James...
James...
James.
Every day, that name fades a little more—like wind wearing down the edge of a cliff.
Still here. But not like it used to be.
And in its place, the dreamscape answers louder.
Zeliot.
Zeliot.
Zeliot.
Each time more certain. Like it's trying to overwrite whatever came before.
Every day…
Every day.
It's confusing—having the memories of a man I used to know.
James.
Yet somehow… it's comforting.
When things get tense—when I don't know how to move—those instincts kick in.
They guide me in ways I never could've reacted before. Not as Zeliot.
No.
Not a guide.
I think I'm becoming something else entirely.
It's me, but not.
I… don't know anymore.
But whatever it is—
It helps.
It's what keeps me moving now.
___________________________________________________
ESPERSIA, YEAR 1889
I turned the corner and cut through one of the narrower servant halls. The torchlight buzzed faintly overhead, and the stone beneath my boots felt colder than usual.
It was the day after the encounter with Alba, and I'd just finished my morning training session with Luca.
It had been a particularly light routine by my standards— I'd wager because the summit was coming up.
I guess Luca didn't want to risk injuries at this point. Works for me.
With the extra time that I had been afforded, I figured it would be best to go and have a conversation with Raamiz about last night's events. I had a moment of time before our joint tutoring session at noon.
The only problem? Actually finding him.
I'd already checked Raamiz's quarters. Empty.
Library? No luck.
Garden? Just two bored guards and a mute servant sweeping leaves that didn't need sweeping.
Where the hell was he?
I passed the old study and circled through the side courtyard. Nothing. No sign of him. Our tutoring session was closing in fast, and I wanted to have this conversation as soon as possible.
Then—finally—I spotted him.
Raamiz was walking along the upper hall toward the north wing, hands tucked into his sleeves like he had nowhere important to be.
Of course.
I picked up my pace. "Raamiz."
He didn't stop. Just cut a glance in my direction. "Morning."
"I need to talk to you about last night."
"Then talk." He replied curtly, which slightly surprised me. I tried to ignore it and matched his stride.
"The Duke knows about the note."
I waited for a reaction, but he hardly provided a blink. Alright, I guess.
"He questioned Alba. Thought he was behind the rumor."
I gave another pause, hoping he'd offer a response—or any kind of input. Even a grunt. But still, nothing. Begrudgingly, I continued.
"Alba came to me afterward. Said he suspects me. He had something on him—a scroll. Didn't say what it was, but he made sure I saw it."
This elicited a reaction. Raamiz gave a small nod, barely more than a breath. "Hmm. Interesting."
I stopped. "That's it? That's all you've got to say?"
He continued walking, without a second thought of looking back.
"This is serious," I said, louder now.
That made him turn.
"Zeliot," he said, calm as ever, "it's only as serious as you want it to be."
I stared at him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He held my gaze for a second, then looked away again. He continued walking.
I stood there, still trying to wrap my head around it.
"I trusted your plan," I called after him. "And it seems like it's already gone wrong. And this is all you have to say?"
Again, no answer.
Just the sound of his footsteps fading ahead of me.
Raamiz turned the corner.
Just before he vanished, he glanced back and gave his classic, sarcastic smirk.
That was all I got.
The anger hit fast—tight in my chest, sitting behind my teeth—but I kept it down. Barely.
Whatever.
If he thinks it's not a big deal, maybe it isn't.
Or maybe he knows he doesn't have to answer for it.
Fine. I'll handle it myself.
The clocktower rang. That gave me maybe ten minutes to make it to tutoring with Ms. Mirelle. Plenty of time, but I started walking. Not because I cared about being late—but I needed to move. Standing still would've just made the anger worse.
I turned the corner—and I am hit with yet another unpleasant surprise.
It was Idris. But not in his usual circumstances.
He was alone, with no Gaius hovering close.
This was a rare sight indeed.
Idris didn't notice me at first.
He was reading a scroll while walking, eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open like he was mouthing the words to himself.
I thought about just walking past him, perhaps saving myself from a nauseating conversation. There really is no need to force anything.
But—against better judgment—I spoke up.
"Hello, Idris."
He looked up, a little startled at first, but recovered quickly.
And in a rare sort of way… he looked happy?
"Hey, Zeliot. I hope Father didn't give you a rough time of it yesterday. I asked Alba about it, and he said nothing. Which is never a good sign."
I hesitated.
He's being friendly? Why?
