"The boy wields fire magic!" Serapha said sharply, her voice rising as the echo of her disbelief bounced off the stone walls. She halted mid-stride beneath the arched corridor, eyes flashing. "That's impossible."
She turned to Belanor, lips parted, waiting for him to correct her—waiting for the illusion to break. But it didn't.
They stepped through a weathered stone arch where age-worn carvings still shimmered faintly with old enchantments. The hallway beyond curved gently, its walls etched with murals of stars, flame, and time.
A group of female mages passed them—three in total, robed in flowing silks of blue, crimson, and red. Each bore the quiet confidence of power. They moved with grace, their expressions poised but warm. As they approached, they dipped their heads toward Belanor with slow reverence. One, with burnished copper skin and long silver earrings, curved her full lips into a radiant smile. Another, dark-eyed and statuesque, brushed a braid behind her ear and bit her lower lip before lowering her gaze.
Belanor nodded back, calm and polite—but there was no invitation in his gaze.
The women giggled softly once they had passed, a bright ripple of amusement echoing in the corridor behind them.
Reiner's eyes followed them, wide and slightly dazed. His steps slowed. For a moment, he forgot the cold mountain air still clinging to his coat.
"They're all…" he began, breath catching.
"Don't embarrass yourself," Belanor muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Reiner coughed and looked away quickly, his cheeks warm.
Serapha glanced sidelong at him, one brow rising, then returned her gaze to Belanor.
"You're not joking," she said, more quietly now. "He really can channel fire."
"He can," Belanor replied, his voice level.
"But it's raw," he added after a pause. "Untamed. He doesn't summon fire so much as it escapes him. What he does now—it's not true fire magic. Not yet."
Serapha frowned. "Then what is it?"
Belanor glanced at Reiner, who walked a few paces behind them now, hands clenched at his sides.
"It's instinct," he said. "A spark caught in grief. Power that surged without instruction. Like a blade in a child's hand—dangerous, but unsharpened."
Serapha folded her arms. "And how long before that changes?"
"That's what I brought him here to find out," Belanor said. "If it can be taught—contained—or if it consumes him first."
She looked back at Reiner again, more thoughtful this time.
"A boy born with fire…" she murmured. "This world has a strange sense of humor."
"For nearly two centuries," Belanor said, his voice low but firm, "we believed the gift of fire was exclusive to the House of Vaktorun. Royal blood. Sacred lineage. Untouchable."
He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Reiner, who walked quietly behind them, his eyes drinking in the stone corridors of Vandera like a forgotten song.
"And yet," Belanor continued, "here he is. A child born of ash and earth. No crown in his veins. No royal seal. Just fire—raw and furious."
Serapha's gaze sharpened as it fell on Reiner. She studied him intently, as though expecting to see some visible mark of chaos beneath the dust and road-worn leather. But he only looked... ordinary. Tired. Curious. Too human.
"I still can't believe it," she said at last. "He doesn't look like a fire-wielder."
"That's what makes him dangerous," Belanor murmured.
He came to a halt beside a tall iron-bound door etched with sigils that glowed faintly under his presence. He placed a hand on the handle, then looked at her, eyes dark with something unspoken.
"There's more," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It isn't just fire he carries."
Serapha tilted her head, uncertain.
Belanor held her gaze. "He's a vessel."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For a demon," he said. "Not the petty shades witches drag from the lower circles. This one is old. Powerful. And not of this world."
The silence that followed was heavy, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Serapha's expression shifted—not fear exactly, but something close. Her breath caught, her jaw stiffened slightly, and her shoulders drew back like she'd just been struck with cold water. Her lips parted, then closed again as she recalibrated her thoughts.
"A demon?" she echoed, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. "Inside him?"
Belanor nodded grimly. "Bound to him. Woven into his magic. I'm still not sure where the boy ends and the demon begins."
Serapha shook her head, eyes narrowing as her mind raced. "How did you even find him? You said… Tar, right? But how—?"
She stopped when Belanor's eyes flicked toward her—hard, cold, final. He didn't speak, but the warning was clear: Not now. Not in front of him.
Serapha's breath hitched, and she nodded slowly.
She understood.
