The "Rusty Anchor Tavern" buzzed with its usual chaos, but for once, the noise felt distant to Kael. He stood behind the counter, wiping down glasses absentmindedly as Mira approached him, her dark braid swaying over one shoulder. Her eyes sparkled with excitement—something rare these days—and she leaned forward conspiratorially.
"So?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "How did it go? You didn't tell me much last night, just muttered something about shadows and fear before disappearing upstairs."
Kael hesitated, unsure how much to share. But seeing the genuine curiosity in her gaze softened his resolve. "It went… well," he admitted finally, keeping his tone neutral. "They want me at the Magic School of Knowledge."
Mira's jaw dropped slightly before a wide grin broke across her face. "Are you serious? That's incredible! Do you know how many people would kill for that chance?"
Kael shrugged, though a flicker of pride tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, I guess."
Before she could press further, Gideon, the tavern owner and Mira's father, emerged from the storage room, wiping his hands on a rag. His gruff demeanor softened momentarily when he caught sight of Kael. "Heard about your little display yesterday," he said gruffly, though there was an undercurrent of approval in his voice. "Never thought I'd see the day when someone like you got noticed by the likes of them."
Kael nodded awkwardly, unused to receiving praise from the man who had taken him in out of pity years ago. To cover his discomfort, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the two gold coins he'd earned weeks earlier—the ones that had sparked Mira's suspicion. Placing them on the counter, he pushed them toward Gideon. "This is for everything," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Gideon stared at the coins for a moment before nodding curtly. "Don't mention it, kid. Just… don't forget where you came from, alright?"
"I won't," Kael promised, though the weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders.
Later that afternoon, Kael returned to the meditation chamber, expecting another round of mockery or indifference from his peers. Instead, he found a representative waiting for him—a tall woman dressed in flowing robes adorned with intricate runes. Her presence commanded immediate respect, and her piercing gaze seemed to dissect him without effort.
"Kael Veylin," she began, her voice carrying authority tinged with warmth. "My name is Lysandra Havelock. I represent the Magic School of Knowledge. Lady Serena Valmere has personally requested your enrollment."
Kael blinked, caught off guard. "She… what?"
Lysandra smiled faintly, as if amused by his reaction. "Your abilities are unique, Mr. Veylin. Untapped potential rarely seen in modern Seekers. We believe you could thrive under our guidance. Should you accept, you'll receive a monthly allowance, your own quarters, and access to resources most can only dream of."
For a moment, Kael struggled to process the offer. A school that catered to elite Seekers wanted him—a nobody from the lower districts. It felt surreal, almost too good to be true. Yet beneath the allure of opportunity lay unease. What strings were attached? What expectations would they place upon him?
"I'll think about it," he said finally, his tone guarded.
Lysandra nodded, unfazed by his hesitation. "Take your time. But know this—we don't extend invitations lightly. Consider carefully."
As she turned to leave, Kael watched her go, his mind racing. This was a turning point, a chance to escape the life he'd always known. But freedom often came at a cost, and Kael couldn't shake the feeling that the void within him might demand more than he was willing to give.
Elsewhere, in the opulent halls of the Valmere estate, Elira sat hunched over her workbench, surrounded by half-finished artifacts and scattered blueprints. Her fingers moved deftly, assembling components with precision born of years of practice. Each piece she crafted was a testament to her rebellion—a refusal to conform to her mother's vision of greatness.
Magic was supposed to define her legacy. Not just any magic, but the kind that elevated Seekers to near-mythical status: spells woven effortlessly, enchantments cast with minimal effort, rituals performed with flawless execution. And yet, despite her innate talent, Elira despised it. Every thread of light she pulled from the collective consciousness felt like a chain binding her tighter to her mother's expectations.
She glanced at the satchel slung across her chair, filled with tools and materials scavenged from flea markets and secondhand shops. These were her true companions—humble, practical, unassuming. Artifacts required effort, creativity, and ingenuity. They didn't demand perfection; they rewarded persistence. Unlike magic, they didn't make her feel like a puppet dancing on invisible strings.
But try as she might to deny it, the truth lingered uncomfortably close to the surface. Yesterday, driven by frustration and a need to prove herself, she had attempted Seeking again. The experience had been overwhelming. Threads of light coiled around her fingertips almost instantly, brighter and more vivid than anything she'd witnessed in others. Spells formed in her mind fully realized, requiring no trial-and-error, no painstaking refinement. It was effortless—too effortless.
Elira clenched her fists, staring at the artifact in front of her. She hated how natural magic felt to her, how easily it flowed through her veins like poison. If she embraced it, she could become one of the supreme mages of her generation—a figure of awe and reverence. But that wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want to be paraded around as proof of her mother's brilliance, molded into someone else's idea of success.
Her grandmother's voice echoed softly in her mind: "Some gifts come with chains, my dear. Chains others will use to bind you if they discover your secret."
Elira exhaled sharply, pushing away from the workbench. She grabbed a nearby wrench and began tightening bolts on a half-assembled device—a small mechanical bird designed to mimic flight patterns. The repetitive motion grounded her, anchoring her thoughts in the present.
"I won't let her control me," Elira whispered fiercely, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. "I'm not her doll."
Yet deep down, doubt gnawed at her resolve. Denying her gift didn't make it disappear. Ignoring her potential didn't erase it. And every time she reached for the collective consciousness—even accidentally—it reminded her of the power she carried within her. Power that could change lives—or destroy them.
For now, she resolved to keep it hidden. Only her grandmother had truly understood her, and even then, their bond had been fragile. Trusting anyone else—even her own mother—felt impossible.