They reached an archway. From outside it appeared unremarkable — a small inner courtyard, barely larger than the room they had just left. Stone slabs, a little greenery, nothing of note. Aethyrael stepped through. And stopped abruptly. The garden… unfolded. Not explosively. Not spectacularly. It expanded, as if someone had reminded the space that it was permitted to be larger. Paths wound suddenly further, trees stood at intervals that had previously been impossible, and somewhere in the distance water glittered.

  He blinked. "…I saw that coming," he said after a moment. "And still did not."

  Vaelthrys stepped beside him. For her nothing seemed unusual. "The inner garden adapts," she explained. "It shows only as much as one is prepared to see."

  Aethyrael let his gaze wander. The air here was different. Heavier. Deeper. As if it held thoughts longer. "That is no ordinary spatial expansion," he observed.

  They walked on. The ground shifted from stone to soft earth without any clear transition. Plants he could not name grew beside others that seemed strangely familiar. I know what that is, he thought, irritated. I simply do not know from where.

  "What are you?" he asked finally, without looking at her.

  Vaelthrys stopped. Slowly she turned to him. Her eyes — that draconic depth — studied him calmly, without defensiveness. "I am a keeper," she said. "One of many forms. My true form would… distract you."

  He accepted that without comment. "And my mother," he continued, as they walked on. "Did she create you? Or are you… older?"

  A quiet breath. Not a sigh. "We have known one another for a long time," answered Vaelthrys. "Longer than this garden has existed. But younger than the idea of it."

  Aethyrael pulled a face. "You truly have a talent for explaining and concealing things simultaneously."

  The dry observation actually earned him a brief smile. After a short time they reached a small hill from which one could survey the garden — or at least the part that currently wished to show itself. Water flowed in narrow lines through the green, as if someone had ordered it intentionally. Aethyrael sat down in the grass. It felt real. Too real to be an illusion.

  "So," he said thoughtfully, "the castle is larger inside than outside, books decide for themselves whether I am permitted to read them, and a garden responds to my… readiness." He looked up at Vaelthrys. "Is anything here not alive?"

  She shook her head. "Some things are. But they do well to conceal it."

  He let himself fall back, propping himself on his elbows. "That will be exhausting."

  "No," she corrected gently. "That will be… interesting."

  Aethyrael regarded the sky above the garden. It was not the same as outside. The limbic moons traced their paths in quiet order, while the relentless stars glittered in silent mercilessness, giving the chaos of the cosmos direction.

  And I, he thought, am the star that apparently falls between them — and pays the price. And somewhere within him no fear stirred — but anticipation.

  They walked on, toward the quiet murmuring of the water. The garden narrowed to a slender path lined by low, strangely luminous plants. Aethyrael studied the reflections on the leaves, as if the garden itself were listening.

  "You know," he said finally, more to himself than to her, "I can barely imagine a conversation between you and my mother."

  Vaelthrys raised an eyebrow slightly. "Really?"

  "You would both speak in riddles," he continued as they walked, "give answers to questions no one had asked, and in the end one would have more open thoughts than before. You would probably exchange nods of agreement throughout." He paused. Blinked. "…that was loud just now, wasn't it?"

  Vaelthrys' shoulders moved briefly. A quiet, deep laugh escaped her — warm and amused. Something that did not happen often.

  "Very loud," she confirmed. "And remarkably accurate."

  "Good," he murmured. "Then I am not imagining it."

  "No," she said with a knowing look. "You simply grow accustomed to things faster than others who need centuries to accept them."

  They stepped out of the narrow path — and stood before a well. It was old. Not decayed, but deliberately preserved. Black stone, smoothly polished, with fine engravings that mirrored themselves in the water. The water itself was calm, almost reflective, and seemed deeper than the rim suggested.

  Three figures waited there. Aethyrael sensed them before he properly saw them. Silvara stood to the left of the well, upright and calm. Her eyes gleamed sharply, every movement controlled. No uncertainty visible — only absolute loyalty. Not blind, but decided. To the right leaned a figure with a self-evidence that was almost provocative. Thalyra, of course. Her presence was soft, inviting, manipulative — and yet restrained. As if someone had wrapped a blade in velvet. Her eyes rested one heartbeat too long on him. But after his small appearance at the trial that had not been meant for his eyes, that was hardly surprising. In the centre, half a step back, stood Ceryne — calm and watchful. Every breath considered, every movement weighed. Her eyes did not study him with curiosity, but with assessment — as if measuring a balance.

