Chairs shift and scrape against old stone.
The garden is warm—sunlight dappled through tall hedges, birdsong broken only by the rustle of fabric and the creak of wrought iron.
Someone guides me to a seat. I feel the mana first—bonfire-steady, familiar.
Julius.
I angle toward it instinctively, my hand brushing his coat as I move to sit—
—but then hands, lighter and quicker, scoop me up.
I let out a soft "oof" of surprise as my mother lifts me with no ceremony and deposits me into her lap like I'm five again. Her arms wrap around me. One hand settles on my shoulder. The other moves gently through my hair.
Her mana settles behind me like deep roots—slow, grounding. I can feel her cheek against my temple, her breathing steady but tight, like she's still catching up to the moment.
"You always sat like this," she murmurs, fingers stroking the crown of my head. "Even when you were too big for it."
"I'm definitely too big now," I mutter.
She just hums and holds me tighter. "Too bad. I earned this."
Laughter stirs around us—gentle, tempered.
Marcus Saint-Clair clears his throat. His mana rings precise and formal but not cold. "I imagine you have questions."
My father's voice follows, blunt as always. "Like how we ended up here in a family that smells like gold."
"Johan wrote," my mother answers, her tone soft and warm, like rose leaves in sunlight. "He said he was bringing Annabel home soon."
My mother shifts behind me. "We were so excited. We cleaned everything. Ramon helped paint the gate. We thought she'd be home in a week."
"But nothing came," Alaric adds. His voice is rougher. "Not for weeks. Then a month. Then two."
"We started visiting estates," Elara says quietly. "Every noble with a mage name in their records. We asked if they'd seen Johan. Most of them turned us away."
"Except Marcus," Maria finishes.
Marcus speaks again. "Johan and I studied together when we were much younger. He wasn't just a colleague. He was a friend. A difficult, brilliant one."
He pauses, then: "When your parents came to me with his name, it was enough. I offered them a place here. A roof. Time."
"And he didn't stop there," my mother says. Her voice trembles—not with sadness now, but something else. Gratitude. "He gave us people. Scouts. Mages. People who knew the old forests and trade routes. For years, they looked."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "You shouldn't have had to."
"We wanted to," she says firmly, her hand still in my hair. "You were out there. That was enough."
Ramon makes a small sound—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "Of course you were. Probably getting into trouble the whole time."
I smile faintly.
Julius shifts beside me. His mana hums lightly at the edge of my awareness.
"I… didn't know," I say softly. "That anyone was looking."
"We never stopped," my father says. His voice is rough, quiet. "Even when it got hard to hope."
"I'm glad," I murmur. "That you found them. That they found you."
There's a beat of silence, then Beren's mana threads into the edge of the circle—still calm, but poised.
"We've all found one another now," he says.
No one replies immediately. There's nothing to say to that. Not yet.
My mother presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Stay with me like this a while longer?"
I nod and lean back into her.
The garden is quiet.
But for the first time in years, so is my heart.
She holds me a little tighter. Her thumb smooths over my shoulder like she's grounding herself with every slow breath.
Then, close to my ear, her voice drops to a mischievous whisper:
"You two seem close.
You and that fire mage"
I stiffen immediately.
She chuckles under her breath. "He's handsome, you know. Polite. Strong, too—I can feel it in his magic."
"Mama—" I hiss, my face already heating.
"And don't worry," she adds quickly, clearly trying not to laugh, "you're nine and he's too old. I'm just saying—he seems like the type who'd pull a wagon out of a ditch and apologize for the mud."
I bury my face in my hands. "Please stop talking."
She presses a kiss to the top of my head. "No promises."
Julius shifts slightly beside us, his mana calm and steady as ever, but I can feel the amusement he's trying to hide. Then, in his warm, teasing voice, he speaks up:
"I'm honored you feel that way, Elara. You are the prodigy's mother, after all."
I can almost hear the smirk in his tone, and I feel my face turn even redder.
"Why is everyone always trying to embarrass me?" I mutter, burying my face deeper into my hands.
"Because you're easy," Ramon says behind me, absolutely delighted.
And despite everything—the heat in my cheeks, the chaos of the last few days—I can't help it.
I laugh
The warmth of the garden settles around us again, quieting the gentle teasing for the moment. But the air still feels charged—like a storm about to roll in.
Beren's mana shifts slightly, a slow, deliberate movement, sharp yet smooth, like the edge of a blade being drawn from its sheath.
Annabel, I'd like to discuss our future."
