The next few days were a quiet storm of effort.
Ryan buried himself in beginner-level storybooks—one after another. Tales of clumsy heroes, cheerful dragons, and magical cats with too many hats. He read them all. Not because he enjoyed them, but because he had to.
Every night, when the estate went still, he turned to the book Elandor had given him. Principia Arcanum. And every night, he opened to that same quote… and got no further.
No matter how many times he read it, it slipped through him like water through cracked stone. The words made sense individually. But together, they became a wall he couldn't climb.
And yet, he kept trying. Every night. Until his eyes closed on their own.
He stopped complaining to Seren about the storybooks. Somewhere along the line, he had accepted that he simply wasn't ready. It didn't matter how many paragraphs he could read or how fast he was progressing. Theory was different. He had the hunger—but not yet the teeth.
So he kept his head down and read. Word by word. Sentence by sentence.
Seren noticed the change.
After the third day of silent study, she finally asked, "You've been unusually quiet. Less… grumbly."
Ryan looked up, expression flat. "I'm just following my master's instructions."
Seren raised an eyebrow. "Your master?"
He nodded once, not offering more.
She didn't believe him—not completely. Something was off. He could tell by the way she looked at him, as though she were trying to read him.
He couldn't tell her. Not about the book. Not about his failure to grasp it. What if she was angry that he had jumped so far ahead? What if she thought he was arrogant?
Worse—what if Elandor regretted giving it to him in the first place?
Those thoughts festered, dark and biting.
Maybe I got too confident, he thought. Maybe I'm not special. Maybe my parents left everything behind for nothing. Maybe Elandor made a mistake.
The spiral was quiet but steep.
Seren's voice cut through the fog.
"Ryan."
He snapped back to the present.
"You're somewhere else," she said.
He opened his mouth to reply. Closed it. Thought about confessing.
But still, he said nothing.
She stood abruptly. "Drop the book."
He blinked. "What?"
"Drop it. Come with me."
She didn't wait.
Ryan hesitated, then followed.
They left the library. Walked through the grand hall. Down the corridor. Out the back.
"Where are we going?" he asked softly.
"Just walk."
He did.
They crossed the grounds in silence. The sun had already begun its descent, casting warm amber light across the garden paths. Birds chirped faintly. The estate's trees swayed gently in the wind.
Finally, Seren stopped beneath a great tree near the far end of the garden—a towering ancient thing with roots like sleeping animals and leaves that shimmered like silver silk.
She dropped to the grass, leaned back against the bark, and gestured to the space beside her.
"Sit."
Ryan obeyed.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was still. Real.
He glanced at her once. She had her eyes closed, arms resting across her knees.
Eventually, she opened them.
"I don't know what's eating you," she said, "but I know the look. You're fighting yourself. And you're losing."
Ryan didn't respond.
Seren didn't push. She didn't demand an answer.
She just let the quiet speak for both of them.
For a while, they just sat in the quiet rustle of the garden.
Then Seren spoke again—her voice softer now, but edged with steel.
"What do you want, Ryan? Why are you so harsh on yourself all the time?"
He blinked. Looked up at her, unsure if she was genuinely asking or testing him.
"I want to be like Elandor," he said honestly. "Strong. Respected."
Seren didn't nod. Didn't smile.
"Why?"
Ryan hesitated. "Because… I want to protect the people I love. I want to be someone. Not just another nobody in a forgotten corner of the world."
A beat passed.
Then came a question that hit harder than anything else she had said.
"What do you think about your father? Do you think he's a failure?"
Ryan flinched.
The words stung.
He felt a rush of something—shame, confusion, even anger—but he didn't let it show. She was his teacher. He wanted to reason through it, like he always did.
But there was no clear answer.
So he said nothing.
He lowered his head, plucked a blade of grass between his fingers, and flicked it away with a quiet snap. Then another. And another.
Finally, in a soft voice, almost too low to hear, he said, "I don't know."
He paused, brows furrowing.
"He always protected us," Ryan murmured. "Me and my mother. Even when we had nothing. Even when he was limping and tired. He still found a way to make me feel safe."
He pulled at the grass again.
"He gave up the inn, his whole life, because he thought I had a chance. He stood in front of Elandor to ask for a favor, even though he thought Elandor was a foreigner with too many secrets. Then he came here. Took a job on someone else's land. Started over."
His voice cracked—barely noticeable, but it was there.
Seren watched him carefully, never interrupting.
"Then tell me," she said quietly, "do you think your father is strong?"
Ryan didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure anymore.
All his life, he thought strength meant sword swings, fire spells, the kind of might that could flatten cities and silence armies. The kind that could tear down ports like Elandor had.
Wasn't that power? Wasn't that what made someone worth remembering?
But his father… Harwin had never cast a spell. Had never lifted a sword in his presence.
And yet, Ryan had always felt safe.
He looked down again.
Still silent.
Still searching.
Seren didn't push further.
