Night again. Everyone asleep.
The mansion always got so damn quiet after dark. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until your own breath starts to sound suspicious. You could hear everything—the wind shifting behind the walls, the wooden beams creaking like they were whispering secrets you weren't supposed to hear.
Perfect for sneaking.
I slipped out of bed, candle in hand, nerves already on edge. My fingers trembled a little—not from the cold, but from something deeper. That same low, twisting feeling I used to get every time I snuck out of the nurse's office back in my old life. The fear that someone would be waiting. That a shadow would turn into a boot to the ribs.
Old ghosts still walk with you, even when you're born again.
I crept down the servant's staircase, bare feet whispering against stone. No one patrolled this wing after dark unless something exploded or someone died. Which—given how tonight might go—wasn't completely out of the question.
The attic greeted me with that familiar stench—dust, old wood, dry ink, and a faint bitter scent I was pretty sure was mana residue. It used to make me sneeze. Now? It was weirdly comforting.
I lit the candle, crouched beside the pile of half-decayed books I'd stacked behind the crates. The book was still there—my secret, my shame, my proof. Tattered and leather-bound, the cover cracked, pages worn and delicate. But the ink still shimmered faintly in the candlelight, like it remembered being alive.
Tonight, I wasn't just flipping through it like a curious kid.
Tonight, I was going to try something real.
"Alright… page 56. Low-grade incantation. Should be harmless."
"Serelis luma."
The words tasted strange on my tongue—like I wasn't supposed to say them. Like they'd been waiting for someone to speak them again.
Nothing happened for a second.
Then—
The flame of my candle bent sideways. Like something invisible had exhaled. Like something in the attic had shifted without moving.
"That… did something. Right?"
I said it out loud, to no one. Part of me hoped the book would answer.
I flipped back a page. Read again. Slower this time.
"Serelis luma" – Lesser Light Whisper: draws ambient mana to illuminate a single object. Willpower-dependent. Caution: faint risk of residual aura imprint.
Residual aura imprint?
That sounded like a red flag with teeth.
I held out my hand anyway, staring at my palm like it was supposed to obey me.
"Serelis… luma."
A soft glow flickered. Barely visible, just under the skin. Like a firefly trying to claw its way out of my bones. It burned for maybe five seconds.
But it was real.
"Holy shit."
I grinned. Couldn't help it. Couldn't stop it.
I wasn't supposed to have this. No aura. No magic. Nothing.
A Ghostborn. Blank.
And yet I'd just bent light with my will.
Again.
It had been a few days since I cast that first spell.
Since then, I'd tried a few others—low-tier stuff from the book.
Mana Thread, Dust Coil, and one that basically just made my hand go cold for a minute.
Nothing dangerous. Nothing flashy.
But every time, it felt a little easier. Like I was meant to do this.
And that terrified me.
Because I wasn't.
I was a Ghostborn. No aura. No mana. No right.
But somehow, the magic kept answering me anyway.
During the day, Calden pushed me harder than ever.
More forms. More drills. No breaks. No smiles.
He barked orders like usual, but something had changed.
He watched me different now. Not like a teacher. More like someone waiting to catch a wild animal mid-snarl. Like he knew something was off, but couldn't quite name it yet.
"You recover faster than most," he muttered today, handing me a new blade.
"Your balance's improved too quickly."
I laughed it off. That nervous, overplayed laugh that never sounded natural.
"Guess I'm just a fast learner?"
He didn't reply.
Just stared at me a second too long.
Then turned and told me to start from the top.
I'd trained under that gaze all day, and I could still feel it burning between my shoulder blades as I lay in bed.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured him looking at me like that. Like he knew. Like he was waiting for me to slip. I imagined Calden's voice.
"You're hiding something."
"Your movements aren't natural."
"What are you?"
I sat up in bed, heart pounding.
Screw it.
If I was gonna burn, I wanted to burn knowing something.
Back to the attic.
The book was right where I left it, tucked between crates and covered with the old cloth I'd been using as a fake dust cover.
I flipped through it, slower this time. Not just looking for flashy spells—but understanding. The way it talked about mana was different from anything Calden or the sword styles ever taught.
"Mana flows where aura guides it."
Not bloodline.
Aura. But I don't have one?
Yet I had just enough madness to try this next spell.
"Arven's Drift."
Another minor utility spell, supposedly used by scouts and spies.
It muffled footsteps for thirty seconds, bending sound around the caster like a soft ripple.
I whispered the incantation, focused on the floor beneath me—
And just like that, everything went quiet.
No creaking. No rustle. Just silence.
I took a step. Nothing.
Another. Still nothing.
It worked.
The candlelight flickered, catching a glimpse of my smile in the attic window.
Then—
CREAK.
Not mine.
My candle flickered. My eyes snapped to the attic door.
There it was again.
The faintest shift of a floorboard outside the hall.
Shit.
I crouched low, snuffed the candle with my fingers, and tucked the book under a pile of fabric just as the door's old iron latch clicked. Slow. Careful.
A soft voice followed:
"...Master Kaelen?"
Nareva.
Of course it was her.
