Despite the last few days of struggle, Ryan had come to understand something difficult—but important.
He wasn't ready for Principia Arcanum. Not yet.
And that was okay.
If he kept trying to rush through it—just to prove something—he would only end up hurting his own progress. So, for the first time since he received it, Ryan gently closed the book, wrapped it carefully in the cloth Mira had once given him, and placed it in the drawer by his bedside.
It felt like a small defeat.
But also… a strange kind of victory.
Because maybe this—knowing when to stop, when to listen, when to wait—was the very lesson the book had been trying to teach him all along.
Understanding your weaknesses, your strengths, your feelings. Your surroundings.
Not controlling them—but knowing them.
If that's the only thing he would learn from Principia Arcanum for now, then maybe it wasn't a loss at all.
It was a beginning.
Ryan felt lighter the next morning.
Not because his challenges had vanished—but because he had finally stopped pretending they didn't exist.
Instead of going to the library, he walked quietly to his parents' quarters.
Mira blinked in surprise when she saw him at the door. Harwin, still lacing his boots, looked up with a small furrow in his brow.
Then Ryan stepped forward—and hugged his mother tightly.
Mira froze for a moment, then slowly wrapped her arms around him. Harwin stood still, watching.
"I'm sorry," Ryan said. "For not spending time with you. For being so distant lately."
They didn't say anything.
"I wanted to be strong," he added. "After I saw what Elandor did… how he protected us. I thought I had to rush. Had to catch up. But I forgot why I even wanted to be strong in the first place."
He looked down. "I thought I had to prove something. That I wasn't wasting your sacrifices."
Harwin stepped forward then, brushing a hand through Ryan's hair with an unusually soft touch.
"You don't need to prove anything to us," he said quietly. "We didn't come here so you could carry the world. We came so you could learn. So you could live."
Mira smiled, eyes misty. "We just want our Ryan. The curious one. The one who listens more than he speaks. The one who asks questions no one else thinks to ask."
"If you keep being that boy," Harwin added, "you'll reach places none of us can imagine. No spells. No swords. Just you."
Ryan nodded, feeling the warmth settle into his chest.
"I promise," he whispered. "I'll go slow. I'll enjoy my childhood… and I'll keep learning."
When Ryan entered the library that morning, something felt different.
He wasn't racing to his chair, eager to conquer another book. He wasn't driven by the weight of self-expectation. He simply felt… calm. Centered. For once, he wasn't chasing progress—he was walking with it.
He paused by Seren's desk, offering her a polite nod. "Thank you," he said, "for shoving some sense into me."
Seren raised an eyebrow but smiled, nodding back. "Glad something finally stuck."
Then he turned to Elira, and for the first time, greeted her properly.
"Morning."
She smiled, then gave a small nod.
Ryan took his seat beside her, and Seren watched them both with a bit of disbelief—though it warmed her heart. Elira looked more at ease than she had in weeks, and Ryan was no longer carrying the weights of the world on his shoulders.
They look like normal children for once, she thought.
Seren handed Ryan his next book—a worn folktale volume titled The First Flame.
He opened it, half-expecting more dragons with lessons about kindness, but was surprised. This wasn't a bedtime story.
It was a folk legend—an old Caelondian myth about the world's very first mage.
He glanced at Elira's book and saw it was a history volume. He smirked. So she gets to read real stuff now? He'd get there eventually. He gave Seren a playful glare. She pretended not to see it.
The story pulled him in quickly.
It began in an age long forgotten—when Caelondia was untamed, and monstrous beasts ruled the lands. Humans and other races cowered in caves, defenseless. Villages were destroyed overnight. Hope was something people only whispered in myths.
The main character was a boy, no older than Ryan.
But he was different—quiet, distant, thoughtful beyond his years, like an old man reborn in a child's body. He didn't play. He didn't smile. He watched. He listened.
Then, one day, without warning… he vanished.
His parents thought him dead—taken by monsters, as so many children were in those days. People mourned. Then they moved on.
Years passed.
And then—he returned.
He was no longer a boy. He was a young man, bald-headed, with strange markings engraved on his skin and eyes that glowed like fire. He held a twisted staff and unleashed flames that scorched monsters to ash.
He saved a group of children from his old tribe, then disappeared again—only to return and explain what he had learned.
He had spent five years meditating in the northern caves—isolated, starving, surviving—and had awakened the magic within him. A force, he claimed, that lived inside everyone. Not a gift. Not a blessing. A potential.
He taught others to do the same.
From that tribe came the first mages. They were later called the Arcanborn—his disciples, and the founders of the Age of Magic.
Ryan read the final lines of the tale with wide eyes.
The Arcanborn do not rule. But even kings bow their heads when they pass.
Instead of reaching for another book, Ryan closed the cover slowly.
His head was buzzing—not with fatigue, but questions.
He looked up. "Seren… is this real?"
