Kael sat at the round table with the two Magisters, calmly sipping his tea, feeling the gentle warmth of the drink melt away the last traces of tension.

  To his left sat Magister Priscilla, holding a slender glass of wine with elegant poise. Its aroma filled the air—tart, rich, refined.

  “Damn… I wouldn’t mind a glass of that myself,” Kael thought with mild annoyance, though he wisely kept it to himself.

  The sun no longer streamed through the ceiling windows—twilight was settling outside. Inside the Magisters Hall, lamps and glowing crystals bathed the room in soft, inviting light. Shadows swayed lazily across the walls, and the atmosphere seemed made for slow, thoughtful conversation.

  Priscilla sighed deeply, lowering her gaze to the open book before Kael. Around him lay a scatter of scrolls and tomes, all open to different pages—the aftermath of long hours of work.

  “I still don’t understand,” she said at last, narrowing her eyes. “Explain it again.”

  Kael lifted his head, frowned slightly, and exhaled with a trace of irritation.

  “I barely understand it myself. It’s hard to explain something I never studied… especially when it feels like a miracle.”

  Duran, sitting to the side with his ever-present cup of tea, chuckled softly.

  “Don’t be annoyed, boy,” he said with a smile. “We’d simply like to learn how to do the same.”

  Kael looked at the old man over the rim of his cup and replied honestly:

  “I don’t think it’s something one can learn or train. If it were, I wouldn’t have been born with it.”

  He paused for a moment, gazing at the book as if gathering his thoughts. Then, exhaling slowly, Kael reached out toward the pages again.

  “But…” he added more gently, “if I were to describe it, I’d call it a mystical sense.”

  He tapped a finger lightly on the page.

  “Even when I look at a text I don’t know, I can see its patterns. It’s as if…” he hesitated, searching for words, “as if I were looking at a painting or listening to music. I see shades within the text, feel its tone and rhythm.”

  Kael traced a line with his finger, stopping at one spot.

  “This one, for instance, feels like it speaks of blood and its properties.”

  Priscilla and Duran exchanged a glance, then squinted at the line themselves, as though trying to sense even a fraction of what he described.

  For a few seconds, silence hung over the table. Studying the ancient runes, both Magisters nodded almost simultaneously—not because they felt anything, but because their experience told them his guess was at least plausible.

  Kael, meanwhile, smiled inwardly, hiding a sly satisfaction somewhere deep inside.

  “Just a little longer, and they’ll accept it. Whether they like it or not, they’ll have to believe in a miracle. Even one without an explanation.”

  Outwardly, he remained calm, his tone steady as before:

  “I’ve felt it since I was a child, even before I could read. I don’t know how it works.”

  Duran pushed his tea aside with a heavy sigh.

  “Hah…” he grunted, waving a hand.

  The glass doors of a nearby cabinet clicked open, and an empty wineglass floated out, settling softly on the table in front of him.

  “Priscilla, pour me one too,” Duran said, his voice tired but faintly amused. “I really shouldn’t… but I’ll have one tonight. My head’s already spinning anyway.”

  Priscilla looked as if she wanted to object, then silently reached for the bottle.

  Kael pretended not to notice and continued:

  “When I was a child and tried to tell others about this… feeling,” he said, staring into the distance, “they laughed at me, mocked me. So I just stopped talking about it—afraid of even greater ridicule.”

  He gave a quiet, rueful chuckle—there was bitterness in it, laced with self-mockery.

  “Though it didn’t help much,” Kael added, tilting his head slightly. “When it turned out I had no talent for magic, people suddenly found a far better reason to mock me than mere eccentricity.”

  Duran shook his head sympathetically, watching the young man over the rim of his glass. For a brief moment, his eyes softened—the habitual sternness faded, replaced by the kind of understanding that only long years can bring.

  He nodded his thanks to Priscilla, seeing that his glass was full again, and took a slow sip. The wine caught the light, leaving crimson traces along the glass.

  “So, relying on this… mystical sense,” he said, setting the glass down, “you spent all your time in the library? Studying texts, learning languages?”

  Kael narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, scratching his cheek.

  “Well… not exactly,” he replied with a faint smile.

  He paused for a moment, gazing at the lamp’s light reflected in the open pages before him.

  “At first, I simply hid there,” he said calmly. “To get away from the bullying.”

  But then, a spark—sly and bright—lit up in his eyes, and Kael added:

  “Only later did I find a use for my gift.”

