Ryan didn't see Elira for the next few days.
He asked Lyra about her whenever he could, careful not to sound too concerned. Lyra would always smile gently and say, "She's just a little under the weather, nothing serious. She just needs time."
But Ryan wasn't so sure.
He noticed Elandor was home more often now. Not that the man ever made a show of it, but Ryan could tell—he stayed close, always checking in, always finding some quiet excuse to pass Elira's room.
Ryan thought about telling them what he saw that day in the market—the noble boys, the way Elira froze. But what could he say? He didn't know what it meant. After spending weeks by her side and still not understanding her, he didn't trust himself to explain anything. Not yet.
So, he decided to wait. To listen more before speaking.
For now, he focused on what he could control.
His studies.
He was making real progress—faster than anyone expected. After weeks of relentless grammar and sentence structure drills, Seren finally allowed him to pick up his first real book.
He had hoped for something exciting—maybe a history of Caelondia, or at least a book on old myths.
Instead, he got bedtime stories.
Ryan stared at the cover for a long moment. A smiling sun, a castle on a hill, a talking bird.
"Is this… necessary?" he asked.
Seren just smiled. "Reading isn't always exciting, Ryan. Sometimes, it's just part of the grind. You'll get through it."
He read it anyway. Slowly at first. Then faster. The words weren't hard for him anymore—the challenge was not falling asleep. These were stories he already knew, ones he had outgrown years ago. Princes and princesses, clear villains and obvious choices. He could predict every twist by the second page.
But he kept reading.
Because discipline mattered.
By the noon, he had finished three books. Then, after a brief plea for something—anything—more complex, Seren let him borrow two more from the beginner shelf.
They were just as dull.
He nearly collapsed into the chair by the end of it all, head spinning with rhyming dragons and moral lessons.
Seren chuckled as he slumped across the table.
"Well," she said, amused, "I guess you are still a child after all."
He groaned into the desk. "You're cruel."
"I'm realistic," she replied. "The moment you can read history without stumbling, I'll hand it to you myself."
That evening, Ryan barely had the energy to drag himself to his room. Mira had to pull him up by the shoulders and steer him toward the dinner hall. He sat at the table looking like a ghost—eyes glazed, arms limp at his side.
Elira was still absent. Lyra mentioned she'd already eaten in her room. Elandor, who had been more serious in recent days, seemed back to his usual calm. But even then, his eyes flicked once toward the empty chair beside Ryan.
He looked back at Ryan. "Rough day?"
Ryan didn't even pretend.
He sighed, and for the first time in his short life, he ranted.
"Five books. Five. All about castles and talking animals. And somehow every villain fell off a cliff or turned into a frog. I think my brain melted."
Even Harwin nearly choked on his drink.
Mira laughed openly, and Lyra tried not to smile too wide.
Elandor grinned. "So the prodigy meets his match—talking ducks and noble knights."
"I can't do another bedtime story," Ryan groaned. "I'll start talking like one."
"Well then," Elandor said, leaning forward with that familiar glint in his eye, "maybe it's time you visited me in the library after dinner. I might have something that'll wake your mind back up."
Ryan sat up a little straighter, blinking.
"Really?"
"Come find out," Elandor said, and raised his glass.
Suddenly, Ryan's energy returned like a wave crashing back to shore.
His soul, which had spent the day drowning in bedtime stories, was alive again. He sat upright, nearly vibrating with anticipation.
He devoured his dinner in record time.
Both Lyra and Mira told him to slow down—almost in unison—but he could only nod, cheeks full and eyes shining. Elandor chuckled softly at the boy's sudden resurrection.
After the last bite, Ryan shot up from the table and hurried off—his mind already racing ahead of his feet.
The doors of Elandor's personal library opened with a soft click.
This room was different. Larger. Older. Wiser.
The shelves here weren't just tall—they loomed. The books weren't just dusty—they radiated quiet power. Some were bound in hide, others in stitched cloth or gleaming metal. Strange symbols glowed faintly on their spines. A faint scent of aged ink and arcane oils hung in the air.
Ryan walked in slowly, his eyes sweeping across the room like he was stepping into a sacred hall.
At the far end, Elandor sat at a massive desk beneath a hanging crystal lamp, flipping through a worn tome. His focus was complete—until Ryan stepped closer, quietly but deliberately.
Without looking up, Elandor smiled.
Then he closed his book, set it aside, and gestured to the seat beside him. "Come."
Ryan sat quickly, straight-backed, waiting for what would come next.
Elandor said nothing at first. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn smooth at the edges, but the gold-lettered title still gleamed clearly.
"Principia Arcanum: Foundational Theory of Magical Weave."
Ryan's breath caught.
Elandor saw the way the boy's eyes lit up. "Would you like to give it a try?" he asked—though they both already knew the answer.
Ryan nodded hard.
Elandor slid the book across the desk.
It was heavier than Ryan expected. Bigger than all five of the storybooks he'd read that day combined. But as he looked at the cover—and actually understood it—a thrill shot through him.
This book was in Common.
This wasn't like the strange tome he'd found back in Dunlowe. This… he could read.
He traced the edge of the book slowly, reverently.
Elandor let him drink it in before speaking again—his voice lower now, measured, like a father passing down a secret.
"This was given to me by my father," he said. "It's not flashy. It's not fun. But I built my entire magical foundation on this one book. Everything I became… started here."
Ryan looked up, hanging on every word.
"You must take it slow," Elandor continued. "Don't rush. Read every word until it makes sense. Don't move on until you understand it—not just repeat it, but understand it."
He leaned back slightly. "It will bore you. It will frustrate you. But it will shape you. Every great mage ever remembered in Caelondia began with this book."
He paused, eyes steady.
"And those who didn't—who treated it like a guide or skipped pages—they were forgotten. They never became more than practitioners."
The words were heavy.
But Ryan welcomed the weight. This was what he wanted. Not shortcuts. Not praise.
Purpose.
Elandor saw the boy's focus harden—his determination growing stronger beneath the surface.
Then he smiled, softer now. "That's enough wisdom for one night. Go on. I know you're dying to tear into it."
Ryan stood with the book hugged against his chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Elandor gave a small nod, eyes back on his own pages.
Ryan left the library like he was carrying treasure.
Because, to him, it was.
Ryan rushed into his room and climbed onto the chair at his study table, the thick book hugged tightly to his chest. He placed it down gently—like something sacred—and simply stared at the cover.
He traced the embossed lettering with his fingers, not reading, just feeling.
It wasn't just a book.
It felt like a key. A door. A treasure chest full of truths he wasn't yet ready to hold.
Finally, with deliberate care, he opened it.
The first page was blank.
He blinked, confused, then flipped it.
And there it was.
A single quote, centered in the middle of the next page—its letters printed in bold, elegant strokes.
"Magic is not the art of power, but the discipline of understanding—of seeing the invisible threads that bind all things, and choosing not just to command them, but to live in harmony with their pull."
Ryan sat still.
This was not like the stories. Not like his grammar drills or lesson recitations. It was heavy. Quiet. It didn't shout its meaning—it waited for him to find it.
He read it again.
And again.
And again.
The words stirred something in him… but he didn't understand what. Not yet.
He tried to unpack it—threads that bind all things? Harmony instead of command? What did any of that really mean?
He kept rereading, turning the phrase over in his head, tracing each line with his eyes.
But his thoughts grew slower. Heavier.
And eventually, somewhere between wonder and confusion, his head lowered onto the desk.
The book stayed open beside him, its quiet wisdom lingering in the air.
And Ryan fell asleep.