Not here. Not yet. Some truths had claws, and this one still dripped blood.
"You're here for Virelle?" Serapha asked suddenly, shifting the conversation with practiced ease.
Belanor gave a single nod. "I am."
A faint flicker—part curiosity, part warning—crossed her face. She folded her arms loosely, the pale fabric of her mantle whispering against itself.
"I'm afraid the Guildmistress won't be of any use to you right now."
A glint of something—half disappointment, half calculation—passed through Belanor's eyes. He tilted his head slightly.
"Why not?"
"She's in Pagoth," Serapha replied, her tone cool but tinged with something like amusement. "A guest of King Pexus himself—the one who's been turning the Emperor's soldiers into fertilizer."
Belanor exhaled softly through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching.
"Politics in the dark, then," he said. "Typical."
He fell silent for a beat, his eyes narrowing in thought. His jaw tensed ever so slightly, and a shadow crossed his brow—his expression sharpening into something thoughtful, tactical. The kind of look that meant plans were shifting behind his eyes.
Then, looking back to Serapha, he asked, "If Virelle's not here… could you help instead? Help the boy channel it—properly."
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of the lips that lit her already striking features. It wasn't mockery, but something close.
"No can do," she said lightly. "I'm many things, Belanor, but a fire-hand is not one of them."
Belanor opened his mouth to press the point, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
"However," she added, eyes glinting with mischief, "I know someone who might actually have time for your little request."
Reiner raised a brow. Belanor's own expression shifted to wary interest.
"Follow me, gentlemen," Serapha said, already turning.
She pushed open a nearby door—thick, old wood that groaned on its hinges. A gust of cool air flowed in, carrying the scent of pine and distant waterfalls.
"She's outside," Serapha added over her shoulder.
Belanor and Reiner exchanged a glance—equal parts curiosity and caution—before stepping through the doorway behind her.
Outside, the courtyard opened into a clearing bordered by ancient trees and moss-covered stone. The air crackled with residual magic.
A sudden crash snapped their attention upward—followed by a low, guttural grind, like the earth itself groaning in protest.
Three massive rocks hovered above the field, suspended mid-air like forgotten moons. Below them stood a girl, tall and poised, her dark hand raised toward the sky. Her skin gleamed like polished bronze in the filtered sunlight, and her long black braids framed a face both youthful and fierce—beauty carved in focus.
Her eyes narrowed. With a single motion—clean, decisive—she brought her hand down.
The rocks obeyed.
They plummeted with a force that split the air, slamming into a hulking boulder at the clearing's center. The impact echoed like thunder through the mountains—an explosive crack, followed by the deep rumble of stone splitting. The great boulder shuddered violently before it fractured, massive chunks breaking off and tumbling in a cloud of dust and debris.
Reiner flinched. His mouth fell open as he stared, stunned.
"By the moons…" he whispered.
Beside him, Belanor raised a brow, his lips twitching ever so slightly—not quite a smile, but close.
He was impressed.
The girl turned.
Her eyes found them instantly. A grin broke across her face as she ran forward, her steps light but powerful.
"Belanor!" she called, her voice bright as flame.
Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him. Her bracers clinked softly against his robes.
Belanor stood still, stiff as a marble pillar. He did not return the embrace.
"Thamaia," he said coolly, his tone unreadable. "You've grown... into a remarkable mage."
Still holding onto him, she tilted her head slightly and peeked around his shoulder—her eyes landing on Reiner.
A sly smile crept onto her lips.
"And who's the handsome one?" she asked, voice playful.
Serapha, standing a step behind, let out a disapproving chuckle. "Thamaia…"
Reiner, caught off guard, went red in the face and looked at the ground like it might offer him shelter.
Belanor finally took a step back, disentangling from the embrace. He gestured toward Reiner with a slight tilt of his head.
"This," he said, with dry emphasis, "is your new student."
Thamaia blinked, then looked Reiner up and down—first with surprise, then with growing intrigue.
"My student?" she echoed, grinning. "You brought me a magic boy?"
Reiner blinked. "Wait—you're the one who's going to train me?"
Thamaia winked. "Only if you don't faint the first time I throw a mountain at you."