I take one shaky step, then another.
Julius's arm never leaves mine. His mana stays close, steady as a lantern in fog, flickering just enough to remind me it's him. Familiar. Warm. My boots squeak—loud, ridiculous, and noble, apparently.
Kate opens the doors.
Cold air slides in first. I suck in a sharp breath and brace against the sudden swell of ambient magic from outside. The city pulses in layered currents—stone and root, enchantments carved into pavement, illusions stretched across buildings, wards hovering high like clouds. Elven cities never stop humming. Too much magic woven into the bones.
I can't see it—not really. Just a blur where the outlines of magic cut sharp. I feel the shapes. Mana presses into the edges of my awareness like gentle hands, outlining walls and streets and people.
People.
There are a lot of them.
Julius helps me down the steps slowly, one hand braced behind my shoulder. My boots don't feel like they were made for walking, but I manage. Sort of. Kate walks ahead, all wind and proud violence in noble-girl wrapping paper. Dr. Lorre walks just behind.
We reach the street.
I feel it before I hear it.
The shift.
Mana signatures tilt. Conversations stutter. Heads turn.
A girl. Small. Human. Enchanted dress humming with high-court enchantments. Mana leaking off her like a cracked spell crystal. Supported by a royal fire-mage and followed by two high-ranking women.
I can feel the surprise ripple through them.
Kate doesn't slow. She's already at the wagon—a high-backed, luxury-built thing lined with some kind of illusion-weaving. I feel the edge of it when I step close. Smooth metal. Ornate mana inlays. Probably enchanted against spying.
Julius lifts me in before I can complain. The motion jostles my ribs and shoulder, but I don't make a sound.
Inside, the mana is warmer. Insulated. Private.
The wagon pulls forward with a soft lurch. I grip the edge of the seat with one hand and steady myself with the other. Julius sits close. Kate sits opposite, one boot up, entirely unladylike. Dr. Lorre is already briefing someone via crystal behind us.
Outside, the city rolls by—sharp buildings in dull light, blurred windows and indistinct faces. I can't see expressions. Just motion. Mana signatures stretch and blur in waves as we pass. A few of them spike with interest, curiosity… maybe even caution.
I can't tell if I hate that.
The castle looms ahead like a wound in the sky—tall spires slicing the clouds, light catching on the mana-forged glass in jagged reflections. I feel the hum of enchantments woven through every stone. Protective. Ancient. Suffocating.
Julius steadies me with one hand as I stumble out of the wagon, boots clicking awkwardly against polished stone. I keep my head down—not from submission, but to focus. Crowds hurt my head. I see the rough outlines of figures in motion, but it's the mana I track. Lines of energy, glowing threads moving around me in tightly leashed power.
Inside, it's worse.
The throne room is a ballroom first tonight—echoing with music, laughter, and far too many noble signatures. The Elven King is throwing a celebration. Something about triumph. Something about power reclaimed because of the scroll we found.
And I feel every eye snap to me the moment we enter.
I am a human girl in a castle of elves.
Wrapped in silk and steel.
Smelling like smoke and cave dust.
Dressed like a noble.
Barely able to walk in boots that squeak with each step.
The whispers start before we've reached the stairs.
That's her—
The one from the cave—
The child they say bent space—
They don't believe it. Not really. No one does. Space magic doesn't exist. It's a myth, something pulled from bedtime stories and crumbling ruins. But stories have power. And right now, I am one.
A living myth
As we enter the throne room, now in use for the king his ballroom party, within a single breath i can feel everyone's mana shift towards my direction, some hostile others a form of adoration.
The King sits high at the far end of the chamber, light striking from behind him like a deliberate halo. His mana is commanding—older than most in this room, broad and heavy, but not cruel. He rises as we approach, a presence more than a shape to me.
When he speaks, his voice carries.
"I am King Beren Falren of the Verdant Crown," he announces. On my right is my wife—Queen Fay, and my two sons. Prince Joralf and Prince William." I can feel his power, he doesn't just hold status—he's strong. "You must be the girl."
I nod stiffly. "Annabel, Your Majesty."
"Annabel," he echoes, slowly descending the steps of his dais. "The name in half the reports I've read this week."
One of his sons speaks before i can respond.