I pressed myself back into the shadows behind a stack of crates, barely breathing. My heartbeat felt louder than my footsteps had ever been.
She stepped in, holding a lantern. Its light cut across the attic like a blade.
She looked around, eyes squinting against the dark.
"Odd… I thought I heard something."
She moved deeper in, brushing cobwebs aside with her gloved hand. I stayed frozen. Focused. Silent.
The spell still held—for now.
She stood there for another few seconds.
Then sighed.
"...Maybe I'm hearing things. Shouldn't be up this late either."
She turned and walked out, pulling the attic door gently shut behind her.
Only when the latch clicked again did I exhale.
Hands shaking. Mind racing.
That was too close.
Way too close.
I need to find a better place to train my magic.
The attic's too risky now. Nareva's sharp—too sharp. And if she walks in on me mid-cast again, I won't have time to hide the glow or the book. Hell, she might not even tell my parents. She might tell Calden.
And I really don't know which would be worse.
I can't keep pushing my luck here.
I need somewhere quiet. Isolated. Somewhere no one bothers to check.
Somewhere I can screw up without anyone hearing me set the floorboards on fire.
The gardens are out—too open. The servant quarters? Forget it. Library basement's locked at night. Kitchens have way too much traffic.
Then it hits me.
The east greenhouse.
No one uses it. Hasn't been touched in years—not since Mother had the newer one built behind the orchard. The windows are cracked, vines growing through the walls, and most of the floor's covered in old soil and broken pots.
But it's secluded. Sound doesn't travel far there.
And the best part?
It has mana.
I remember passing by it once when I was younger. I didn't know what I was feeling at the time, but now I recognize it—that hum in the air, faint and natural. Wild mana clinging to old roots and forgotten ground.
Perfect.
The next night, I waited.
Everyone asleep. Hallways quiet. Candle out.
I wrapped the spellbook in a cloth again, slipped it under my shirt, and made my way through the east wing. No patrols. No curious maids. Just the whisper of old wood beneath my steps.
Out through the servants' side entrance, past the orchard. Moonlight stretched long shadows across the path.
And there it was.
The east greenhouse.
Overgrown. Cracked glass like spiderwebs along the frame. A few windows missing entirely. Ivy crawling up the rusted joints like it was trying to choke the place out of existence.
Perfect.
I ducked through a warped side door and stepped inside.
The air hit different in here. Damp. Heavy with the smell of moss and old soil. Every breath felt like it had weight to it. And the mana?
Still here.
Still humming beneath the ruin.
Like the place was holding on to something no one else had noticed.
I walked slowly, clearing the space near the center. Old pots. Dead tools. A broken stone bench covered in dirt and crumbling leaves.
I spent the next hour cleaning what I could.
Swept out the broken shards of clay. Shifted aside the rusted garden forks and twisted wire. Used a spare cloth to wipe off the worst of the grime on the bench. Found a half-rotted crate I could stash the book in, tucked under a slab of broken stone.
Not perfect. But good enough.
A circle of dirt and dust, ringed with old vines and broken windows—and somehow, it felt like mine.
This would be it.
My new training ground.
My hidden corner of the world where magic didn't care who I was born to be.
I sat on the cleaned-off stone bench, book open on my knees, the dim glow of my candle barely reaching the cracked glass above.
The wind slipped through the broken windows, brushing across my neck like something alive. The mana here felt thicker than usual—like it was waiting.
I turned the page.
Toward the back of the book now. The language shifted, got older. More chaotic. Some entries were half-erased, some written in a different hand entirely. Almost angry, like the ink had been scratched in with urgency.
Then I saw it.
A scribbled title, wedged between two faded incantations:
"Veilstep."
The letters were jagged. Angry.
"Phase body through shadow. Requires anchor and line of sight. Dangerous if interrupted. May displace caster or splinter body if unstable."
I swallowed.
Phase through shadow?
That was… insane.
Dangerous. Stupid. Everything I shouldn't even be reading.
I looked down. The moonlight was cutting through the shattered windows above me, stretching thin shadows across the dirt floor. My own shadow was long, twisted by the broken glass.
I stood slowly. Focused.
This wasn't like the light spell or the sound-muffling trick. This was deep. Dark. The kind of thing the book warned me about.
But I'd come this far already, hadn't I?
I raised my hand and whispered the words, voice low and steady.
"Dreval'en sur naxthiil."
The candle flickered out instantly.
The shadows beneath me twitched.
Then—
They rippled.
Like liquid.
The floor dropped from under my feet.
I fell.
Or maybe I slid?
It wasn't like falling through air—it was like being dragged sideways through cold ink. My skin felt tight, my breath crushed flat in my chest. The world around me dissolved into whispering black.
And then—
I was across the room.
On the other side of the greenhouse.
I stumbled forward, catching myself on the edge of a shattered pot.
Breathing hard. Heart hammering.
"What the fuck was that…"
I looked behind me.
My footprints hadn't crossed the dirt.
They just… disappeared halfway.
And the shadows?
They were still rippling.
The voice in the void had said I was given a second chance.
But maybe…
Maybe I was never supposed to be a Ghostborn at all.
Maybe I was something else entirely.