Is this a trick?
It didn't feel like one.
Still—no way I could tell him anything about last night. Duke's orders.
And it'd be better to pretend I never said anything to Raamiz either.
"No, no—it was really nothing. He was just working through some of the summit details. Nothing special."
"Ah. Well, that's good."
A pause.
Neither of us said anything. I wasn't sure if he was waiting on me, or just didn't have anything left to say.
Trying to displace the awkward tension, I broke the silence.
"Wanna walk with me to the tutor? I know Ms. Mirelle likes us early."
"Yes!"
I almost jumped at his response. He answered quick and more enthusiastically than I could have expected.
We walked onward toward the tutor's wing. Idris went right back to reading the scroll in his hands.
I understood it now—why he agreed with such eagerness. He was using me as a guide so he wouldn't have to look up from the scroll he was reading. Efficient, in its own way.
He was so engrossed in the scroll, that after about thirty paces, curiosity got the better of me. I began to casually look over his shoulder to see what it contained, but I realized immediately that casualty was not really an option - he'd notice me immediately. So, I went another route.
"So, Idris. What are you reading there? Seems to have you in a good mood."
He looked up—blinking like he'd just remembered I was still here. And then… was that a blush?
"Oh—well. It's nothing really. Just a letter from a friend of mine. That's all."
Ah. It doesn't take a genius to get what that actually meant.
My brother has a crush.
"Oh, a 'friend,'" I said, dragging the word just a little.
His ears went red. "Yes. A friend."
He clutched the scroll a little tighter, like I might try to snatch it out of his hands.
A pause. Then, more quietly:
"Please don't bring this up to Raamiz."
I had to hold back laughter as I responded.
"I would never be so cruel."
He exhaled, maybe a little too dramatically.
"Thank you."
Young love was truly a funny thing.
We kept walking. Neither of us said much after that. Idris stayed focused on his scroll. I didn't dig any further.
We arrived a few minutes early and stepped into the tutoring room.
It was quiet. As always.
Four desks, evenly spaced, all facing the front. It The room was neatly organized, with no room for decorations to cause distractions. Just a tall slate board, a lectern, and the ticking wall clock that annoyingly spurned in perfect rhythm. The windows were narrow, high, and let in more glare than light.
The room was certainly not built for comfort.
Surprisingly, we weren't the first ones there.
Even more surprising — it was Raamiz.
So he had the time to show up early… but not the time to talk to me?
Really?
He didn't even look up. Just sat calmly, hands folded, like nothing was wrong.
I stared at him, not bothering to hide the frustration on my face.
He glanced over — and gave me a smile.
Bastard. What is he playing at? Is he trying to annoy me?
The door creaked again.
Alba entered, sharp as ever. He looked at Raamiz first, then me
He didn't glare, but he wanted something understood. It wasn't hard for me to figure out what.
He took the seat on the far right.
So, from left to right: Idris. Me. Raamiz. Alba.
I guess no seating arrangement was ever going to leave me comfortable.
A moment later, the tutor walked in.
Thessa Mirelle.
She carried a short stack of books and a thin sheaf of notes, which she set on her desk with practiced precision.
Then she stepped to the lectern and stood still, posture rigid, the morning sun cutting a narrow band of light across the floor. A thick-bound history volume lay open before her, untouched for now.
She glanced up at us briefly, then folded her hands."We're starting immediately. We have a lot to cover, so I expect no interruptions."
With that last line, she shot Raamiz a pointed glare.
Raamiz raised his hands in mock innocence, as if to say, Hey, I'm not gonna do anything.
With that out of the way, Ms. Mirelle clasped her hands, indicating the lecture had started.
"We often speak of history in terms of centuries. Dynasties. Ages. As if the only events worth recording are those buried deep in time—far enough removed that they become abstract."
Her voice carried a rhythm that suggested this was a lecture she'd given before.
"But the truth is this: the most consequential shifts in law, power, and order are often the most recent. Within a generation. Within memory."
She opened the book in front of her.
"I'm sure you've heard, in some form or another, how your father came to hold his title."
A dramatic pause—standard Ms. Mirelle flare. She paced her lectures like stage plays, rising and falling with practiced rhythm, no matter the subject.
"But today we will be going over the specifics—at the behest of your father himself."
She turned the page without looking up.
