As Finia slept peacefully, Dyan sat at his desk, reviewing the notes he had started that night by the river, when he played his lute, remembering the days he played for Eleanor. That magic that had bloomed and woven arcane words into the very fabric of the world had been born from the pain he wanted to erase, and as that magic blossomed, that emotion had evaporated as if it had never existed.
With utmost care, Dyan traced on the parchment the words that, at the time, had floated like silver threads in the night sky. But, as in previous attempts, the letters began to slide across the paper until they reached the edges and, upon touching them, dissolved into smoke.
He no longer had doubts: it wasn't the words that produced this magic, nor the glyphs, nor the arcane engravings. No traditional method served to channel it. However, his intuition remained firm: this was a form of magic in which the soul itself intertwined with the threads of reality. It was capable of altering matter, stopping time, moving things… but all at a very high price.
He was absorbed in these musings when he heard muffled footsteps on the floorboards. From the staircase, a messy head of hair appeared. Finia, her eyes still heavy with sleep, looked at him from the landing.
"Dad… come to sleep. It's very late."
Dyan looked up. Seeing her like this, disheveled and with a sleepy expression, brought back the image of the mischievous child who used to look for him in his room in the Tower to drag him for a walk around the city.
"Time got away from me, I'm sorry," he replied with a soft smile. "I was reviewing something I recently discovered."
Finia descended the stairs barefoot, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was tangled, and her voice dragged with the slowness of sleep.
"And you're here alone, by candlelight? You'll catch a cold." She snapped her fingers, and the fireplace instantly ignited. "You never change, do you?"
She approached the desk and examined the parchments. One of them, covered with glyphs she had never seen, caught her attention.
"What kind of magic is this?"
"A rarity," Dyan replied, standing up. "A magic I'm only beginning to understand. One night, by the river… as I was consumed by sadness and decided to let it go, this magic simply… appeared."
He took a flower from the vase resting on the living room table and held it out to her.
"I cut these flowers before we met at Border Fort. And they're still alive."
Finia held the flower, which looked freshly cut. She frowned. "This… isn't normal. It's dangerous."
"I know. But it's also powerful. It was, in part, thanks to this magic that I was able to reach you that day. As you've seen, my control over space-time spells is still limited. Moving a body through them without real harm is almost impossible."
Finia's face darkened.
"Don't worry, little one. I don't regret it. And I would do it again without hesitation." He caressed her cheek, wet with suppressed tears. "This magic doesn't respond to the principles we teach in the Towers. There are no circles, traditional glyphs, or enchantments. It's a living magic. A spell of the soul."
"Such magic… must have a terrible price," Finia whispered.
"And it does. I haven't experimented too much with it, precisely because of that. It feeds on emotions, memories, deep bonds. Its form changes every time. It's almost impossible to trace, to repeat. Its power depends less on the formula, and more on the sacrifice you are willing to make."
Finia fell silent. Then she looked at the flower again for a second; it was intact, as if freshly cut.
"If what I suspect is true, if you intend to use this magic with time… to preserve something, or… someone, I ask you as a daughter and as Archmage: don't do it. You don't know the price. You could forget someone… lose a memory… or worse, you could forget yourself."
Dyan didn't answer. He knew her well. And he knew she was right.
"If you were to get lost for a little longer… neither she nor I would forgive you." She looked down. The flames crackled in the fireplace, the only sound in the room. "I need you. I need you now more than ever. If you're not here… I don't know if I could ever do magic again."
Dyan approached the staircase.
"Come on. It's time to sleep," he said in a low voice, extending his hand. "I won't do anything reckless. Do you think you'll get rid of me so easily?"
Finia took his hand and smiled, her eyes still watery.
"Shouldn't I be saying that?"
"Are you sure? Sometimes I have the impression that I'm the one who causes the most trouble."
Both chuckled softly as they climbed the stairs. Downstairs, the fire in the fireplace extinguished with a sigh, and the candles went out one by one, as if the house also decided to go to sleep.
The room was bathed in a warm gloom, barely illuminated by the light coming from the high window, where the night sky stretched out in a tapestry of stars. The bed was half-unmade, a sign that Finia had been sleeping before getting up to look for her father.
Dyan sat on the edge of the bed as Finia approached, the still-fresh flower in her hands. He watched her in silence for a few seconds and then sat beside him, her back resting against the headboard, wrapped in the warmth of the room.
"Do you think this magic has limits?" she asked softly.
"All magic has them… though we don't always see them until it's too late," he replied, intertwining his hands in his lap. "This one, in particular, doesn't respond to external laws. It feeds from within… as if the soul weaves something into reality… and in return tears a piece of itself away."
Finia closed her eyes for a moment, thoughtful.
"And how could you study it then, without destroying yourself?"
"I don't know yet," Dyan admitted honestly. "I'm barely scratching the surface. I only know that it cannot be forced. It's like playing the lute… if your fingers tremble or your intention fails, the music doesn't sound. This magic is tuned with the right emotion, the precise desire… or it fades."
Finia turned to him, folding her legs on the bed like a restless child. She looked at him in silence for a few seconds and then, without a word, slid under the covers on the other side of the bed. Dyan raised an eyebrow, between surprise and tenderness.
"Finia…"
"Yes?"
"You're not a child anymore. You can't just come to sleep here whenever you want, like before."
She barely peered over the edge of the blanket, with a melancholic grimace. "I know… but tonight… just tonight. Don't send me away, please."
Her voice trembled a little, as if in that plea nestled everything she hadn't been able to tell him in recent years. Dyan looked at her tenderly, feeling time fold in on itself: in that instant, she was once again little Finia coming with a nightmare, seeking refuge in his arms.
He sighed with a smile and, with a gesture, extinguished the dim light floating on the dresser.
"All right, just for tonight."
Finia smiled in the darkness and snuggled closer to him, feeling his calm breathing beside her.
"And what will you call it?" she whispered, her voice laced with sleep. "That magic that doesn't fit in glyphs or circles."
Dyan thought for a moment, letting the words mature in his mind. "Perhaps… Ecoscript is the most appropriate name."
Finia repeated the name in a murmur, as if savoring its resonance. Then, in silence, she nestled a little closer, resting her head on Dyan's shoulder.
They spent a long time like that, whispering about the limits of magic, about old songs that seemed to have more power than many spells, about the memories one would give anything to keep intact. Between word and word, sleep crept into the folds of silence.
And when at last both closed their eyes, overcome by calm, the flower in the vase seemed to bow slightly, as if greeting them, while the stars continued their course beyond the tall window.