(AN: please read the authors note Thoughts at the end)
🌿 Subtle Explorations of Verdant Magic
Ethan stood quietly in the gentle glow of his sanctuary, breathing deeply as the lingering excitement of naming his magic settled into something steadier. He could feel clearly now that he was at the threshold of something vast—his Verdant Arts awaited careful exploration, methodical tests, and patient discovery.
The air was quiet, pulsing faintly with ambient life—the vines along the walls hummed low, dormant but aware. The soil beneath him seemed to hold its breath.
A cautious curiosity stirred inside him as his thoughts briefly wandered back to the stories and worlds he'd loved in his previous life. Harry Potter. Doctor Strange. Fairy Tail. Magi. Could those imaginary universes—crafted by fiction but rich in system and feeling—help guide the careful evolution of his own magic?
He took a gentle breath, deciding to attempt only minimal tests—brief and careful—to see if the basic elements of those worlds' magic aligned with his Verdant Arts. Nothing advanced. Just conceptual sketches.
But first, he needed a place to record them—not just thoughts, but emotional feedback, subtle impressions, theoretical links.
He reached inward, into the familiar weight of the Tome inside him.
It stirred—responding to his intent.
Not with instructions, but with shape.
Before him, threads of green-gold light unraveled into view, coiling in the air like living script. They formed a hovering plane of interwoven symbols—organic and shifting. It resembled a grimoire without pages, a spell journal woven from light, thought, and emotion.
He reached out, letting his fingers brush the edge.
The construct reacted to his touch, gently blooming into a multi-layered matrix—a space where memories could be stored, notes could be etched by thought alone, and ideas could evolve. It was his personal Verdant Codex—a magical journal sealed within the Tome, linked only to him, impervious to time or theft.
Its first entry sparkled into being before him: a floating title glyph that shimmered with instinctual naming.
Experimental Branch: Cross-System Compatibility
Ethan gave a faint, almost amused smile.
"Alright. Let's try something simple."
He sat down within a shallow spell-circle, tracing a few simple Verdant glyphs in the soil with his fingertip. They pulsed faintly in acknowledgment—his framework was active.
Harry Potter.
Not the flashy incantations—but the runes. The ancient system buried beneath the surface lore. The world his mother had read to him from when he was too young to pronounce Hermione's name right.
He remembered the rune for light. It had a specific angle to it—meant to draw illumination from the invisible into the seen.
He summoned its memory now, mentally projecting it into the Verdant Codex.
The glyph formed in front of him—slightly out of sync with his Verdant syntax, but not incompatible.
He breathed out slowly and placed it gently into the center of his circle. He layered it with one of his own glyphs for "pulse" and another for "radiate."
The combined glyph hummed.
"Lumos."
The light was faint—but it appeared.
It didn't burn like wandlight. It glowed like a firefly's belly—gentle, natural, responsive to breath and calm thought. A synthesis.
Not perfect.
But promising.
Within the Verdant Codex, new notes unfolded automatically, capturing his impressions.
System: Harry Potter (Branch: Ancient Runes)
Viability: High (within rune subclass)
Compatibility: Moderate with glyph-rooted Verdant logic
Limitation: Must translate spell concepts into Verdant-based elemental emotional structure
Future Potential: Warding runes, energy conduits, defensive architecture
Ethan leaned back, watching the light hover in the air, faintly pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
If this works… he thought, maybe there's a way to translate other branches too. Wand-based spellcasting, for example. If I understood the underlying magical resonance behind the wood and core—
He cut the thought off before it ran too far.
Too vague. Too early. But the idea had taken root.
If the runes proved stable, and he could develop a conduit—some kind of Verdant Wand bound to his system rather than borrowed from Hogwarts lore—he might open a door to entire branches of spellcasting. Levitation. Shields. Transfigurations, even.
Not yet, he reminded himself. But maybe… eventually.
He whispered a new phrase into the Codex as the rune-light dimmed.
Speculative Entry:
Verdant Conduits (Wand Equivalents)
Status: Too early. Rune bridge must be stable first.
Notes: Future crafting concept — organic cores? Emotion-attuned vessels?
Ethan exhaled through his nose, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
This was what the Verdant Arts would be—not mimicry, but evolution. Taking inspiration, examining the foundations, and shaping something uniquely his.
Marvel's Mystic Arts came next.
He didn't attempt the flashy gestures or sling-ring portals of the Masters of the Mystic Arts—not yet. But he remembered something Wong once said in a documentary he'd watched in his old world: "Magic is the language of the universe, spoken with intent, shaped through will, stabilized by geometry."