"Because while we often study history as a sequence of distant consequences, your father's ascension has led to outcomes that remain among the most immediate and structurally defining. In this sense, the philosophical debates surrounding magical restriction—many of which we've discussed previously—become almost irrelevant in the face of lived, violent precedent."
She inhaled sharply.
"This is the unfortunate truth. The root of modern arcane restriction lies not in theory, but in history. Philosophical debates on the nature of magic and its moral consequences have existed for centuries. But regulation—real, enforceable, legal control—was born from a moment of instability. One that occurred just over forty years ago."
"Your grandfather—Duke Emeric Valoria, First of His Name—was a man of honor and strict intuition. The histories claim that he was not particularly warm, nor particularly inventive, but deeply grounded in the belief that power, in the wrong hands, will rot everything around it. He ruled not as a visionary, but as a warden of stability. And so, when it came time to name his successor, he shocked the court."
Upon these final words she surveyed the room, looking and identifying each and every one of us. Clearly there was a further intent behind these words, more than just a retelling of history. She continued.
"He passed over his firstborn son, Aurelian Valoria, despite overwhelming public expectation and despite what many still call one of the most gifted minds of his generation. Aurelian was brilliant—intellectually dominant, magically peerless. He could recite, reconstruct, and reinvent every known spell by the age of fifteen. And yet…"
Her fingers tapped lightly on the wood.
"…he frightened people. Not by what he did, but by how easily he did it. Power seemed not to humble Aurelian but excite him. He spoke too freely of change. Of expanding arcane privileges. Of reforming the House of Prosos into something… less deliberative. More obedient."
She turned another page.
"Emeric saw this. And he chose instead his second son: Kaelor Valoria."
I blinked at the mention of my father's name. It was rare to hear him addressed so, and even rarer to hear a slight tinge of disdain behind it.
"Kaelor Valoria, Second of His Name. Your father."
Thessa let the weight of that linger.
"Kaelor was… reserved. Moderate. Born without any magical aptitude, but endowed with something arguably more dangerous: a reputation for patience. He listened. He rarely offered opinions in court. He made no speeches. No demands. Some saw this as passivity—your uncle Aurelian especially. But Duke Emeric saw something else: a man who would protect the structure of Indra, even at the cost of ambition."
"And while Kaelor lacked the blood-gift of spellcraft, he carried other strengths. A strategic mind honed through relentless study. An affinity for languages and code. A gift for observation—he remembers details most men miss. And more tangibly, he was... formidable with a blade. One of the few in his generation to win a dueling medal at the academy without channeling a single arcane technique."
At this, I noticed her gaze flick toward Alba before continuing on with the next portion of the lesson.
She stepped slowly across the room, voice low but firm.
"When Kaelor was named heir, Aurelian left the capital. It was quiet. Civil, even. He offered congratulations. Said he needed time. For almost a year, there was calm."
A pause. A page turned.
"And then… the War of the Blooded Branch began."
"Aurelian returned, not alone, but with banners. He had formed secret alliances with several noble houses—those descended from ancient magical lineages. They believed the title should have gone to one who could wield magic, not legislate it. They believed Kaelor's lack of magical heritage would end in cultural suppression."
She exhaled.
"They were not entirely wrong."
"The war lasted six months. Long, for a civil conflict. Each battle more brutal than the last. Cities burned. Families split. Entire archives lost. Magic was used in ways it hadn't been since the Old Age—publicly, devastatingly. In one instance, a single sorcerer turned a freshwater river into vapor to cut off supplies to Kaelor's forces. Thousands died of thirst."
Thessa's voice darkened.
"This all happened before your father had even turned eighteen."
Another pause, as if calculating her next words carefully.
"When Aurelian was finally captured outside the city of Virelle, he was offered a chance to surrender. Kaelor met with him personally. Witnesses claim they spoke for over an hour, alone in a war tent, with no scribes present."
I unconsciously leaned forward slightly.
"No one knows what was said. Only that, by dawn, Aurelian was marched before the House of Prosos… and executed by public decree. The records say 'for treason.' Some say it was mercy. Others say Kaelor wept."
She stepped behind the desk again and laid her hand flat on the parchment.
"After the war, Kaelor acted quickly. All noble houses tied to magical dynasties had their titles reassessed. Those found guilty of backing the rebellion were either stripped of their holdings or absorbed into loyalist families. The Ministry of Ethics and Arcana was formed from the ashes of what had once been a ceremonial magical guild."
A glance at Raamiz.
"This is why magic is regulated."