  Aethyrael paused for a moment and cast Silvara and Thalyra a knowing glance.

  Well, well, he thought. Here too.

  Silvara inclined her head slightly. A respectful gesture. Thalyra smiled as always too much — and Ceryne said nothing and kept to the shadows.

  "You sensed them already," Vaelthrys observed calmly.

  "Yes," he answered honestly. "And after the theatre of the trial I am not yet certain what to make of that."

  Thalyra laughed quietly. "Oh, that is mutual."

  An audible crackling lay in the air. Silvara stepped forward expectantly. "Welcome to the heart of the castle, Aethyrael."

  His name sounded different from her mouth. He looked from one to the other with interest. "So this is the part," he said slowly, "where I pretend that all of this… did not happen."

  Vaelthrys' voice came calmly from his side. "No."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "This is the part," she continued, "where you learn that normality plays no role here."

  He nodded once, briefly. "Good," he said. "Then let us be honest."

  His gaze rested a moment longer on the water of the well, in which his reflection broke — eyes, depth, and behind them an infinite horizon. If this is my beginning, he thought, then it will be complicated. And strangely… he liked that.

  For a moment no one said anything. The well murmured quietly, as if wishing to fill the silence. Then Vaelthrys stepped half a pace forward, her horns catching the light, the slender runes on her cheek flickering faintly.

  "Today," she began calmly, "we will examine your magical aptitude."

  Aethyrael blinked. Once. "Examine," he repeated. "Sounds… final."

  Thalyra grinned crookedly. "Everything here sounds final, little one. Get used to it."

  A brief, sharp glance from Silvara sufficed to silence her. Vaelthrys was not deterred. Her gaze rested firmly on Aethyrael — not probing, but searching.

  "Before you ask," she said, "this is no test one passes or fails."

  "A shame," he murmured. "I am good at things that leave one no choice."

  She ignored him with practiced skill and turned to the well, laying a hand on the cold stone. The water did not respond — but something beneath it did.

  "Magical affinities," she explained, "are not the same as magic."

  Aethyrael listened attentively.

  "Some are innate," she continued. "Natural talent. A flow that is already there before you notice it. Others must be learned. They are built on patience, structure and repetition."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  His mouth curved slightly. "Sounds tedious and not particularly effective."

  "It is," confirmed Ceryne calmly. "That is why most fail."

  Vaelthrys' voice remained calm, almost instructive. "Runes function differently. They are based on intuition and resonance. You feel them before you understand them. You do not master them through control, but through relationship. They are the language of the aether."

  Aethyrael felt a quiet whisper of his runes. A confirming pulse in his chest, where the lines converged — sharp as a distant pain. Relationship, he thought. The word held. But had that truly been all? He could grasp the intuition, having already felt it. With relationship however he knew as little what to do as with the universally praised order. He wished to ask a question about it, yet she did not let him get a word in and pressed on undeterred.

  "Magic, on the other hand," Vaelthrys continued, "must be learned. It follows rules, even when it later breaks them. You have already felt it, little star. At the trial where you should never have been." She cast him a warning glance and Aethyrael understood immediately — suppressing a grin at the thought of the impression he had left.

  At the word "magic" the runes beneath his eyes stirred. Insight and Gravitation — the two most wilful — flickered nervously, as if a wind were passing through them. Ironically it was always these two that made themselves visibly known. An unpleasant pull spread through his chest — not painful, but warning. Like a stitch hinting at what might come. As if the aether itself were whispering through them that magic was a desecration of its laws. The runes despised magic — he felt that instinctively. They were in every respect clearly superior, ancient, intuitive. Magic was for them something weak, something that needed rules and order to exist. His runes however had no use for order, and even less for magic, it seemed. Born in chaos to preserve order. And they made clear they tolerated no competition. His young body felt the strain already — a trace of exhaustion settling into his limbs like lead. Like acid in the veins that did not yet burn, but soon would. Not yet a strong impulse, but enough to whisper: use us, and you set the price. Use magic, and you pay it.

  He looked from her to the well. "And where do I fit in?"

  A moment of silence followed. Silvara crossed her arms with customary ease. Thalyra studied him still — less playfully now. Ceryne kept her gaze lowered, as if listening to something inaudible.