That phrase struck Ethan deeply now. It almost felt like the Tome had left that door cracked open.
He stepped into a larger section of the chamber and traced a wide circular formation onto the stone—sprawling sigils and mathematical arcs, half memory and half intuition. The Verdant Codex recorded each motion, gently adjusting angles when his memory faltered.
Let's see if geometry sings here too, he thought.
As he finished the final arc, he infused it with Verdant flow—life force, not flame or fury. The glyphs pulsed, then stabilized into a hovering orange-green formation that shimmered just above the circle.
It didn't spark or unfold into a portal.
But it hummed. Like a tuning fork waiting to be struck.
System: Marvel (Branch: Mystic Arts – Geometric Invocation)
Viability: Moderate
Compatibility: High potential when reshaped through Verdant harmonics
Note: Focus required on anchoring spells through life-based geometry, not dimensional catalysts
Future Concept: Potential bridges to mirror dimensions? Illusions? Environmental cloaking?
The geometric disc shimmered and slowly dissolved as the energy dispersed.
Not quite a success—but not a failure either.
Then came Fairy Tail.
He smiled faintly, remembering those chaotic duels and stylized spells. But he wasn't here to replicate the full flair. He chose something basic—Ice Make Magic. It relied heavily on imagination, visualization, and elemental anchoring.
Ethan took a kneeling position, his hand over a cold section of stone. He focused on his memory of a simple construct—a small ice shield, round and rough. He pictured every detail. The thickness. The glitter. The edge.
Then, using a trio of Verdant glyphs—Structure, Chill, and Preserve—he pressed down.
The stone steamed lightly, and a translucent, frosted circle bloomed slowly outward from his palm, hardening along the center. It wasn't elegant—it resembled a child's finger-paint version of a proper spell—but it was solid.
Functional.
Not just projection, but construction.
System: Fairy Tail (Branch: Ice Make, Constructive Magic)
Viability: Strong in elemental branches
Rhythm: High dependency on vivid, disciplined imagination
Verdant Integration: Moderate success through glyph-composite conjuring
Thoughts: This style feels like sculpting frost with your will. Very tactile. Could lead to architecture spells.
Ethan brushed the ice, watching it dissolve back into steam.
His heart fluttered with excitement—but he restrained it. This wasn't a moment for ego.
It was for building.
A breath passed. And with it came a quiet resolve to pause these active tests.
Instead, he summoned the Codex again, drawing forth a new mental scroll—one for speculative entries. No spells. Just possibilities.
He thought of Magi—of Rukh, and the Dungeon Systems, and the fluid divine-script logic of that world.
System: Magi
Initial Thought: Potential insights for divine layering and Rukh harmony
Limitation: Incompatible at current understanding; translation into Verdant Magic unclear
Future Use: Long-term research; examine for mass energy harmonization or divine logic clusters
Then he shifted to The Irregular at Magic High School—a system rooted in breaking physics through coded sequences.
It felt closer to what he was already doing.
System: Irregular at Magic High School
Note: Sequence logic + syntax modification similar to advanced Verdant branching
Potential Use: May accelerate development of time-delay effects or density-based environmental shaping
Research Priority: Medium-High
Then lastly, Black Clover.
System: Black Clover
Note: Grimoires serve as manifestation of personal fate + resonance
Speculative Insight: If he could construct a living Codex tied to growth cycles, could emulate grimoire-like storage
Limitation: High concept; no practical method of auto-page generation or spell uniqueness at current level
Future Viability: Very low (for now)
With those entries recorded, the Codex dimmed and folded back into the Tome's inner sanctum. Ethan could summon it anytime—but for now, the glyphs disappeared like fireflies scattering into starlight.
He exhaled.
Enough theory. Enough testing.
The experiments had sparked a hundred new paths—but each would need time, depth, and diligence. That would come later.
For now… silence.
🌒 Echoes of Long Past Shadows
The glyphs dimmed to a sleepy shimmer above his head, and the sanctuary settled into stillness again.
Ethan exhaled slowly, lowering his hand. He had tested what he needed for now. Harry Potter's runes... Marvel's mystical resonance... the raw visual intensity of Fairy Tail's projection-based magics — each was a question answered only half-way. But even that was enough. He had notes. He had direction.
But now, the silence around him wasn't filled with curiosity or code.
It was filled with memory.