Her voice was soft now, almost on the verge of mournful.
"Not because magic is evil. But because civil war, once tasted, is hard to forget. And your father has not forgotten."
She closed the book.
"So when we speak of modern law—when we study the Code of Arcane Conduct and the restricted training statutes—it is not abstract. It is not a theory. It is the aftermath of a family nearly destroyed by its own blood."
Another dramatic pause.
"Aurelian Valoria died by fire. His final words are not recorded. But it is believed your father once told a minister—quietly, off the record—that he believes Aurelian cast his final spell in that tent. And it wasn't a curse."
"It was a mirror. So Kaelor could see what he had become."
Silence.
Thessa closed the journal and walked to the window, her voice returning to its formal register.
"That concludes today's lesson. Tomorrow, we begin the Doctrine of Selective Licensing and its legal exceptions under wartime protocols."
And just like that, Mirelle began gathering her things, slipping scrolls and a few well-worn books into her sack. The lesson was over. Yet, despite how easily she moved on—as if there was nothing more to say—my mind couldn't have disagreed more. I had something I wanted to say.
I might have been the only one who felt that way. Idris immediately started after the tutor's seat, and with a bit too much urgency. Barely fifteen seconds had passed since the final words, and he was already out the door. I doubted he had listened at all. I could only chuckle to myself—he clearly had his own priorities.
Raamiz had soon followed in his departure. As a means of showing a bit of discourtesy, I stared him down like a wolf does its prey—though perhaps a bit less intimidating. He met my gaze as he passed and, seeming to understand exactly how I felt, gave a quiet laugh to himself.
That only pissed me off more.
Though, that was not all he parted he with. A small item appeared to drop out of his suit pocket.
It hit the floor with a faint clink. A necklace, silver-chained, with a single ruby set into a narrow, oval pendant. The gemstone was deep red, smooth-cut, and cleanly polished, glinting once in the corridor light before settling still. It looked familiar…
"Raamiz," I called out, standing up to pick it up. "You dropped something."
He turned, only for a glance, and gave me a familiar grin.
"I gotta run, brother. Just come and drop it off at my room later tonight."
And without waiting for a response, he disappeared around the corner.
I sat back down and gave the ruby a closer look. Upon closer inspection, I realized that this was the necklace Raamiz had been wearing at last night's short lived dinner.
The stone didn't appear solely decorative—it was etched. Faint lines, barely visible unless held at the right angle, cut across the surface like a web of hairline fractures, but the marks were too deliberate to simply be damage. Symbols, maybe. Whatever they were, they didn't belong on jewelry meant to impress a ballroom.
It was clear to me immediately: this necklace wasn't dropped by accident. Raamiz was never known for being clumsy. Nor did it make any sense for him not to just take it back from me then and there. He was planning something—and this necklace was part of it. A tired sigh nearly escaped my lips. I was really starting to get sick of his scheming. But for a meeting with him tonight, I'd play along. For now.
Still, pondering Raamiz's potential plans would currently have to take a backseat.
All that remained in the room were me, Alba, and of course, our tutor. The only sound that filled the space was the faint rustling of her quills being filed away—brought out earlier, apparently for no real reason. Or maybe she was intentionally setting things out only to put them back in. Her earlier pace of packing up had suddenly slowed, as if she knew I had something I wanted to ask. It was like she was saying, "Get up and pester me already!"
Yet I remained seated. Alba, just to my right, did the same. He sat slouched, one arm raised to his chin, staring directly at the ceiling. In a previous life, I heard that elite chess players visualized their moves on the ceiling above them. Maybe that was how Alba processed everything: a strategist's method of distilling thoughts into a single coherent line. I was probably reading too much into it.
Still, it was clear he was deep in thought, and the longer he sat there, the more obvious it became that he was likely thinking the same thing I was.
The lecture brought many questions to the forefront—the timing of it, the fact that the Duke had specifically requested it, and even the way Ms. Mirelle had chosen to deliver it stood out.
But none of those were the reason I remained seated.
It was a small point in the grand scheme of things, but one that cast a different light on recent events. Specifically between me, Alba, and, of course, our father.
If Alba and I had both come to the same realization, then trying to outlast each other was pointless. Almost as if on cue, Alba turned from his settled pose and looked directly at me. I met his gaze. Despite the tenacious conversation we'd had just last night, an immediate understanding passed between us. A small nod followed.
We would ask the same question—together.