"Didn't expect our guest of honor to be quite so small," I could feel him smirking in my direction. Disgraceful
That's the younger one. William, probably.
He raises his voice. His mana is fast and flickering, like fire trying too hard to be noticed.
"Yea She's small," William murmurs, "but she is pretty. Shame about the species. Still—once she's older, I bet she'd make a fine little child-bearer."
Julius moves before I do.
His hand is on his sword hilt. Kate grabs his arm before he can draw, her wind mana rising like a storm.
I stand very still.
My face is stone. But inside? My mana flares dangerously at the edges. I feel it pulling sideways—tugging like it wants to bend something, snap something. I clench my fists to keep the space around me still.
King Beren raises a hand. "Enough, William. You dare disrespect a guest of honor brought to us by 2 of the highest ranking mages in the kingdom."
The boy shrugs, unbothered.
The King's attention turns back to me. "You've caused a stir, girl. And not only for what you're rumored to have done."
He snaps his fingers to the nobles behind him—layers of silk and judgment, all watching like hawks with fangs. "They say you wield magic that has not been seen in our time. Reports of some of the members of your team told me you used space magic, to cut off a stage two demons hand. Who was capable of another one of these rare affinity form magic. Shadow was it?
He steps closer. I feel his mana brush mine—testing.
"And they say you are human. Blind. A child. You must understand how impossible that sounds."
I bite the inside of my cheek. "It is impossible. That's why no one's supposed to know."
He studies me for a beat too long.
A beat of silence. A few scattered laughs. Mostly uncomfortable ones.
I straighten, jaw tight.
"My teacher and parents warned me," I say softly. "To never let anyone see that magic. That it would make people stare."
"And it has," the King replies. "But it has also made them listen."
He steps aside then, opening the floor with a gesture.
"I will not parade you. But I will not hide you either. The scroll found in that cave marks old age—metal magic, awakened in our kingdom first. Not the dwarves. Not the humans. And you, a blind girl with space magic in your bones, stood at the heart of that discovery."
I don't respond. Not yet.
My heartbeat is in my ears. My mana is coiled too tightly in my ribs.
The Queen speaks next—voice smooth as glass. "We will not force your secrets, child. But you will be watched. That much is inevitable."
Julius moves a little closer. Kate's wind curls around my back like a shield.
And I speak—not loud, but clear.
"I didn't ask for this magic. I didn't ask to be watched. But I won't apologize for surviving."
That hangs in the air for a moment too long.
Then the King chuckles.
"Well said."
"But either way…" the full weight of his attention resting on me. "You have the eyes of this kingdom now. You'll need to decide whether you want work against us… or stand in it."
I can feel him waves a hand, he used mana so i could see it, he's sharp. The guards at the edge of the platform shift. "Rest for now. We will speak more, in private, when you're steadier on your feet."
I don't thank him. I just bow again.
And as we turn away, walking back through the murmur of disbelief and curiosity and hungry silence,
William mutters, low and bitter—
"Still wouldn't mind her as a bride. Human or not, a girl born with every base affinity and a myth-tier one on top? That's a bloodline worth locking down."
Kate turns her head like a blade. "Say that again, and you won't live to see your own."
Julius tightens his grip on my arm and half-laughs, though it sounds like it hurts his teeth. "We're leaving," he mutters, and steers me out.
And as we step back into the corridor, away from the heat of royal eyes and whispered disbelief, my ears burning and heart crawling in my ribs, I finally exhale.
I whisper to myself, "This is what they warned me about."
"All their eyes…they're on me"
Julius steers me away, my boots squeaking like mice under torture. Music muffles behind closing doors.
A single guard's aura blocks the passage—cool, disciplined, humming along the haft of his halberd.
"Captain Myr of the King's Castle Ward," he intones. "His Majesty prepared chambers for Mage Annabel a week ago, anticipating her recovery. I'm to escort her there now."
Kate's wind snaps with suspicion. "We'll accompany her."
"Protocol limits visitors to one attendant."
"I stay," Julius answers—no discussion.
Dr. Lorre presses a vial into Julius's hand; the glass vibrates with a mild numbing spell. "Two swallows if the corset revolts. Rest, Annabel. The King will speak once you're steady."