Seren sat forward slightly. "Many believe so. Though his name changes from region to region, the legend stays the same."
"Is he still alive?"
Seren smiled faintly. "Some think so. But there's no proof. Many believe the Arcanborn created the myth to preserve their influence. After all… most old royal lineages are gone. But they're still here."
Ryan sat back, absorbing it.
"So they gave up ruling to keep their magic?"
"Exactly," she said. "They don't rule a kingdom…not anymore, so no king saw them as a threat. They thrived by coexistence. Now, they don't need thrones. Their name alone is enough."
Ryan looked at the book again. He couldn't stop imagining the boy in the cave. Alone. Awake. Changed.
And for the first time since coming to Caelondia, Ryan didn't feel the need to rush anymore.
Because maybe this—understanding stories, learning truths, asking questions—was the path to something greater.
And maybe strength didn't come from spells.
Maybe it started with a choice to understand.
From that day on, Ryan stopped rushing.
He still studied. He still trained. But now, he allowed himself to live.
He took time to learn, to observe, to ask questions. But he also made space to laugh, to play with Elira when she wasn't hiding behind books, to sit with Lyra and listen to her endless noble gossip when she wanted company. He helped his mother in the kitchens when she'd allow it—mostly to taste whatever she was preparing—and spent quiet afternoons walking the wheat fields with Harwin, occasionally lending a hand when his schedule allowed.
Whenever Elandor was home—rare as it was—he would share lessons with Ryan over evening walks or tea in the sunroom. Not about magic, but about the world—history, politics, economics, diplomacy. Ryan found himself asking deeper questions, ones he never thought he'd care about in his earlier days.
These would become the focus of his studies over the next three years.
During that time, Elandor also hired a swordmaster to train Ryan and Elira in physical defense. "Even mages," he said, "should know how to survive without magic."
Their instructor was a grizzled man with weathered skin, a gray beard, and the personality of a broken whetstone—gruff, sharp, but unshakably loyal. He loved the sword more than he loved words, and though he barked and scowled often, it was clear he wanted his students to succeed.
He pushed them hard.
And Ryan never complained.
By the time Ryan turned twelve, he had become more than a fast learner—he was disciplined.
He was well-versed in literature, history, and economics. He could hold conversations on policy with Lyra and occasionally surprise even Elandor with his insights. He'd long since caught up to Elira in their lessons, and the two of them often discussed their readings after Seren's class—sometimes seriously, sometimes through friendly bickering.
He had come to know Seren as more than a teacher. She was a mentor, a guardian of his pace, and sometimes, in quiet moments in the estate gardens or on walks through the city's center, she was a friend. She told him that she had a family in a village far west.
Physically, he had grown lean and tall, his features sharpening into something striking. Mira often teased him about how handsome he was becoming, nudging Harwin and sighing, "Must've been from my side."
Harwin would grunt something noncommittal and ruffle Ryan's hair, secretly proud.:
That night, the Veylin estate glowed like a jewel on the hillside.
Lanterns of blue and gold floated gently above the gardens. Musicians played soft melodies near the fountains. Laughter and conversation echoed through the halls.
It was Elira's 13th birthday—a moment of great cultural importance in Caelondia, marking a child's formal entry into young adulthood. For months, Lyra and Mira had worked tirelessly to prepare, weaving together tradition, elegance, and warmth into a celebration worthy of their daughter.
Ryan stood in front of his mirror, adjusting the collar of his formal jacket—midnight blue with silver trim, a gift from Lyra. He stared at himself.
"…Manageable," he muttered.
Then he stepped out.
The mansion was packed—nobles, merchants, Elandor's business partners, estate staff, and family friends moved through the halls like a sea of fine silk and polished boots. The scent of fresh fruit, roast meats, and spiced wine drifted through the air.
Ryan's eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face.
There—Seren, standing with a small group near the center of the main hall. He made his way to her.
She noticed him first.
"Well," she said with a soft smile, "don't you clean up well."
Ryan blinked, then chuckled, scratching his neck. "Trying my best."
She nodded approvingly. "You almost look noble."
"Almost?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
He grinned.
After that, Ryan moved through the crowd, greeting the people he knew—mostly friendly estate workers, a few traveling merchants who'd visited over the years, and two scholars Elandor once introduced him to.
Eventually, he made his way to Elandor and Lyra, who were standing near the grand staircase, thanking guests as they arrived.
"Congratulations," Ryan said, offering a respectful bow.
Lyra beamed and cupped his cheek. "Look at you. How do you manage to grow handsomer every time I see you?"
"I blame the lighting," he replied shyly.
Elandor smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Enjoy the night, Ryan. You've earned it."
The crowd continued to grow, and with it, the pressure of the room. Ryan drifted near one of the pillars, sipping something fruity and non-alcoholic, his mind half-distracted—until he spotted them.
The noble boys.