His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling lightly against his thigh. The scent of damp stone and the ever-present pulse of life in the earth whispered beneath him.
He should've been thrilled — he had named his magic, begun forming a codex of power entirely his own.
But in this moment… it only made him think of the people who'd never get to see it.
A long breath escaped him as he sat back against one of the vine-woven walls. His sanctuary responded, the roots shifting to cradle him slightly — almost like the earth was listening.
And maybe it was.
Images surfaced unbidden. No incantation needed to conjure them. No glyphs. Just memory.
His father — James Carter — came first. Towering but soft-spoken. Witty, grounded, with the quiet confidence of someone who never needed to raise his voice to be heard. A brilliant mind in architecture and mechanical design, but he'd walked away from it all to chase the scent of grease and oil, to rebuild the world one engine at a time.
Ethan was eleven during their camping trip — just the two of them. No phones, no distractions. Just firelight, grilled hot dogs, and the hiss of pine needles under their boots. That night they'd lain under the stars, James pointing out constellations while Ethan asked questions about space and purpose and dreams.
His father had only smiled, quiet for a while, and then said, "Doesn't matter what you do, Ethan. As long as it makes you feel alive."
Ethan blinked against the warmth pressing at his chest.
He'd been fifteen when his dad gave him the car — a dusty, beaten 1967 Impala with a sagging frame and broken spirit. They rebuilt it together over that entire summer, his dad explaining every bolt and gear. It wasn't about the car. It was about them.
His mother's face came next. That warm, knowing smile. Eyes that understood him even when he didn't speak.
She introduced him to the books that shaped his imagination — Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, The Lord of the Rings, Pegasus. She had a way of making the worlds come alive just by reading them aloud.
They'd spend entire weekends curled up on the couch, reading side by side. When he was small, he'd press into her arms as she read the first few chapters of The Sorcerer's Stone aloud. As he grew older, they'd read in tandem, trading pages and theories, sometimes debating character motivations late into the night.
She saw him—always. Even when he tried to hide. Even when the void started to creep in. She'd just look up from her book and say—
"You're thinking too loud again."
Ethan swallowed hard.
He had found The Magicians on his own. Later on, in his teenage years — a show darker and stranger than the stories he'd grown up with. It unsettled him, but something about its themes — about fractured people wielding overwhelming power in a world that didn't care — had stuck with him. That series had become an anchor during his lonelier nights, and now, pieces of its philosophy shaped the questions he asked of his own magic.
Then came Claire.
His sister. His storm.
Bright, sharp-tongued, and competitive to the core. When she wasn't beating him in piano duets, she was painting galaxies on her bedroom ceiling or destroying world records on anonymous gaming leaderboards.
(AN: there's a short mention of a competition here that Ethan takes part in, i will be doing a more in-depth section further down which includes other POVs as well)
There was a competition once — Ethan had played in front of a thousand people. He won, of course. Standing ovation. Perfect scores. Three special awards, including Pianist of the Year.
And yet...
He had walked backstage afterward, trophies in hand… hollow.
Until Claire hugged him from behind, laughing. "You looked like a haunted prodigy up there. You should see your serious face. It's terrifying."
He'd laughed then, for real.
She grounded him.
Even her pranks had been surgical in their precision. The salt in his coffee. The glitter bomb that exploded the day before finals. The fake 'leaked' video of him doing vocal warm-ups. Ethan had pretended to hate it. But truthfully… she made everything feel more alive.
And now…
They were gone.
Not dead.
But unreachable.
Ethan stared up at the moss-lined ceiling of his sanctuary. The glyphs still shimmered faintly, like stars blinking behind soft green clouds. His fingers twitched, then slowly lifted to summon the glowing thread of his note-space once more — the mental journal gifted by the Tome.
A pulse of light hovered before him. Untouchable but present.
He stared at it for a while, then spoke aloud — softly, to no one.
"I don't know if you'll ever see this."
His eyes dropped.
"But maybe someday… maybe I'll find a way to bring you here."
And for a heartbeat — just one — the roots around him stirred.
🎼 Performance Begins
The hush in the auditorium was absolute.
Ethan stepped out onto the stage, shoes gliding across polished wood, the lights overhead turning his shadow into something long and weightless. Rows of expectant faces blurred into one another beneath the stage glow — judges, critics, family, strangers.
He didn't acknowledge any of them.
His gaze was fixed on the piano.
A black Steinway grand, gleaming beneath the lights like a relic from another world. It sat waiting — silent, composed, ageless.