Captain Myr guides us through ward‑laced halls; I map each corner by mana flow. He opens double doors—inside, sigils breathe warmth and quiet. I don't see the four‑poster bed or chandeliers; I feel the woven healing rune thrumming across bedposts, and a lattice of silence‑magic arching overhead like unseen ribs.
Myr withdraws. Julius unbuckles my boots, then loosens the corset until air—and mana—can reach my lungs.
"Better?" he asks.
"Like escaping a hug from an iron snake."
His laugh flickers warm. "What else in on your mind? I can see something is about to spill out."
I whisper into the dark blur, "Dr. Lorre convinced the council to start searching for my family—my dad, my mom, and Ramon—but it's only been weeks. If the King wants anything from me, speeding that search is the fee."
A nod rustles cloth; he agrees.
I lay on the bed—spacious, far larger than the confines of my old room. The weave of mana hums beneath me, subtle and steady, a quiet lull designed to restore what I've spent. It's safe here; I can feel it in the way the energy cradles me. So I remain still, letting the magic do its work, stealing a bit more rest while Julius sits nearby, the faint creak of the chair and his even breathing assuring me he's still keeping watch.
Footsteps—weighted, deliberate—approach outside. Wards react; a silhouette of dense, ancient mana stands at the threshold.
Knock.
"Enter," Julius says.
King Beren's aura spills in—Fire‑rooted in his veins. Not even an escort.
Pain disregards schedules," he observes, voice patterned like distant drums.
I sit straighter, clutching the quilt's mana threads. "Your Majesty."
He speaks, every word imprinting the air: "The realm owes you a debt, girl. What you've found—this scroll—its worth echoes through every hall of my kingdom.
Now hear me well. The threat we face is no rumor. Devils and demons gather at our borders, their hunger undeniable.
In return for your service, I offer you a seat at the Tri-Continental Academy. Few are ever granted such a place. There, three of the greatest living mages shape the future—on ground that is neutral, fortified, and rich in all you'll require.
There is only one condition. Should the world again find itself at the brink, the Crown shall hold the right to ask for your aid. Never to command it—only to ask. That is my word.
I keep my tone level. "Add your weight to the search for Alaric, Elara, and Ramon Valor. Council inquiries have only just begun."
Parchment unrolls; I don't see ink shine, but the mana plume of a fresh Royal Writ brushes my face like warm breeze.
"Signed tonight," he says. "Scouts, scryers, covert operatives—your family's trail will not cool."
"I will give my answer at dawn."
A satisfied rumble. "Wisely cautious for seven years."
The King pauses, i can hear his hand resting on his sword‑belt, as though remembering a final ledger item.
" One more matter, Annabel—the metal‑magic scroll recovered in the Nymph caves."
Its rigid mana stirs inside a warded casket on a side‑table; even from here I feel the cold, perfect thrum of forged earth.
" By decree of the all thrones," he says, "each charge will go to the strongest earth‑aligned mage our continents can field. One use is already reserved for Lincoln—no debate there."
A ripple of acceptance—or dread—moves through Julius's aura.
"The remaining two," Beren continues, "will become prizes in an open tournament when the time is right. Age, race, existing affinities, rank—none of it will matter. Only victory. The kingdom needs the two best earth wielders it can find—human, elf, dwarf, it makes no difference—because against Stage 0 and Stage 1 devils, raw power may decide whether the rest of us live long enough to strategize."
I picture Lincoln—an impossible outline of mana I've only read about—and feel the weight of what those scroll uses could mean.
Beren's tone turns iron‑flat:
" If you—or anyone—wins a charge, it becomes yours by right. There is no shame in losing either, altho i have big plans for you girl. Train hard, mage Annabel. The throne will not hand strength to sentiment."
Only then does he turn for the door, and the scene resumes exactly as before with the Writ and my dawn decision
⸻
Julius exhales. "Your call."
I grip the writ—its seal a raised mana emblem beneath my thumb. "They haven't seen me in two years. I'll cross oceans for training after they're found."
"We'll make that the contract," he says, embers settling around us. "Sleep—I'll watch."
With his fire humming in the corner and healing runes stroking my heartbeat, I finally drift—knowing the King's throne has teeth, but tonight its bite works for me.