  "That," said Vaelthrys finally, "we shall find out."

  The water in the well rippled for the first time. Not violently — but enough to show it had been listening. Aethyrael tilted his head slightly. Marvellous, he thought. Now I am officially an experiment. And surprisingly… that did not astonish him either.

  "Very well," said Aethyrael finally, crossing his arms loosely before his chest. "Then let us call the thing by its name." He looked directly at Vaelthrys. "What affinities are there at all?"

  Vaelthrys' gaze glided briefly to the three others, then back to him. Not to seek permission — rather to ensure they were paying attention.

  "The fundamental ones," she began calmly, "are the classical elements." She raised a hand, and above the well a gentle likeness flickered into being. "Fire. Water. Earth. Air." The projections were controlled, almost textbook. Aethyrael studied them with polite interest.

  "And that is all?" he asked. "Sounds… manageable."

  Thalyra laughed quietly. "Tell that to someone who has been consumed by daemon fire."

  Vaelthrys raised her hand slightly, and the daemon fell immediately silent.

  "Beyond that," Vaelthrys continued, "specialised aptitudes exist. Rarer currents." The light above the well shifted. "Nature magic. Affinity with growth, decay, cycles." Green lines threaded through the water. "Light. Order, revelation, truth." A clear, almost cutting luminescence. "Darkness." The light was not extinguished — it grew… deeper. "Not the absence of light. But space. Protection. Concealment." Silvara nodded in confirmation.

  "Seduction," Vaelthrys added matter-of-factly. "Influence over perception, desire, decision."

  Thalyra raised an eyebrow. "My domain."

  Aethyrael snorted quietly. "That surprises no one." A brief twitch passed through Thalyra's mouth, yet she said nothing.

  Vaelthrys' gaze remained fixed on Aethyrael, now sharper. "And then there are currents that are not often taught." The well fell silent and the water grew still. "Time." A faint trembling in the air. "Space." The edges of the garden seemed… more distant. "And Gravitation." The word did not echo. It settled.

  In that moment the two troublemakers responded again. The runes beneath his eyes flared brightly — a brief, almost joyful pulsing, as if they were finally hearing something worthy of them. Finally, that flickering seemed to say, finally she speaks of something that truly counts. For the fraction of a heartbeat Aethyrael felt pure accord. Then came the pain. A cutting, cold stab drove through his chest, as if someone had rammed a glowing needle directly into the runes. The pulsing transformed into a furious tearing. The runes despised it. They despised that Gravitation was being taught here as magic. As something one learned, shaped, pressed into rules. As if it followed a simple order. His breath caught. For a moment the pull grew so sharp that he had to press his teeth together. The runes flickered once more — warning now, almost wrathful. One last piercing pain drove through him from crown to sole, making his knees soft, as if the aether itself were raging through them. As if they wished to give their protest and displeasure expression one final time. As if they were saying: Outrageous, to concern oneself with inferior magic. The ancient language is clearly superior, ignorant child.

  Aethyrael clenched his hands into fists against the strain, suppressing a gasp. His fingers still trembled as the pain echoed through his young body. Superior? he thought defiantly. Then prove it to me — without tearing me apart. The defiant impulse ebbed as suddenly as it had begun. The pain was replaced by a pleasant warmth that laid itself around him like a deceptive mantle. Was it comfort? Or the calm before the storm — before the pain he would soon be permitted to experience again, because the runes willed it so?

  Vaelthrys stepped closer, studying him now attentively. Concern lay hidden deep in her gaze, yet she let nothing show. She had apparently noticed his inner conflict. "What you just felt," she explained, laying a calming hand on his shoulder, "is nothing to concern yourself about." A pause followed. "It is a natural reaction."

  Aethyrael raised his gaze. "To what?"

  Vaelthrys' voice grew quieter. "To yourself and your stubbornness, naturally." She smiled at him kindly.

  Then something unexpected happened. She raised both hands and the room responded. From nothing several grimoires materialised — one after another, hovering, appearing heavy, each with its own aura. They arranged themselves before Aethyrael on the stone floor without a sound. Neatly and deliberately placed. Vaelthrys lowered her hands.

  "These," she said, "are no ordinary books for reading. These grimoires come from Aelthyria personally."