The words hang in the air, and my mother's arms tighten around me—almost like she's already bracing for something.
"I want you at the Tri-Continental Academy," Beren continues, his tone steady but firm. "Soon. It's part of our agreement with your training. You're ready for more, and we've arranged a place for you. It will set you on the path of the great mages."
I feel my heart skip in my chest. I knew this was coming, but hearing him say it out loud is something else entirely. My mind races, trying to sort through the noise of it all. But before I can say anything, my father's voice cuts through the tension like a sudden storm.
"No."
The single word is sharp, unexpected—his voice thick with that protective edge I know too well.
"No," he repeats, taking a step forward, his mana flaring as if to match Beren's.
"You can't seriously think we'll just send her off to some… over-the-top academy," Alaric snaps. "Where no one gets in—certainly not a blind nine-year-old."
Beren doesn't flinch. "It's the best place for her. The training she's received here, while invaluable, will not be enough. She needs to hone her skills with others of her kind, surrounded by the best."
"You're asking a lot," my father growls. "We've just gotten her back after years of not knowing where she was, and you want to send her off to a place like that? She's just a child."
I can feel my heart thumping faster. The air seems to thicken as the tension rises.
"We are giving you time," Beren says, his voice lower now, but still firm. "I will not wait forever. And neither should she."
I can sense the weight of the words. They land heavy on my chest, like stones piling up. The room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant chirp of birds in the trees.
My mind whirls—thoughts of what this means. The Tri-Continental Academy, the place where only the strongest mages train… and where I will have to prove myself.
I don't know if I'm ready. But I'm also not sure if I have a choice.
The tension in the garden hangs thick, but before anyone can speak again, I hear Ramon's voice—loud and cutting through the silence.
"Mr. King," he says, his tone sharp but curious. "How powerful is my sister now, at this point?"
I can feel his eyes on Beren, eager for the answer. The air around me stills, and even Julius seems to lean slightly forward, waiting.
Beren's gaze shifts in my direction, his mana cool and measured. "Annabel…" His voice is quiet for a moment, considering. "She has the mana reserves of a rank three mage."
There's a beat of stunned silence. My mother's breath hitches, and I can feel my father's muscles tense beside me. I shift a little in my seat, uncomfortably aware of everyone's attention on me.
"And her combat and field skills," Beren continues, his voice unwavering, "are on par with a rank one mage—the best in the Elf Kingdom, mind you."
At that, the silence turns to murmurs, and I can feel the shock rippling through the gathered crowd. Even Marcus Saint-Clair's mana flickers with disbelief, and I hear Maria's soft exhale as she processes the words.
Ramon doesn't let the silence linger long. "Wait… what? She's only nine! That's… that's impossible."
I can feel the intensity rising—everyone trying to wrap their minds around what Beren just said. My mother's hand tightens around mine, her mana an anxious knot behind me. I can sense her worry, her disbelief.
I can feel Ramon mana turn to me, its feels like a skeptical glance, and for the first time, I feel the weight of their disbelief. They can't see what I've been through. They don't know what I've learned, what I've done.
"You've all seen her, right?" Beren's voice remains calm, like an unshaken mountain. "Trust me when I say Annabel's power is no joke. Her potential… is extraordinary."
There's a long pause, and then Marcus speaks, his voice tinged with an almost incredulous edge. "I don't doubt the King's words," he says, "but this is hard to believe. A blind child of nine—has the power of a rank three mage?"
Elara shifts uncomfortably. "I've never seen anything like it," she admits softly. "I thought she was just… just trying her best."
Beren nods slowly, and I feel the weight of his next words sink into the ground. "That's because you haven't seen her truly tested. But I'm sure you'll get the chance to soon enough."
Ramon raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Beren doesn't hesitate. "A sparring match. I trust Annabel's abilities more than anyone else's. If you'd like to see, I'm sure she's happy to demonstrate."
Alaric scoffs under his breath. "A sparring match? You're out of your mind. I'm not letting my daughter get hurt."
"Annabel's no ordinary child," Beren says, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable authority. "She is more than capable."
I can feel my mother stiffen behind me, her hand still warm on my shoulder, but she doesn't say anything.
Ramon, eager to prove something to himself, stands up from his seat. "Alright, fine. But I'm not going easy on you, Annabel. Just don't cry when you lose."
I'm on the verge of rolling my eyes. "I won't."
But just as I prepare myself for what's coming next, I feel the constricting pull of the corset tightening around my chest. I wince, shifting in my seat. "I wanna change," I say, a bit more forcefully than I intend. "I can't spar in this dress. The corset's killing me."
