk woven from starlight…”

  Another voice “Ah. Thanks for the compliment, young one.”

  I jerked back.

  A tall man stood beside the beast, arms crossed, amused smile playing on his lips. His eyes were a piercing emerald green. His hair was bronze, short but windswept. His cloak was lined with silver symbols I didn't recognize.

  “That’s my Kivi. She seems to like you.”

  His emerald eyes watched me closely.