  A wondering murmur passed through the three witches. Aethyrael leaned slightly forward. The covers differed — not in style, but in feeling. "Fire." A volume, warm, restless. "Water." Calm, deep. "Earth." Heavy, enduring. "Air." Barely tangible. Then further. "Nature." "Light." "Darkness." "Seduction."

  She let a moment pass, then indicated a final, unremarkable grimoire at the edge. A dark cover. Still. Almost… reluctant against every order.

  "And this one," she said quietly, "is Gravitation."

  Aethyrael felt something within him respond — not pulling, not luring. Something seemed to recognise him. "You will not master every one." She looked him directly in the eyes. "But we shall see which one recognises you."

  A dry smile darted across his face. "So a trial after all."

  Vaelthrys' mouth twitched. "No, Aethyrael." She stepped back and crossed her arms. "An encounter. And now touch each grimoire."

  He did as instructed — and knew: whatever book opened itself, it would not merely be read.

  Aethyrael approached the grimoires carefully. Each hovered weightlessly, as if possessed of its own will. The covers glowed barely perceptibly, pulsing gently — or restlessly, depending on which affinity they represented.

  He laid his hand on the first book, the one for Fire. Barely touched, the flame within the grimoire flickered briefly — then extinguished suddenly, the smoke dissolving to dust, as if the element itself had recognised that it must withdraw in the presence of something higher. Aethyrael raised his eyebrows. Interesting, he thought. Fire that falls silent willingly?

  As he touched the book for Water, the clear element evaporated instantly. Molecules dissolved, as if the water wished to test how it should respond to his presence before capitulating. The stillness was strangely tangible. The Earth groaned as he touched the grimoire. Stones splintered quietly, tore apart, only to reassemble in harmonious order — almost a quiet suggestion: the measure of things is different here. The air condensed as he passed over the corresponding book. A pressure settled suddenly in his chest, a barely perceptible contraction of the space around him. The three witches held their breath, surprised by the unfamiliar reaction.

  The Nature grimoire withered and faded as if surrendering, while Light and Darkness — two separate grimoires — pulsed in a quiet dispute, as if they knew that both belonged to him. It was no violent reaction — more a quiet haggling over the upper hand, a hesitation, a weighing, as if the forces wished to test whether he was permitted to be their bearer.

  And then, as he finally touched the Gravitation grimoire, nothing happened. It simply sailed past him, unresponsive — as if entirely content that he had touched it without changing it. A silent proof of his affinity — or of the fact that for him Gravitation had never known boundaries. Yet barely had he withdrawn his hand when the pain struck.

  First at Light and Darkness.

  A sweet, almost tender burning flowed through the runes on his arms, as if the two forces had accepted him — and simultaneously punished him for it. It was like warm honey poured into open wounds: golden, viscous, tempting. For one heartbeat he almost savoured it. Then it turned bitter. The sweetness transformed into putrid slime that ate into his veins and drove black blossoms there. He thought that was the price. He thought he had endured it. Yet the runes had still not reconciled themselves to the thought of magic.

  The pain at Gravitation came more slowly. More cruelly.

  It began as a quiet grinding deep in his sternum, precisely where the main lines converged. Then something fine and glowing bored through his flesh — a splinter of pure, cold starlight that ate slowly, steadily through his bloodstream. He felt it travel: from the chest upward into the shoulders, further into the throat, until it finally reached the skull and lodged itself there like a living nail. A metallic taste exploded on his tongue — heavy and rusty, mixed with something sickeningly sweet — like blood stirred with crushed rose petals. Every heartbeat drove the splinter a fraction deeper. The pressure on the Gravitation rune grew greater, ever greater, as if it wished to compress his entire body into itself, until nothing remained but a single, perfect point of pain.

  Aethyrael stood motionless. No flinching. No gasping. No betraying sway. Only the quiet, inner grinding of his teeth pressed so firmly together that he could hear the cracking of his jaw.

  There the circle closes, he thought, as cold sweat ran down his back. Pain is indeed part of the path.

  And yet Aelthyria was nowhere to be seen. And yet she had so fervently wished to share this pain with him. Had she not called him "my star" precisely for that reason? Had she not promised to savour every torment together with him?

  Nothing.

  Only the quiet murmuring of the well and the fixed gazes of the three women. His smile grew thin, almost malicious. He would not be beaten down by something like this. First his body turns against him. Then his own runes. That he could not accept. That he would not accept. Pain or no pain — he would not break. Never. Not today. Not before them. And certainly not before her.