London — within a sunlit room of the Clock Tower, warm rays of the setting sun poured in, wrapping the space in a drowsy, honey-colored glow.
Baobhan Sith, who had returned to London with Favia after a full day of travel, should have been exhausted. Yet at this very moment, her mind — which ought to have grown hazy — was instead clear and restless, all because of the man she now saw speaking with Favia.
His long, black hair fell smoothly over one shoulder. His features were handsome yet soft, his bearing elegant and composed — a refinement that could only have come from a noble lineage.
An inexplicable unease and inferiority welled up in the fairy girl's heart. She lowered her head, fidgeting with her fingers, unable to meet his gaze.
Compared to before, her beautiful crimson hair had regained its luster. The bruises and scars on her face had all vanished — the only things still unhealed were her throat and her wounded sense of self.
"I see… so, Favia, you'd like me to treat Baobhan Sith's damaged throat?"
Paracelsus brushed his hair behind his ear and casually patted the wrinkles out of his white coat.
"Though, strictly speaking, with your own ability, you could easily manage that yourself, couldn't you?"
"I lack the experience," Favia replied plainly.
"Well, it's not exactly difficult work… but fine, I'll indulge you. Still, the real issue is — now that you've brought Baobhan Sith back to London, I assume you've found her a place to stay?"
"She's living with me for now."
"Oh?" Paracelsus' tone lifted slightly in amusement, his fingers playfully tapping the rim of his cup. "You mean… the same room?"
His lips curved with mild delight. He hadn't expected that after sending Favia off to the Scottish Highlands, the boy would return with a girl in tow — and from the way Baobhan Sith kept stealing nervous glances at Favia, the answer was already obvious.
"In any case," Favia continued, ignoring his teasing, "I'll be out for a while. Please treat her in the meantime — I'll come pick her up tonight."
He handed Paracelsus a small tool from his pouch on the table, then turned to leave. Though he hadn't addressed her directly, the fairy girl instinctively nodded, her eyes following him until he was gone.
Paracelsus watched Favia's departing back, then turned to her with a light smile.
"He's got magical talent far beyond my own, you know," he said. "But just like when I first met him, he insists on getting involved in all sorts of mundane trades — textile production, wool trade, retail, even shipbuilding. In that sense, he's similar to me — he likes meeting all kinds of people."
Baobhan Sith blinked, puzzled. She didn't quite understand why he was telling her this. He walked toward the window, sunlight spilling over his white coat, and she could only murmur a quiet, uncertain, "Mm…"
"By the way," he said gently, turning to her again, "what do you think of Favia?"
For the fairy girl, this man named Paracelsus always seemed to radiate a starlight-like gentleness whenever he spoke of Favia. His lips would curve in a fond, almost wistful smile — confident yet tender, the smile of a man speaking of a cherished friend.
Even so, the faint prickle of anxiety and self-consciousness still lingered in her chest. She lowered her gaze to her hands and whispered softly:
"Fr… friend…"
"Friend?"
Paracelsus chuckled, amused. He didn't press her further, but he understood well enough what she meant — or rather, what she didn't say. Still, he found the word "friend" to be a rather delicate choice, perhaps too ambiguous to fit the truth.
As one of the Clock Tower's most gifted magi and a man of keen observation, Paracelsus had already noticed the subtle, unnatural marks around her ankles — and from that alone recalled records of a certain species of fantasy-being native to the Scottish Highlands: the blood-drinking fairy.
With that, he easily pieced together the events behind the recent "vampire incident" in Scotland. It wasn't hard to guess that the culprit had been none other than the girl before him. Yet judging from her nakedly visible self-doubt and remorse, it was also clear the affair had likely been a misunderstanding.
And since Favia had chosen not to tell him her true nature, Paracelsus decided he needn't expose it either.
"For what it's worth," he said with a teasing tone, "there are plenty of people here in the Clock Tower who'd love to be Favia's 'friend' — some of them even from families who normally couldn't care less about bloodlines."
He smiled knowingly, his voice carrying both mirth and a hint of something deeper.
"...?"
Under her hood, Baobhan Sith tilted her head slightly, confusion flickering in her red eyes.
"I'm saying," Paracelsus replied with an easy shrug, "it's rare to see him care that much about someone. So—do your best."
With that, he took his seat by the window, opening a book and sipping from his cup, sunlight sliding across his white coat.
"Um..."
The fairy girl, who was starting to feel like she'd been completely forgotten, timidly raised her hand. She pointed at her throat, made a few hesitant gestures, as if to ask: Weren't you supposed to treat me?