My mother's hands rest lightly on my shoulders. "You look beautiful, darling," she says softly. "I'm sure it's worth it."
I can feel her mana gently curling around me, as if to soothe me. But I'm not here for beauty. I want to fight.
I huff and cross my arms. "I'll look beautiful after I'm not suffocating in this thing. I need to move. I don't even know how I'm supposed to bend or breathe with this."
Julius chuckles from the side. "You know, it's not gonna make a difference, Annabel. You can still kick our asses, even in a dress."
"Exactly," I mutter under my breath. "But I don't want to."
I hear my mother's soft sigh behind me, but there's a fondness to it. "Alright, alright. Go ahead, dear. Change into something more comfortable. We'll wait."
I rise to my feet, feeling the fabric of the dress pull at my every movement. It's uncomfortable, and I just want to fight already.
Beren speaks up, his voice calm but still authoritative. "We'll take a break then, but don't take too long, Annabel. There's no rush, but time waits for no one."
I nod. "I won't."
As I walk toward the house, the murmurs of disbelief and curiosity fade behind me. I'll show them soon enough—just as soon as I can get this ridiculous dress off.
As my footsteps retreat across the garden stones, I hear a soft clearing of a throat—gentle, hesitant.
"Forgive me for interrupting," Dr. Lorre's voice threads through the warm air—polished but warm, touched with something that almost sounds like pride. "I realize this is not my place, but… I would like to introduce myself."
The murmured rustle of movement follows. Chairs creak softly as my family's attention shifts.
"I'm Dr. Lorre," she continues, her mana like cool mist against a calm sea. "Annabel's physician and observational mage. I've been overseeing her health and progress for the past two years."
There's a brief, weighted pause before she speaks again—choosing her words with the precision of someone used to delivering difficult truths gently.
"She's extraordinary," Dr. Lorre says simply. "I mean that in every possible sense. Not only in raw mana reserves and control—which, by every measurable standard, place her among the highest-tiered young mages recorded in the last century—but in adaptability, resilience, and instinct."
My father's jaw works silently, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He looks away for a moment, towards the distant tree line, like the ground itself has shifted beneath his feet.
Ramon, standing slightly apart, crosses his arms over his chest. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
"She's always been strong," he mutters. "Didn't need a mage's report to know that."
"I would agree. But sometimes… it's good to have it said aloud. To honor the path someone took to get here."
"She's strong," my father says at last, voice like gravel. He shakes his head slowly, a strange mixture of pride and pain in his eyes. "Stronger than any of us ever gave her credit for."
"Stronger than we ever deserved," my mother whispers.
Another pause. The garden feels heavier now—but in a way that anchors, rather than smothers.
Dr. Lorre folds her hands neatly in front of her, the polished professional in her taking a small step back, giving them space to hold the weight of what she's said.
"She's ready," she says simply. "More than ready."
Silence follows, save for the wind brushing against the trees.
Behind me, footsteps stir against the stones—light, careful.
I tilt my head without turning. "Kate?"
"Thought you might need a hand," she says, voice low and wry. "You looked like you were two breaths from murdering that corset."
I let out a relieved huff of laughter. "You're not wrong."
We slip inside the cool stone hallways—shadows and light dancing over the walls.
Kate moves ahead, guiding me with a hand gentle against my back. Her mana's calm, a steady beat of caution and quiet readiness. She knows better than most when to press, and when to just… be there.
We find a small side room—quiet, tucked away from the low murmur of the gathering.
I stand still as Kate's fingers work deftly at the laces. It's careful work, undoing the tight weave of silk and ribbon without tearing the fabric or hurting me more than the corset already has.
"Thank you," I murmur, my voice catching a little on the words.
Kate just hums under her breath. "You're allowed to breathe, you know. Even if the nobles act like it's optional."
I huff a half-laugh, feeling the corset loosen finally, blessedly, enough for my lungs to expand properly. The dress peels away next, sliding off my shoulders with a soft whisper of cloth.
Underneath, I wear the simple tunic and fitted leggings I'd kept hidden—practical, meant for movement.
Kate steps back, her hands dropping to her sides.
"You ready?" she asks, voice quieter now. Not challenging. Just… checking.
I nod once. "Yeah."
But even as I say it, a small part of me coils tight inside—a knot of fear, excitement, and the wild, stupid hope that maybe, just maybe, when they see me fight, they'll understand.
Not just how strong I am.
But how hard I've fought to still be here at all.