Wagon wheels drum a steady rhythm beneath me, the suspension groaning at each dip in the high road. The blindfold King Beren mandated smothers every aura, so the world arrives as texture and sound:
• tar‑scented planks vibrating under heel
• iron hoops creaking against the axle pin
• the sweet‑grass hush of early fields beyond the palace woods.
Kate crouches in front of me, retightening the sash at my waist for the third time—her hands brisk, but her voice softer than usual. "Deep breath, kiddo. Ribbon's not a death trap."
"I've sparred Daniel's mace," I remind her. "The ribbon is winning."
Julius chuckles from the opposite bench. "Only until you outgrow it. Another year, you'll be taller than all the dwarves." I can hear his proud laugh and even a chuckle coming from Kate.
Dr. Lorre passes me a water skin and brushes a stray hair behind my ear the way mothers do. "Sip. You'll taste forge‑smoke soon; air dries past the border."
Outside, a second wagon rumbles behind us—King Beren's. Ahead, hoofbeats strike frost. I sense the temperature drop even through sealed planks. That has to be Sir Aethon Frostspire—Stage‑1 ice mage, captain of the Verdant Guard.
Curiosity spikes. Rules or not, I'm still a child with questions.
I lift the blindfold just a thumb‑width—Kate doesn't notice. Mana floods in like sunrise: Aethon's presence flares a cold cobalt, jagged and pure, haloing horse and rider in crystalline shards. One heartbeat of awe, then I tug the cloth back down before the runes can gripe.
"Peeking?" Julius murmurs—amused, not scolding.
"Research," I whisper back. "His mana's brighter than glaciers."
The wagon slows. New ward‑tones vibrate—human geomancy, rough compared to elven latticework. Gates grind open; guards shout clearance; Aethon's mana sweeps outward, flash‑freezing the threshold.
Kate squeezes my hand. "Ready, Annabel?"
"As I'll ever be."
Julius taps my wrist twice—our code for brace. The wagon jolts across the threshold… and suddenly warm sun, dusty wind, and a scent I haven't touched since age five crash over me:
wild rosemary from cliff gardens
and forge‑smoke sweetened by cedar coal.
My heart stutters. Heels pinch; corset bites; but hands—Kate's, Julius's—steady me, reminding me I'm still the youngest in the wagon, no matter how many demons I've faced.
I close my eyes briefly, and for a split second, I'm a little girl again. The heavy warmth of the sun on my face. My parents' voices float to me, warm and soft: "You're going somewhere special, sweetie."
Then the man came. His hand cold as stone, pulling me away from everything I knew. I didn't understand then, but I do now. My parents had plans for me—plans that didn't involve love.
I push the thought away, focusing on the present. That girl is gone.
"Almost there," Dr. Lorre says, tucking the blindfold edge so it sits comfortably. "One step at a time."
Outside, wheels clatter onto cobbles. Saint‑Clair pennants snap in the wind. I press a palm to the window frame, grounding myself in the wood grain.
Soon i'll see my family—now first nobles of one of the richest houses on our three continents. I don't know how or why.
But with Julius's quiet fire, Kate's guiding wind, Dr. Lorre's calm river, and an ice mage carving frost behind us, I'm not alone.
And if the ribbon strangles me?
Well, I'm still nine—and stubborn enough to duel a hemline if I must
The wagon door opens with a groan and a shift of warm air. A hand—Kate's—clasps mine, and I step down carefully, boots tapping stone.
The ground beneath my heels is smoothed stone, warm from sunlight. I hear creaking leather, the shift of cloaks, distant garden wind. But the most distinct sound comes straight ahead: boots heavier than most, set apart in rhythm, followed by a lighter, measured stride.
Two men.
"King Beren," the first says—deep voice, old noble cadence, deliberate.
"Lord Marcus," Beren replies, his tone regal but polite. "Your estate remains… sufficient."
A pause. Then a small laugh from the man. "Praise from the elven throne—Saint-Clair will treasure it."
They shake hands—formally, I imagine—and the small scrape of armor confirms Beren hasn't shed his ceremonial mantle.
I stay silent, letting the sound paint the space around me. A woman's shoes click beside the deeper voice now. She murmurs something—too low to catch—and then a younger set of footsteps joins hers, brisk and excited.
That must be Maria and Evelyn, the wife and daughter.
"Is that the girl?" the young girl—Evelyn—says with a gasp, just loud enough to carry.
"She's adorable," the woman says, her tone sweet and surprised. "Look at that dress. She looks just like—well. Just like her mother."
I stiffen slightly, but hold my ground. The corset cuts when I breathe too deep, but I nod in their direction.
"She can't see anything at the moment," Kate murmurs to them, stepping slightly ahead of me. "She's in mana-restriction training. Fully blindfolded. Normally shed be able to see your mana outlines."
"She's doing remarkably well," Dr. Lorre adds, voice calm. "Even for a child accustomed to mana-sense."
I feel Julius shift beside me. He's quiet a moment before asking—blunt but not rude, "If I may ask… how did commoners like her parents end up living here? Saint-Clair land is hardly offered to anyone."
Another pause.
Then Marcus answers with that same practiced warmth. "All will be explained, I promise. But it's a matter better discussed together. After the reunion."
"Where are they?" I ask, before I can stop myself. The words come out fast—urgent.
"They're inside," Maria says gently.
But I already know that.
While they spoke, my ears had picked something else—something quiet, tucked behind stone and silk-curtained halls. A voice. Then two.
I know those voices.
The first is thoughtful, almost humming—my father. The second responds, worried and warm. My mother. their voices are anchors in a spinning world.
Without waiting for permission, I turn.
Boots quick on polished stone. I move toward the house.
Someone calls my name—Kate, probably. Julius might even step to stop me. But I keep going.
I follow the voices.
Up the shallow steps. Past the hush of silk-draped entryways. Through the foyer, where the stone cools underfoot.
Their voices grow louder.
"…she'll be overwhelmed—"
"She's our daughter."
And then I stop. A breath caught in my throat.
Another step.
I don't see her—but I feel her presence in the space ahead. A shift in the air. A pause.
Then: "A-Annabel?"
Her voice, fragile and full of disbelief.
And for the first time since I was five… my mother stands in front of me.