  Squinting a little, as though deciding how best to explain, he went on:

  “At first I’d read books written in the modern language of Lasthold, and next to them I’d keep ones that had ancient inserts or marginal notes…”

  He paused, then smiled faintly.

  “It’ll be easier if I show you.”

  With that, Kael reached toward the small stack of books beside him and picked one from the top. He opened it at random beside another that already lay before him.

  Then he lowered his gaze and began turning the pages of both books at once—carefully, deliberately, with the measured precision of someone for whom this was more than habit—almost a ritual. His eyes darted between the two texts, back and forth, comparing, measuring, reading something only he could see.

  The two elders squinted, watching him closely, trying to catch some meaning in his motions.

  After a few minutes, Kael finally stopped.

  “Here,” he said, pointing with both index fingers at two different pages. “This one’s written in the language of the Primal Element Empire, and this one—in the Abyssal Shadow Empire’s script.”

  He tapped the lines lightly with his fingertips, emphasizing the point:

  “But these two phrases feel almost identical.”

  Then, scanning them once more, he added:

  “Judging by the patterns I’ve learned this way, I’m fairly certain both describe an herb that strengthens mana channels—something connected to the training of Steel Mages.”

  Priscilla and Duran exchanged a glance, then leaned forward almost in unison. For several seconds they silently examined the pages, tracing the runes with their fingers, comparing marks, trying to glimpse what he saw.

  Duran frowned; Priscilla gave a thoughtful hum—then both began slowly nodding.

  They couldn’t feel what Kael described, but their experience told them enough—the meanings of the phrases really did align.

  Kael took his cup, sipped his tea leisurely, then continued in that same calm, focused tone:

  “Most of the time, I just read and cross-referenced,” he said, setting the cup down again. “Whenever a phrase in the ancient language felt familiar, I’d look for its counterpart in modern texts.”

  He drew a finger along one of the open pages, unconsciously illustrating his point.

  “Then I’d compare individual words and start memorizing them,” he added with a slight nod.

  Priscilla watched him with open skepticism, while Duran leaned back in his chair, silent—as if trying to reconcile what he saw with everything he knew about the world.

  But just then, Kael took a clean sheet of paper and a quill, dipped it briskly in the inkwell, and, narrowing his eyes, said:

  “However, I’ve recently come up with an even more effective method of learning and deciphering.”

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  He smiled wider, his expression brightening noticeably.

  “To be honest, it was after that that I decided to come to the Hall of Ancient Research.”

  The Magisters narrowed their eyes almost in unison. Their gazes carried a quiet tension, an unspoken anticipation—as if both expected to hear some well-guarded secret, perhaps a technique or a mental discipline they might themselves adopt.

  But Kael said nothing cryptic. He simply lowered his quill to the paper and began to write.

  At first, he wrote a short phrase—quickly, almost mechanically. His eyes ran over it; he frowned, shook his head, and crossed it out. Then he wrote it again, slightly altering the words. Then again. And again.

  The process went on: he adjusted a word here, changed the order there, reshaped the phrasing, as if he were not searching for meaning, but for resonance—for rhythm, tone, and feel.

  Minutes passed. The quill whispered across the page—steady, rhythmic, precise. By the time Kael finally stopped, the sheet was filled with more than twenty versions of the same phrase, each subtly different from the last.

  He exhaled, stretched slightly in his chair, set the quill aside, and only then looked up. His voice was calm but carried a quiet note of satisfaction:

  “Now my phrase and the one from the book feel the same.”

  He smiled faintly, placing his hand over the paper.

  “I’m sure the translation is almost perfect.”

  Duran shook his head slowly, letting out a long breath, as though trying to absorb what he’d just witnessed.

  “Remarkable…” he murmured, genuine awe in his voice. “And so fast…”

  Kael gave a small shrug, as if he’d expected that reaction, and replied with composed clarity, trying to set boundaries around what he’d shown:

  “This one was simple. Sometimes I come across phrases and ideas so complex that, no matter how I try, I can’t find the right translation.” He looked up, thoughtful, as if recalling something distant. “At such times, it feels as though I simply don’t know the right words yet.”

  He met their eyes again and continued:

  “In those cases, I can grasp only the direction—the flow of thought, the essence of what’s being said. But the precise translation remains impossible… for now, at least.”

  Priscilla scoffed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

  “Utter nonsense,” she said sharply, her gaze cutting toward him. “How could that even be possible?”

  Even seeing it with her own eyes, she couldn’t accept it. Her mind—trained in structure, logic, and scholarly rigor—refused to digest what it could not explain.