"Haha, I can tell you're not comfortable with anyone but Favia touching you," Paracelsus said, his tone soft but knowing. "It's all right. I understand. And honestly, with your natural ability, if you wanted to, you could heal yourself easily enough—even if it's Favia's first time."
As a magus who had long devoted himself to healing, Paracelsus had seen countless forms of suffering. It wasn't hard for him to read her—those faint traces of wounds on her face, the recently restored sheen of her crimson hair, the tension still clinging to her throat—all of them were clearly the marks of human cruelty.
In these harsh times, many children lived through unthinkable hardship. Such pain made them withdrawn, self-loathing, or even violent; their young bodies already bore the scars of a world that had failed them.
To Paracelsus, Baobhan Sith was one of those souls. Her eyes were beautiful, yes—but beneath that brilliance lay the same dull emptiness he had seen in countless others. It was the look of someone who had seen too much grief.
"B-but..."
Her trembling voice cracked. Rejected so gently, Baobhan Sith clutched the hem of her skirt in both hands. Perhaps she felt she had failed the task Favia entrusted her with—and that thought alone made her panic, her breath trembling as if she might cry at any moment.
Even Paracelsus couldn't help but sigh.
He thought, perhaps it would be best to take her back to Favia right away—otherwise, if this kept up, she might burst into tears for real.
Just as that thought crossed his mind—
"Paracelsus."
The door swung open to that firm, disciplined voice.
The one who entered was a young man with flowing blue hair. His age wasn't far from Paracelsus', but his bearing carried an air of grave determination. His eyes scanned the room—passing over the trembling Baobhan Sith—and settled on Paracelsus.
"Hmm. Favia isn't here? I heard he returned today."
"Ah, Machiri. He just stepped out."
At that, the blue-haired man—Makiri Zolgen—cracked his knuckles in mild frustration.
"I see. Then I'll speak to him another time."
Paracelsus raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"You know well enough," Makiri said flatly. "Your conduct these past few years has already irritated the Three Great Families. For your own safety, you should consider joining the Mineralogy Department under El-Melloi. They're in direct opposition to the Families—at least there, you'd be protected."
Paracelsus gave a quiet, thoughtful hum.
By birth, as the heir to a magus family, he should have stood on the side of the Three Great Families. But his ideals—his devotion to using magecraft to heal the common folk—had long since earned their disapproval. Even his own relatives had urged him to abandon "those useless efforts." Yet he continued without hesitation.
The blue-haired man before him, Makiri Zolgen, was still—at this point in time—a noble, honorable idealist. Though his and Paracelsus' philosophies differed, each regarded the other with respect.
"Hah... El-Melloi, you say? So that monarch has come in person?" Paracelsus asked, half-joking.
"Well—" Makiri paused. The truth was, he had been sent on her behalf, though part of him genuinely wished for Paracelsus' safety.
"Regardless," came a calm female voice from behind the door, "it's the conclusion I reached after careful thought. You and Favia—both of you joining El-Melloi's Mineralogy Department—would be the best choice."
The voice was youthful, but composed.
"And what conclusion is that supposed to be?" Paracelsus asked.
Magecraft—an art of mystery, a force that bewitched the human heart, that drew upon supernatural entities and divine power.
In the modern world five centuries later, it would be defined as an "esoteric science." But in this year, 1515, knowledge itself was magecraft.
Before science existed, discovery and invention were the domain—and the pride—of magi. Such knowledge was not to be shared. In ancient civilizations, magi guarded their techniques zealously, concealing them from the public eye.
To hide the arcane, to dwell in shadow, to refine one's craft far from the gaze of the masses—that was how magi survived.
And so, from the Association's perspective, Paracelsus' dream of using magecraft to revolutionize medicine was nothing short of heresy.
"You're both geniuses," the young woman said simply. "You and Favia have the kind of worth El-Melloi would gladly invest in."
A few seconds later, a gleam of gold appeared at the doorway.
A girl stepped inside, sunlight catching in her radiant golden hair and porcelain-white skin, as if she were a living doll. With a refined gesture, she smoothed the hem of her skirt and crossed the room.
It was the current Monarch of El-Melloi, the head of the Mineralogy Department.
The Clock Tower's twelve departments would later be divided into three great factions: Aristocratism, Neutralism, and Populism.
But at this moment in history, due to a series of internal conflicts, only two true factions remained—the El-Melloi faction, and the Three Great Families.