She just let the weight of the question settle where it needed to.
And for the first time, Ryan wasn't sure if his definition of strength was wrong—or just incomplete.
They didn't speak after that.
Seren remained under the tree, eyes half-closed in thought, and Ryan sat beside her in silence, still tugging absentmindedly at the grass.
The sun dipped below the hills, painting the sky in soft purples and fading golds. When the shadows grew long and the wind began to cool, Seren finally stood.
Without a word, she offered a nod and walked back toward the estate.
Ryan stayed a moment longer, watching the last light slip behind the treetops, then stood and quietly made his way inside.
He didn't go to dinner that night.
Mira called for him twice, gently knocking at his door, but he made the excuse that he was too tired. She lingered for a moment longer than usual, sensing something was off. But eventually, she left him be, deciding he needed space.
He sat alone, the lamps in his room casting a soft, flickering glow on the walls. His mind was a storm of thoughts and questions with no answers.
Eventually, almost without thinking, he reached for the book.
Principia Arcanum.
He opened it.
Read the quote again.
"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."
He read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
This time… something shifted.
It was still confusing. Still far beyond anything he'd learned in his reading drills or grammar exercises. But now, it felt like it was meant to be confusing. Not because it was hard to read—but because he wasn't ready to fully understand it.
Not yet.
But the door wasn't locked anymore.
He whispered aloud: "If magic isn't power… then what is it?"
He stared at the page, thinking.
Was this what Seren was trying to tell him…is my understanding of magic and power really wrong?
Ryan couldn't sit still any longer.
His room felt too small, the silence too loud. Something inside him stirred—restless, unsettled—and pushed him to move. He left quietly, wandering the empty halls of the estate until he found himself at the staircase leading up to the high balcony that overlooked Valewind.
The night air was cool, the sky painted in stars and silver clouds. From up here, the city stretched endlessly—rooftops glowing with lantern light, bridges humming with gentle enchantments, towers and domes and distant spires sleeping beneath the moon.
But just as Ryan stepped out, he paused.
Someone was already there.
A small figure stood near the railing—still and quiet.
Elira.
He recognized her immediately. The pale blue of her dress, her frame lit gently by the hanging lanterns above.
She turned at the sound of footsteps.
And just like always… she flinched.
Her shoulders tensed. Her face stiffened in fear.
She turned slightly, preparing to bolt—just like she always did when he got too close.
But this time, Ryan stepped forward—not quickly, not threateningly, just enough to place himself gently in her path.
"Wait," he said. "Please. Don't go."
She froze.
He saw her tremble again, like the very presence of him was something dangerous.
He immediately regretted it. His breath caught.
Why did I do that?
He hadn't meant to corner her. He just wanted to talk.
He spoke. Quietly.
"I won't say anything if you don't want me to," he said. "I just… need to talk."
Elira didn't respond.
But she didn't run either.
She stood still—tense, guarded—but rooted.
Ryan didn't know what words were coming next. He just let them out.
"I know you're scared," he said softly. "I can see it. I've seen it for weeks now."
He took a breath.
"And maybe I am too. Maybe not of you. Maybe of myself."
He wasn't sure where that came from. He didn't even understand it fully. But it felt right.
"I saw you… that day," he continued. "In the market. When you saw those boys."
Her expression flickered.
"I should've said something. Done something. But I didn't. I thought it wasn't my place. That it wasn't my business."
He looked down, voice lowering.
"Maybe that makes me weak. Or a coward. I don't know."
When he looked up again, her eyes were wide—not in fear, but confusion. Cautious curiosity.
She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
And for the first time… he saw something fading in her expression.
Not gone. Not forgotten.
But the fear was no longer everything.
It was cracking.
And maybe, just maybe—that was a start.
Ryan stood there, watching her—fragile, frozen, yet no longer running away.
He took a breath.
"You know…" he began, voice quieter than usual, "I used to think you were the weird one. Always scared. Always hiding."
Elira flinched slightly at the words—but he didn't stop.
"But now… I think I understand. Because I feel the same."
He looked out over the balcony, the lights of Valewind glittering below.
"I never felt insecure about myself before. Not even back in Zeronthal. I was poor, yes. But I wasn't afraid. Not really. I believed I could make something of myself."
He looked back at her.
"But now… I'm scared. I'm scared of failing. Not just myself—but the people who gave everything so I could be here."
He shook his head.
"And I don't have an excuse. Not anymore."
He hesitated, then met her eyes, gentle and steady.
"I don't know what those boys did to you. And I won't ask. But I want you to know—I'm not like them. I would never hurt you."
Elira looked away, but she wasn't trembling now. She was listening.
"I'm sorry," Ryan continued. "For misjudging you. For not saying this earlier. You were scared of me, and I just ignored it—told myself it wasn't my fault. But that doesn't matter."
He swallowed.
"I should've done something. Just like Elandor did for us. Just like Seren did for me today."