The same ones he had seen in the market all those years ago. They were older now—taller, dressed in lavish Caelondian robes that shimmered with subtle enchantments. One of them stood beside his father, speaking to Elandor with confident arrogance.
"I'll be joining the Academy in Verdara next cycle," the boy announced, just loud enough for others to hear. "Top-tier, of course. It's the most prestigious magical institution on the continent. Invitation-only."
Elandor, ever poised, simply nodded. "Work hard."
Then he politely turned to speak to the next guest.
Ryan smiled to himself.
Eventually, the noise and posturing began to wear thin. He quietly slipped away from the center of the hall and found Harwin standing near one of the open windows, a drink in hand, surveying the guests with a mildly amused expression.
Ryan walked over.
Harwin noticed and smirked. "So, how does our noble hall of pomp and perfume feel tonight?"
"Smells expensive," Ryan replied.
Harwin laughed. "Most of them wouldn't last a day in a real field without crying about the wind messing up their hair."
Ryan chuckled.
For a while, they stood together—father and son—amid the golden light of the party, surrounded by silk and songs and distant laughter.
And despite the glitter of the evening… this was the moment that felt most real.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.
The music shifted to a softer, more elegant melody. Guests turned toward the grand staircase, their conversations falling to hush.
Elira appeared, descending slowly with poise beyond her years. A pair of attendants held the long trail of her gown—a flowing blend of silver and soft lilac that shimmered like starlight. Her hair was pinned with tiny crystal petals, and a faint blush colored her cheeks under the lights.
She looked beautiful.
But more than that—innocent, unsure, but trying her best to be gracious.
The crowd welcomed her with applause, warm smiles, and subtle nods of respect. Guests began approaching, offering congratulations and finely wrapped gifts.
When Harwin and Mira reached her, they handed her a modest but beautiful present—a small wooden jewelry box, carefully hand-carved by Mira, its lid inlaid with delicate floral engravings.
Elira gasped softly, holding it close. "This is… perfect," she said. "Thank you."
Mira smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Elira's face. "You're part of our family, now."
Then it was Ryan's turn.
He stepped forward—hands slightly sweaty, trying not to fidget with the collar of his coat. He reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a small, finely crafted dagger—silver-edged, with a hilt shaped like entwined vines. It was elegant, ceremonial, and sharp enough to be taken seriously.
"I… got this for you," he said, handing it over. "It's not much, but… thanks. For being a good friend. And a better training partner."
She took it carefully, eyes wide.
"This is… it's beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you, Ryan."
Then she smiled.
A real one.
He blushed, suddenly looking anywhere but at her.
The night carried on in golden light, music, and laughter.
Until it didn't.
Ryan was near the garden when he heard it—them.
The same noble boys from the market.
Older now. Confident. Careless.
They had cornered Elira near one of the archways leading to the eastern veranda. The leader—the one bragging earlier about Verdara's Academy—leaned in too close, voice low but cutting.
"Still hiding behind your washed-up father?" he sneered. "Maybe he should've stayed in the war instead of running to play merchant. Guess cowardice runs in the family."
Another boy laughed.
Elira stood frozen, her eyes wide, lips trembling.
She clutched the dagger Ryan gave her—but not to fight.
Just to hold on to something.
The first tear slipped down her cheek.
That was when Ryan stepped in.
"Back off," he said sharply, stepping between them.
The boys turned.
"Oh look," the leader smirked. "The stable boy brought a sword."
Ryan stood his ground. "Say what you want about me. But if you insult her again, I'll make sure you regret it."
The air turned cold.
The boys laughed again—but this time with tension underneath.
Words turned sharper.
Voices rose.
Someone shoved first—it didn't matter who. Ryan clenched his fists, ready to strike, rage boiling just beneath his skin—
"Enough."
Elandor's voice cut through the noise like thunder.
Everyone froze.
He stepped forward, eyes cold, presence heavy enough to silence the entire hall beyond.
Lyra rushed to Elira, who was now quietly sobbing, trying to pull Ryan back even as he stood shaking with fury.
The noble boy—flushed and red with embarrassment—straightened his collar.
"You'll regret this," he spat. "My father—"
SLAP.
Elandor's hand cracked across his cheek, echoing louder than any music that had played all night.
The room fell completely still.
The boy's father pushed through the crowd instantly.
"Elandor, please," he said quickly, "forgive my son. He… got carried away."
Elandor didn't respond.
The man bowed his head slightly. "We'll take our leave."
And they did.
Swiftly.
Ryan didn't wait.
He turned and stormed out of the hall, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
Mira followed immediately, calling after him—but he didn't stop.
He disappeared down the hall toward his room.
Elandor remained standing by the veranda, his jaw tight, his thoughts racing. Lyra held Elira close, whispering softly, wiping her daughter's cheeks.
He didn't move for a long time.
He knew what this meant.
This was not over.