  Duran, in contrast, remained calm. He didn’t argue, didn’t seek justification. He simply shook his head, eyes on the page covered in script, and said quietly, with unmistakable respect:

  “Even if it is nonsense…” his gaze moved down the written lines “Kael’s translation looks correct.”

  For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the lamps and the faint swirl of wine in Priscilla’s glass. She turned it nervously in her hand, as if to steady her thoughts.

  Kael only shrugged and said sincerely:

  “That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. Feels like I’m some kind of fraud.”

  Priscilla, still analyzing everything with visible effort, set her glass down and frowned.

  “Does it… work only with text?” she asked sharply, her tone still skeptical but stripped of mockery. “Or with sound as well?”

  Kael shook his head.

  “Only with text,” he answered honestly. “But through my studies, I’ve learned a lot.”

  He paused briefly, as if checking the steadiness of his own voice, then added:

  “With what I know now, I can translate spoken language too—though far less effectively.”

  Kael lowered his gaze to the books scattered across the table, continuing to play his role. He acted as though conviction were rising within him, and with steady confidence said:

  “I’m certain that if I gain access to more ancient texts—and enough time,” he laid his hand on an open scroll, “I’ll grow even more skilled at deciphering them.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Priscilla exhaled deeply and leaned back in her chair, tiredly. The soft light of the crystal lamps brushed across her face, revealing the shadow of weariness and quiet confusion in her eyes.

  She ran her fingers along her temple, as if easing the faint tension there, and said quietly:

  “All of this is beyond my understanding.”

  For a moment her voice fell silent, as though she herself were searching for the right words. Then, lifting her gaze from the lines of ancient text to Kael, she added, a little softer:

  “But… I can’t deny what’s right in front of me.”

  For several seconds she simply looked at him—closely, appraisingly—as if trying to discern who he truly was. Then the corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly.

  “Your gift… is absurd,” she said almost in a whisper. “And at the same time—beautiful.”

  Duran, who had remained silent throughout, finally nodded. His face was solemn, but his eyes carried a quiet respect.

  “The gods choose whom they bless with a gift,” he said calmly. “It’s not our place to question their choice.”

  Priscilla rose slowly from her chair, as if to stretch her legs after sitting too long. With a heavy sigh, she paced a few steps along the shelves, brushing her fingers across the spines of books. Then, turning back to them, she spoke with weary sincerity:

  “I wasn’t prepared for such miracles today,” her lips curved into a crooked, but genuine smile. “Still, I’m glad you’re on our side, Kael.”

  Duran laughed heartily, raising his glass.

  “Just make sure you don’t tell the Council of Elders about this,” he said with a cheerful wink. “Otherwise, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Kael snorted softly, returning the smile:

  “I’m not an idiot, Magister. Or do you think that now, after seeing my ability, all my achievements were just dumb luck?”

  Duran waved him off with a good-natured snort.

  “If a man has sense, you can see it in his eyes,” he said with a gentle smirk. “Knowledge is only a small part of intellect. With enough effort, you can even teach a donkey.”

  Kael arched a brow and replied with mock seriousness:

  “And what about my eyes? Do you see intellect there?”

  Duran’s grin turned sly as he teased:

  “Well, I certainly don’t see a donkey. As for intellect… we’ll see.”

  Kael laughed with him, but for a fleeting instant, a shadow crossed the old man’s eyes—a subtle one, invisible to anyone but himself.

  Still smiling, Duran looked straight into the boy’s amber eyes—clear, deep, far too calm for someone his age. And somewhere, on the edge of thought, an unspoken realization stirred:

  “Honestly, boy… your eyes unsettle me. As if you weren’t a child at all…”

  He looked away, pretending again to be carefree, and took another sip of wine—doing his best not to think about why this young man felt ancient, bottomless, as though entire centuries hid behind that easy smile.

  Kael, still smiling, lifted his gaze toward the ceiling—as if only now noticing that the daylight had faded completely. Through the glass domes of the Hall, only the night sky shone now.

  He bowed his head respectfully and said, polite but with a touch of warmth in his tone:

  “Honored Magisters, please forgive me, but I should be going. I think my parents will soon start to worry.”

  His words seemed to draw the elders out of a quiet trance. Duran blinked, realizing how quickly time had passed, and slapped his forehead.

  “Ah, forgive me, Kael! For us old men, time runs differently, ha-ha!” he laughed, shaking his head in good humor.

  Priscilla, still standing by the shelves, smiled faintly—tired, but with warmth. She waved her hand, and before her appeared a soft shimmer of mana from which an elegant bottle of dark ruby wine materialized.