His fingers twitched.
Focus.
He bowed, the motion instinctive. Applause followed, brief, respectful. He turned, sat down, and placed his hands on the keys.
For a moment, the hall held its breath.
Then—
The first note fell like a whisper of memory. Soft. Delicate. Full of meaning.
From the very first phrase, emotion flowed like water.
The music was alive — swelling with tension, unraveling in aching moments of vulnerability, lifting into crescendos that seemed to grasp for light in some unseen sky. Every phrase Ethan played shimmered with feeling. Longing. Nostalgia. Joy.
And those watching?
They felt it.
The audience was pulled into his world without even realizing it — drawn into a place where every note seemed to carry a story, every silence a breath between unspoken truths.
His body moved with the music — graceful, natural — like he wasn't just playing the piano, but conversing with it. Pleading. Remembering. Reaching.
But inside?
Inside, the void never left.
He could express joy, love, pain, awe. He could craft emotion into shape, pour it from his fingertips like light through stained glass.
But none of it reached him.
Not fully.
A shadow lingered beneath it all — quiet, cold, constant.
Sometimes it faded. Sometimes, when the melody swelled just right, when the tempo soared, he could almost believe he felt something real.
But it always came back.
That persistent ache — that hollowness he couldn't name. The sense that something fundamental was missing. That no matter how beautiful the music, no matter how many people wept or applauded or called him gifted…
He remained untouched.
And yet, he kept playing.
Not for the applause.
Not for perfection.
But because this — this moment — was the closest he ever came to feeling whole.
The music shifted into a passage that reminded him of afternoons with his sister. The way they'd sit side by side, elbows nudging, trying to outplay one another. The memory pressed into the melody, gave it shape. Texture. Weight.
His fingers hesitated — a tremor in the rhythm.
But then he pushed on, shaping the next phrase with aching beauty.
His heart was full.
His soul was quiet.
And the void?
It watched from the edges of the light.
🎵 The Void Between Notes
The spotlight remained fixed on Ethan's silhouette. But inside, the light was dimming.
As his fingers moved flawlessly, telling stories in crescendos and diminuendos, the stage around him seemed to blur. Time no longer advanced in seconds. It swayed in the rhythm of his left hand, bent in the rise and fall of every chord.
He blinked.
And the world shifted.
He wasn't on the stage anymore.
The piano remained beneath him, but the world around had changed—dim, vast, and echoing. A still place where everything was built from silence and shadow. A mental plane formed from the music itself.
Here, the void waited.
Not a monster. Not a wound.
Just… absence.
A pale mirror of himself stood across the keys. Same face. Same suit. But the eyes were gray, unfocused—emotionless.
"You still can't feel it," the shadow-Ethan said, tilting its head. "Even now."
Ethan didn't answer. He just kept playing.
The notes shimmered around them in abstract colors—blues for sorrow, reds for longing, golds for clarity—but they all faded into grayscale as soon as they left his hands.
"People are crying out there," the shadow whispered. "You moved them. Changed them. But here you are—still empty."
"I'm trying," Ethan said softly. "I want to feel it."
The shadow looked at him with quiet understanding. "You always try. That's what makes it worse."
And Ethan hated that it was true.
He poured feeling into every measure. He sculpted emotions from sound. He told stories no one else could tell. But deep within, something always stood between him and the warmth others found in his art.
A veil.
A barrier.
A void.
"I love this," Ethan said, his voice tight. "I've given everything to it. My time. My heart."
"And yet?" the shadow asked.
"I still don't know what it means to me."
A silence settled, weighty and cold.
Then the shadow walked toward him—no malice, no threat. Just presence.
"You play like someone searching," it said, softly. "Not like someone who's found anything."
Ethan blinked away the sting in his eyes. "So what do I do?"
"Play," the shadow said. "Not for them. Not to prove anything."
A pause.
"Play because somewhere in all this... you hope something answers back."
🎵 A Song for the Quiet Places
The mental plane dissolved like smoke.
The spotlight returned. The stage was still. The piano waited.
And Ethan played.
The notes didn't change. The score was the same. But the way he touched it — that shifted. Not toward clarity or catharsis. But toward honesty.
He couldn't fake joy, so he didn't try. He didn't force feeling into his fingers. He let the music speak the way he always had: from somewhere deeper than his voice could ever reach.
The audience wouldn't know the difference.
But he did.
He pressed through the final passage with steady, reverent pacing. It wasn't explosive. It wasn't divine.