Of the Twelve Departments, five—Zoology, Individual Fundamentals, Archaeology, Curses, and Mineralogy—fell under El-Melloi's banner, opposing the Families' six.
The golden-haired girl's eyes flicked briefly toward Baobhan Sith, who stood trembling in her hood.
"Oh? Is she your guest?"
Baobhan Sith froze, unsure how to respond, and lowered her gaze silently.
"She's someone Favia brought back," Paracelsus replied.
"...Oh?"
The girl smiled faintly, raising one delicate hand.
"Indeed—take off the hood, and she'd be rather adorable. Good."
With a light laugh, she brushed Baobhan Sith's hood, then seated herself with effortless grace.
"Well then, Makiri," she said, turning to the blue-haired man, "would you mind taking Baobhan Sith to find Favia? He shouldn't have gone far."
Paracelsus nodded in agreement, signaling that it was fine.
Naturally, Baobhan Sith—given her timid nature—didn't dare resist. She quietly followed Makiri out, her cloak swaying behind her.
Once the door closed, silence fell over the room once more—until Paracelsus finally spoke.
"I'm a little confused," he said. "Someone of your station doesn't need to come see me personally."
"This morning," the golden-haired Monarch began evenly, "the Council of Lords approved the restoration of all Church-run Inquisitorial Offices on the three islands to the Holy Church."
"In other words," Paracelsus said with surprise, "the Association yielded to the Church?"
It was shocking news. He knew well that years ago, when the French and the Three Great Families had kidnapped the Pope, it had shattered the Church's dignity and drastically shrunk its power.
To see their holdings returned now was nearly miraculous.
"Lyonesse pressed us too far," the girl replied. "If we hadn't agreed, he threatened to abandon Italy and Rome's defenses entirely—letting the Ottoman Empire invade across the sea. If that happened, even the Clock Tower couldn't stand against the curse-users."
Curses—the mysterious arts outside Western and Eastern systems of magecraft—were primarily rooted in Central Asia, and had become the dominant thaumaturgical school of the Ottoman Empire.
Paracelsus understood immediately. In any other era, the Association would never have compromised so easily. But given the Church's fading might and the Ottomans' rise, even the Tower's leaders were forced to consider diplomacy over pride.
Though "curses" were a branch of magecraft, European magi had always looked down on their practitioners. To them, those from the East—say, a Middle Eastern oil baron who relied on "curses"—were beneath the refined art of true thaumaturgy.
But since the Great Schism ended in 1414, the quality of Popes had only worsened, each one more corrupt and greedy than the last. The Tower's lords had once dreamed of the Church's collapse—but the Ottomans' sudden ascent had changed everything.
Magi were frail beings. Though their craft could shape reality, their bodies were still human—and without secrecy, their mystery would die. So while the Ottomans threatened Europe in the physical world, their curse-users now threatened the magical balance of the West.
Neither the Three Families nor El-Melloi dared gamble that this disgraced Pope wouldn't actually abandon Rome for Spain and hand Italy to the Ottomans. And so, they reasoned, returning a few useless inquisitorial offices was a small price to pay.
"I see," Paracelsus said with a faint smile. "After all, both the Association and the Church still share one enemy."
"But afterward," he continued, "the Three Families used that same decision to attack El-Melloi in council, didn't they? And that's why you want Favia?"
"Precisely."
Those Inquisitorial Offices meant little in practical terms—but they were still a matter of pride. And since El-Melloi's past dealings with the Church dated back to Charlemagne's time, the Families had found the perfect pretext to strike.
El-Melloi had no real defense. The Church, still bitter over Avignon, scorned them; the Families' combined pressure left little room to maneuver. And though the ranks of both factions were nearly equal in number, the most influential Departments still belonged to the Families.
"Still," Paracelsus said after a pause, "I don't understand. Why are you so insistent on having Favia join El-Melloi?"
He had wondered this for a long time. Favia's magical aptitude was excellent, yes—but his personality was detached, even indifferent. He barely participated in any research. Why, then, would she—the Monarch of El-Melloi—take interest in someone like him?
After all, geniuses were hardly rare in the Clock Tower.
"Well," she said at last, her smile tinged with a hint of rueful amusement, "I suppose there's no harm in telling you..."
She looked away for a moment, then added softly:
"He may very well be a lost scion of El-Melloi—and his bloodline," her voice lowered, "is purer than even mine."
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Read advanced chapter ahead of everyone else on my P@treon.
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