  “A spatial storage?” Kael asked with interest, raising a brow, ignoring the wine itself.

  Priscilla chuckled, turning the bottle in her hand so the liquid caught the crystal light and shimmered.

  “Yes,” she replied with feigned haughtiness. “But I do hope that thanks to you, I’ll soon have a much roomier one!”

  There was a smile in her voice, and then, glancing toward Duran, she added with playful self-irony:

  “After all, we’re part of Lasthold’s elite too. Gotta play the part—wouldn’t want anyone asking questions, right?”

  Kael was about to reply, but Priscilla spoke first. She stepped closer and held out the bottle—carefully, as if it weren’t just a gift, but a gesture of respect.

  “Give this to your parents,” she said softly. “And tell them we apologize for keeping you so late.”

  Kael accepted the bottle with both hands and bowed politely.

  “Many thanks, Magister Priscilla,” he said calmly, but with genuine warmth.

  A faint smile crossed his face, and in the light of the crystals it seemed unusually sincere—so much so that, for a brief moment, the Magisters once again felt it: this young man was something far greater than a gifted student.

  Duran drained the rest of his wine in one gulp, exhaled loudly, and set his glass down on the table with a soft clink.

  “All right then. Off you go,” he said with a kindly, weary smile.

  Leaning forward slightly, he added in a more serious tone:

  “When the Council of Elders sets the date for the commendation, we’ll let you know. Until then… rest, Kael. You’ve earned it.”

  Kael nodded once and bowed again—respectful, but without excess formality. Then, tucking the bottle under his arm, he made his way calmly toward the exit.

  His footsteps echoed softly across the stone floor. When he reached the great doors, he paused for a moment, glanced back—met the Magisters’ eyes—and smiled faintly. Then he closed the doors behind him, leaving the Magisters Hall in complete silence.

  For a while, no one spoke.

  Priscilla stood by the shelves, gazing thoughtfully at the door through which the young man had just disappeared. She ran a finger along the rim of her glass and finally spoke in a quiet voice:

  “Do you think he even realizes just how unusual he is?”

  Duran, still watching the doorway where traces of magical light were slowly fading, let out a quiet, knowing chuckle.

  “Obviously he does,” he said. “And that… is a very good thing.”

  He looked down at his empty glass, his tone softening to a near whisper.

  “I can’t quite tell what’s hidden inside him… but one thing’s certain—Kael isn’t someone to be treated like a boy.”

  ? ? ?

  Walking through the long corridors of the Hall, Kael felt the cool draft slowly dispel the lingering tension. The stone walls shimmered with the soft glow of crystals, and his footsteps echoed dully, as if repeating the rhythm of his thoughts.

  “Better the old ones believe in the miracle I invented,” he thought with a faint smirk, “than find out I returned from the Divine Library.”

  He snorted quietly under his breath, the corners of his lips curving into an almost invisible smile.

  “Though it’s hard to say which of the two would sound more unbelievable…” he muttered half aloud.

  Turning another corner and heading toward the exit, Kael glanced briefly at the window, where the dark expanse of the night sky stretched wide. Myriads of stars shimmered above, their reflections flickering in his amber eyes.

  “At least,” he continued to himself, “they’ll have fewer suspicions now.”

  He smiled faintly, lowering his gaze and adjusting the collar of his robe, then added in thought:

  “And my value in their eyes has risen nicely…”

  As soon as Kael stepped out of the Hall of Ancient Research, the cool night air brushed gently against his face. He took a deep breath, catching the scent of damp stone and the rare nocturnal flowers growing at the base of the Hall’s walls.

  A sly, satisfied smile spread across his face. He tossed the bottle of wine lightly into the air, caught it, and said with a soft chuckle:

  “Magister Priscilla didn’t skimp on generosity…”

  Turning the bottle so that the moonlight glimmered across its glass, Kael gave a short hum and added with a mischievous squint:

  “Though I think I can find a more practical use for this fine wine.”

  He walked leisurely down the broad steps leading from the Hall to the main street, his gaze drifting toward the marketplace, where even at this hour a crowd was still gathered.

  A cunning grin crept onto his face as he said with quiet satisfaction:

  “On the way home, I’ll drop by that crook… I’m sure he’ll be happy to trade this for a couple of decent mana elixirs.”

  Kael quickened his pace, feeling the faint ring of his steps against the stone—the steps of a man content with himself and already anticipating the night’s training ahead.