It was true.
And when the last note faded into silence, Ethan let his hands fall away from the keys… and stayed still.
The world didn't move right away.
Then—
Applause. Deafening. Rising like a wave.
Some were crying. Others were frozen. A few stood already.
He didn't register any of it.
Not until Claire tackled him backstage.
"You idiot," she laughed, hugging him from behind. "You looked like a haunted prodigy up there. You should see your serious face. It's terrifying."
He blinked — then laughed too.
Not because he felt triumphant.
But because, for one moment, he felt seen.
And that was enough.
🏆 Awards and Warm Lights
Ethan stood at the front of the grand hall, lights still dizzy in his eyes, holding his certificates in shaking hands. The announcer read them out like legend.
"First place — The International Chopin Competition."
"Pianist of the Year."
"Chopinist of the Season."
"Versatile Pianist — unanimous decision."
Photos were taken. Praise was given. Questions asked. Microphones shoved toward him.
He barely answered.
His eyes kept drifting offstage — where his parents and Claire stood, proud but holding back to give him the spotlight.
When it was all done, when the stage cleared and the lights went cold, he walked down the steps into their arms.
His father clapped him on the shoulder with that quiet, steady pride. "Damn fine job, son."
His mother cupped his face with both hands. "I told you the world would hear you one day."
Claire just grinned. "Still think you're better than me? Rematch, loser."
He laughed again — but this time it caught in his throat. His chest swelled with something complicated.
Joy.
Gratitude.
A shadow of sorrow.
Even then — even now — the void didn't leave. It never had.
But in that moment, it didn't matter.
He wasn't trying to be happy.
He was trying to be whole.
And maybe, in those brief heartbeats between spotlight and silence...
He was.
---
🌙 Echoes from the Crowd
---
🎹 Claire's POV
Claire leaned forward in her seat, her hands white-knuckling the edge of the armrest. She'd seen Ethan perform hundreds of times — at home, at small recitals, even local competitions.
But not like this.
Not on a world stage. Not beneath lights that felt like they were made for gods.
He looked calm up there. Too calm.
She watched his face the entire time — and not once did it crack. Not once did it shine with the joy he used to have when they played together on stormy afternoons.
He moved like a phantom. Not stiff — elegant. Controlled. Effortless.
But empty.
She knew what it meant. Knew that look — the look of someone who was going through the motions because not going through them hurt worse.
Still… when the piece shifted, when the tempo dipped and rose again, she saw it — a flicker. Not a smile. Not a tear.
Just presence.
For a few short moments, Ethan wasn't just playing the piano.
He was in it.
And when it ended, when he sat still as the crowd exploded, she wanted to scream. Because they were clapping for the notes. For the perfection. For the brilliance.
But none of them knew how hard it was for him to even feel anything.
None of them had stayed up with him while he sat silently at the piano at 2 a.m., hands hovering over keys he wouldn't press. None of them had seen him drift away mid-conversation, lost to something he couldn't name.
Claire's throat tightened as she applauded too. Not for the performance.
For him.
Because he had fought something tonight.
And she saw him win.
Even if no one else could.
🛠️ Father's POV – James Carter
James stood tall, arms folded, not cheering like the others — just watching.
His son was a storm bottled in silence. Always had been.
When Ethan was younger, he'd never known how to explain what went on inside. But James had seen it in his eyes — the pressure, the weight. And more than once, he'd found him sitting in the garage, staring at the old Impala's engine like it might offer him answers.
James never asked questions he didn't need answers to.
But he remembered.
He remembered the night Ethan cried without making a sound, and the day he put that piano trophy in the backseat of the half-finished car and whispered, "It doesn't feel like anything."
And now — seeing Ethan up there?
James didn't cheer.
He just nodded.
And whispered to no one, "I'm proud of you, son. Even when it hurts."
📚 Mother's POV – Rachel Carter
Elena dabbed the corner of her eye with a tissue she didn't even remember pulling out.
Her son had always felt too big for this world — like he carried old songs inside him from some place no one else could reach.
She remembered reading to him on rainy afternoons, the way his head would rest against her shoulder as she read about dragons, wizards, gods and heroes.
And now…
He looked like all of them.
Not because of the applause.
But because of the quiet afterward.
Because in that stillness, she saw the boy who used to hum quietly at the window while rain tapped the glass.
He hadn't smiled once during the performance.
But he didn't look broken either.
Just… distant.
But still hers.
