The rain came down like a benediction.
By the time Jaeson's carriage reached the edge of the Mirathen estate, the road had turned to silver mud, and thunder murmured like distant giants across the horizon. Lightning flashed over the wrought-iron gates—tall, black, and laced with runic wards that glowed faintly at his approach. The sigils flickered, recognized him, and the gates groaned open as if sighing, "Welcome home."
Home.
A word he had forgotten the taste of.
Jaeson stepped out of the carriage, the rain kissing his gloves and soaking his dark coat. Before him stood Mirathen Hall—a towering fortress-manor carved from onyx and pale stone, its windows gleaming like the eyes of a slumbering beast. Even in decay, it exuded majesty. Ivy crawled up its walls, lightning etched its silhouette against the night, and the old banners of House Mirathen fluttered from the parapets—silver lions on a field of black.
Waiting under the porch was a woman draped in mourning gray—Aunt Helena Mirathen.
"Jaeson," she called softly, her voice trembling between grief and relief.
He bowed lightly. "Aunt Helena. I came as soon as I received your letter."
She stepped forward, taking his hands in hers. Her skin was cold, her eyes red from crying, but there was a fierce pride still burning behind them. "You have your uncle's eyes," she whispered. "He'd be proud you came."
She gestured toward the open doors. "Come, child. The others have gathered. They await the reading of the will."
"The others?" Jaeson asked, stepping inside.
"The Council of Executors," she replied grimly. "And a few distant relatives who believe they deserve more than they ever earned."
The Hall of Portraits
The air inside was colder than the rain. The great hall of Mirathen was lined with portraits—grim, regal ancestors painted in oil and shadow. Their eyes seemed to follow Jaeson as he passed, their gaze heavy with judgment. The scent of incense mingled with dust, and beneath it all, a faint humming — magic old and deep, resonating in the very walls.
Candles floated along the hall, forming a silent procession ahead of him.
Aunt Helena walked beside him, her expression softening for the first time. "Your uncle often spoke of you, you know. He said you had a mind sharper than most sorcerers he'd met."
"He exaggerated," Jaeson murmured.
"No, child," she said with quiet conviction. "He saw something in you that others refused to see. He always said magic isn't bound to blood or incantation—it's bound to will."
That sounded like James. Eccentric, brilliant, half-mad perhaps—but right more often than wrong.
As they walked deeper into the manor, the low hum grew stronger. It came from below—the vault, he realized. The air carried a pulse, faint but rhythmic, as if something vast and sleeping stirred beneath the floors.
They reached the main chamber—a vast room with a high arched ceiling and walls carved with intricate runic frescoes depicting the history of the Mirathen line. A dozen people were already seated around a long obsidian table, among them two mages from the Wizard Council, the family solicitor, and a handful of opportunistic relatives wearing expressions of false sorrow and thinly veiled greed.
Aunt Helena gestured for Jaeson to sit beside her at the table's end.
At the head stood Lord Valen Craythorne, Executor of the Council, a severe man with a silver beard and an aura of pure authority. "We begin," he announced as Jaeson took his seat. "The last will and testament of Lord James Mirathen, sealed by the High Archivist three months prior to his death."
He produced a crystal orb. Runes lit up around its surface, projecting an image in the air—a shimmering likeness of the late Lord James Mirathen himself.
The ghostly figure smiled faintly. His voice filled the chamber, warm and rasping with age.
"If you are hearing this, then my body has returned to dust, but my work, I hope, endures.
To those who mocked me—thank you. You pushed me to prove you wrong.
To those who envied me—enjoy the taste of ashes.
And to my beloved sister Helena—thank you for never doubting me."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"As for my worldly possessions," the projection continued, "I hereby name my heir and successor… Jaeson Blathazar."
The silence that followed was thunderous.
Every head turned toward him.
"Impossible," someone hissed. "The boy's a Blathazar—he has no magic!"
Lord Craythorne raised a hand for silence. The holographic James went on:
"Yes, I am aware my nephew bears no known magical gift. But he alone possesses what this family has forgotten—the hunger to understand. And that hunger, I believe, will lead him to the truth of what lies beyond the Arcane Veil."
The image flickered, but not before James's last words echoed through the hall like a prophecy.
"Jaeson, when you come to claim your inheritance, descend into the vault beneath the manor. There, my life's work awaits you. But beware—it will test you. Only those who see beyond the illusion of power shall grasp the true essence of it."
The light faded. The orb dimmed.
For a long time, no one moved.
Then, the room erupted.
"This is madness!" cried one cousin. "He's giving the Mirathen Vault to a non-mage!"
"The relics are priceless!" said another. "That vault contains forbidden artifacts—dangerous even to the Council!"
A third sneered openly. "What's next, shall we give a crown to a beggar?"
Jaeson sat silently through it all, his face calm, his eyes distant.
Aunt Helena spoke sharply, her tone cutting through the uproar. "You will hold your tongues. The will is legally bound and sealed by the Council. No one in this room may challenge it."
Lord Craythorne nodded. "That is correct. Lord Mirathen's wishes are final."
The protests died slowly, replaced by a simmering tension that hung like smoke in the air.
Craythorne turned to Jaeson. "You are to take residence here for the next seven days to oversee the transfer of ownership. The vault will open to you alone at dawn tomorrow."
Jaeson inclined his head. "Understood."
He rose from his chair, ignoring the daggered stares that followed him, and walked toward the towering doors at the end of the chamber.
The Vault of Echoes
That night, sleep eluded him.
He found himself wandering the corridors of Mirathen Hall, guided by instinct more than reason. The air grew colder the deeper he went, until he reached the ancient stairway that spiraled down into darkness.
The torches lit themselves as he descended, reacting to his presence. The further he went, the more the hum grew—deeper, stronger, resonating with something inside him.
At last, he reached a massive set of doors made of obsidian and bone, covered in concentric runes that pulsed faintly like veins under skin. In the center was the Mirathen sigil—the winged lion, claws extended, its eyes made of red crystal.
As he approached, the sigil flared to life.
A voice, smooth and mechanical, echoed from the door.
"State your identity."
"Jaeson Blathazar," he replied calmly.
"Bloodline authorization required."
A faint needle of light scanned his palm. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the runes blazed with light, and the great doors began to open, releasing a rush of cold air that smelled of starlight and age.
Jaeson stepped inside.
The vault was vast—cathedral-like, with towering shelves filled with artifacts of every kind: swords that whispered, crystals that pulsed like hearts, books bound in scales and shadow. At the far end stood a pedestal, upon which rested a single orb of translucent blue, swirling with silver mist.
He approached cautiously. The moment his hand neared the orb, a spark leapt between them.
Images flooded his mind—his uncle's memories, fragments of research, glimpses of otherworldly realms. And then, a voice—not his uncle's, but something ancient, buried deep within the orb itself.
"You are not of this world's weave," it whispered. "You see what others cannot. You are the bridge."
Jaeson gasped as energy surged through him, not magical, but psionic—a pressure that split the world into layers of sound and color. His Esper senses awakened fully for the first time since his rebirth. He could see the patterns of magic, the hidden architecture of reality, threads connecting every object, every living soul.
"By the stars…" he whispered. "It's alive."
The orb pulsed again, brighter now.
"Your uncle sought to merge what he could not wield—magic—and what he could not comprehend—mind. He failed. You will not."
The vault trembled. Shelves rattled. The air shimmered with unseen power.
Jaeson stood tall, the storm of psionic energy coiling around him like a living cloak. He felt the pulse of the orb synchronize with his own heart, merging mind and mana into a single stream.
And in that moment, he understood what James had meant by seeing beyond illusion.