He let the words fall.
He didn't expect anything in return. He hadn't said it to fix something. He said it because it was true.
For the first time, he had let go of pride. Of assumption. Of whatever quiet resentment he'd carried.
Maybe his own inner battle led him to this. Maybe he was too weak to hold himself back today.
Whatever the case… he felt lighter.
"I'll go," he said softly, turning away. "You can have your quiet. I'll find mine somewhere else."
And then—
"Wait."
A voice.
Soft. Uncertain.
But it was hers.
He froze.
She didn't look at him when she spoke—her eyes still cast down, fingers nervously clutching the edge of her sleeves.
"I'm sorry," Elira said, just above a whisper. "For treating you like you were… like them."
Ryan blinked, heart catching in his chest.
"You're not," she added. "You don't make fun of me."
She finally looked at him—just for a moment.
"You can stay."
It wasn't much.
But it was everything.
And for the first time since they met, Ryan smiled—not out of politeness, but with genuine warmth.
"Thanks," he said simply.
They stood there in silence—side by side—not as friends, not yet.
But no longer strangers.
And no longer afraid.
After a long, comfortable silence settled between them, Ryan broke it gently.
"How are you feeling now?" he asked. "Will you… come to the library tomorrow?"
Elira didn't answer right away. She just stared out over the city lights.
"I don't know what to do," she said quietly.
He wanted to ask—what happened?—but he knew how it felt to have someone poke around where it hurt. So he stood up slowly, giving her space.
Then she asked something that stopped him in his tracks.
"Do you think my father is a coward?"
Ryan turned, blinking.
"What?"
She looked up at him—not with fear this time, but frustration, something raw building behind her eyes.
"That's what they say," she said. "The nobles. Not to his face, but always around me. Whispering. Laughing."
Her voice wavered.
"They say my father was brave once… but he left the battlefield because he was afraid. That he gave up honor to chase easy money. That he's soft now. That he hides behind books and trade deals."
Her breath quickened.
"They act like their fathers are heroes just because they wear swords to dinners and drink from goblets laced with gold. None of them have seen battle. None of them even know what it is."
She turned away.
"So why do they only mock me?"
It spilled out all at once—like a crack finally giving way under too much pressure.
Ryan stood frozen.
Then slowly, he walked back toward her, words rising without effort.
"That's not true," he said firmly. "Your father… Elandor isn't afraid of anything."
He stepped closer.
"I've seen what he did for my family. He could've left us behind in that burning town, but he didn't. He faced a unit of royal mages like they were nothing. And he never asked for thanks."
Ryan's voice grew stronger.
"I admire him. I want to be like him. If that's cowardice, then the world's gone blind."
He paused, then added with a shrug, "And nobles? Most of them talk big because they've got nothing else to be proud of. I used to see their kind at the inn all the time—flashing coins, puffing their chests, treating people like dirt. Let them talk. They don't know what real strength is."
Elira blinked at him, stunned.
Then—suddenly—she laughed.
A soft, unexpected sound. Almost awkward at first, but real.
It was the first time Ryan had heard her laugh outside of moments with Elandor.
He looked at her, confused. "What?"
"You…" she smiled, wiping at her eye, "you called them puffed-up coin-flashers."
"I did," Ryan said proudly. "Because they are."
She shook her head, still smiling—more than Ryan had ever seen. For a moment, she looked her age. No fear, no guard. Just a girl who cared deeply about her father and had finally heard someone say out loud what she needed to hear.
And Ryan, for the first time, realized something else—something quiet but powerful.
He had done something... something like Elandor.
Not by casting a spell. Not by raising a sword. But by reaching someone. By listening. By speaking truth, not to impress—but to understand.
Is this what strength really means?
Not to dominate the world, but to stand in harmony with it.
To face your own fear. To meet someone in their silence and not demand an answer.
Is that what the quote was trying to say?
Maybe the same rules that apply to magic… apply to life too.
Not control. But understanding.
Not force. But connection.
Unseen by either of them, just beyond the archway leading to the balcony, Elandor stood quietly—half-shadowed behind the ivy-laced wall.
His arms were folded, a soft smile playing on his lips.
He had come up to clear his mind, maybe to find peace, maybe just to think. Instead, he found more than he expected.
He watched them in silence—two children from very different worlds, finally speaking the language neither had learned in books.
And then, almost to himself, he murmured:
"You're on the right track young man. Don't give up… you will soon understand what you need to do… just keep moving."
There was a weight behind those words, like he wasn't just speaking for Ryan—but something larger. A future still forming.
He looked at Elira, at the ease in her shoulders, the lightness in her voice. It had been years—not since his retirement celebration—since he'd seen her speak like this, laugh like this.
In his heart, he quietly thanked the boy who had somehow found a way past the walls even he couldn't breach.
With that, he turned and walked away—leaving them to open up in their own time.
Sometimes, all a spark needs… is space to catch fire.