She smiled through tears, murmuring to herself: "You found your voice, baby. I just hope one day, you find your joy."
🎭 Judges and Audience Fragments
A middle-aged woman clutched her chest as she whispered to the stranger beside her, "I've never cried during a piano performance before… but something about that felt like it was telling my whole life story."
One of the judges leaned back slowly in his chair, blinking. "At first, I thought he was just technically brilliant. But the second half? It was like the music stopped being about perfection and started telling the truth."
Another murmured under her breath, "I've listened to hundreds of performers. Some aim for beauty. Others for power. But this… this was something else entirely. Like he was showing us something sacred — and we weren't meant to fully understand it."
A man in the fourth row wiped his eyes discreetly. "I couldn't breathe for half of it. Every note hit like a memory I didn't know I had."
In the balcony, a young aspiring pianist just stared, stunned. "That wasn't a performance," he said quietly. "It was a journey."
One of the jurors, still stunned, finally leaned toward the head judge. "Mark my words," she whispered. "We just witnessed history."
🌙 A Quiet Celebration
Later that night, after the applause had faded and the stage had emptied, the Carter family slipped away from the noise and lights to celebrate the way they always did—together, quietly, meaningfully.
They ended up at a small 24-hour diner tucked between a pair of sleepy storefronts, the kind with cracked leather booths, laminated menus, and a jukebox that hadn't worked right since the 80s. The neon lights outside flickered with soft hums, painting the windows in pinks and blues.
Ethan sat across from Claire, his competition medals resting on the table beside a plate of waffles. She kept stealing his fries when she thought he wasn't looking.
"You're terrible at hiding things," he murmured, not looking up.
Claire grinned. "You're just terrible at sharing."
Their parents sat in the booth beside them—their dad nursing a steaming mug of black coffee, their mom with her hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea. Their dad raised a toast with his mug, voice light but proud.
"To our terrifyingly talented son," he said, eyes twinkling, "who may or may not be an actual piano sorcerer."
Ethan chuckled quietly.
His mom reached across the table and brushed his knuckles with her fingers. "You were breathtaking," she said, and there was that warmth in her voice again—the kind that settled right into the center of your chest. "You made the whole world stop."
For a while, they just talked—about anything and everything. About the funny faces in the audience. About Claire's newest painting that she'd accidentally smudged with pizza grease. About how the diner's jukebox was haunted by the ghost of old rock and roll.
And somewhere between the laughter and stolen fries and his mother humming along to a Sinatra song she loved, Ethan caught himself… smiling.
Not the practiced, polite kind. Not the one he put on for interviews or judges.
But the real kind. The kind that crept up on you when you weren't looking.
That night, as they drove home in the Impala he and his dad had rebuilt together—with the windows down and the warm summer wind rushing through—Ethan leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes.
For that moment, he wasn't haunted by the void.
For that moment… he was home.
🌌 From Then to Now
And then, like a film reel reaching its final frame, the memory unraveled.
Ethan blinked.
The smell of the diner faded. The warm wind in his hair was gone. He was no longer leaning against the backseat window with Claire asleep beside him.
Instead, he sat in silence—real, present silence—beneath the curved ceiling of his underground sanctuary. The vine-wrapped chamber hummed faintly with ambient life, bioluminescent moss casting soft blues and greens along the curved stone.
His breath came a little slower than before. The memory had dug deep.
He looked down at his hand—still smudged faintly with the greenish afterglow of the glyphs he had summoned earlier. A language he was still learning. A world he was still trying to claim as his own.
His other hand touched his chest for a moment.
Not for the pain. But for the echo.
The echo of that diner. That old car. The warmth of his mother's voice, the dry humor of his father, the way Claire always poked holes in his seriousness.
They were gone.
But the love… hadn't left him.
He stood slowly, joints stiff from sitting too long in the cradled roots of the wall. His sanctuary pulsed gently in response to his movement, moss brightening slightly with his passing.
But the air was thick now—not with magic, but with thought.
He needed air.
Not the filtered, root-scented oxygen of his underground retreat—but real, sharp, city air. Noise. Light. Life.
Maybe a walk beneath the stars he used to read about in fantasy books as a boy.
Ethan gathered his coat from the nearby ledge, brushed the dust from his sleeves, and stepped toward the exit chamber. As he passed the runes still drifting in orbit from his last test, he gave them a passing glance.
Verdant Magic.
Verdant Arts.
The future.
But for tonight… he just needed to breathe.
And remember who he was fighting to become.