The evening air hangs still in the courtyard as we finish our practice for the day. My body is sore, but I push through the exhaustion, determined to keep pushing my limits. Ramon stands beside me, looking every bit as tired, but there's a spark in his presence — an eagerness I can feel in the way his mana swirls around him. He's always ready for more, always wanting to be better.
But there's something more today. Father and Mother have been talking in the library for the last hour, their voices just loud enough for me to hear. And when I step inside to find them, both of their gazes turn toward me, a strange weight in the air. It's different from the usual discussions, where Father's stern demeanor is met with Mother's gentle reassurance. There's something else now, something I can't quite put my finger on.
Mother shifts a little, tucking her hair behind her ear as she steps toward me, a softness in her voice. "Annabel, come here, darling."
I move toward her, the sound of my footsteps quiet against the floor. Her hands brush over my shoulder as she speaks, as if searching for something to say. "Your father and I have been discussing the training grounds," she begins slowly. I can feel the hesitation in her words, and my heart picks up its pace.
Father clears his throat from the nearby chair, looking up at me with those serious, calculating eyes of his. "It's dangerous, Annabel. You know that. The training grounds are no simple place."
I nod, my hands tightening around the hilt of the practice sword I've been using for the past few weeks. "I know. But I'm ready."
There's a pause. I can almost feel the weight of the decision in the room. Father and Mother exchange a look — one that says everything and nothing at the same time. Finally, Father speaks, his voice steady but with a quiet force behind it.
"We're not saying no," he says, his tone even. "But we won't let you go until you've had a chance to celebrate your tenth birthday."
My heart skips a beat. "But… we can leave as soon as I'm ready! You said—"
Father raises his hand, the gesture one of finality. "You've trained hard. I see that. But you only turn ten once, Annabel." His voice softens, just a touch. "We'll agree to the training grounds, but you need to be patient. We'll wait until after your birthday. It's important."
I swallow, the weight of those words sinking in. "But I've already waited so long…" I trail off, feeling the sting of impatience and anticipation.
Mother smiles gently, her hand resting on my arm. "I know, sweetheart. But you deserve to have a moment of peace. A moment to enjoy being a child, even if just for a little while longer."
"And then after that," Father adds, his voice firm, "you can go. But we'll be sure you're ready first."
I sigh, feeling both the relief and the weight of it all. They're agreeing. But not yet. Not until I'm ten. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I want to leave now, to begin the next stage of my journey. But I can feel the care behind their decision, and despite my impatience, I know they're right.
Ramon speaks up, his voice carrying a bit of humor to it. "Well, I guess that gives us a bit more time to get stronger, huh?"
I smile, grateful for the change in tone. "I'm not going to wait around doing nothing, if that's what you mean."
Ramon chuckles. "Yeah, I've noticed. I'm already feeling the strain from your training."
Mother laughs softly at that. "Maybe you should take a break too, young man. Annabel's not the only one who needs rest."
I shake my head. "I won't take a break. I'll train with Ramon every day if I have to."
Father gives me a nod of approval, his voice firm. "Good. But after today, we'll give it a rest for a while. You're going to need the strength for what's to come."
The tension in my chest eases, and I nod. The decision is made, and there's a bittersweet sense of relief in it. I have four months. Four months until my tenth birthday, until I'm allowed to head to the training grounds.
Four months.
Father and Mother's agreement—four months until my birthday, until I can take that final step toward the training grounds—sits with me like a heavy promise. It's not an easy wait.
The days drag and blur, each one a rhythm of training that never quite matches the intensity I crave. Ramon, steady and dependable as he is, just doesn't push me enough. He's strong, yes, but he's not a match for me anymore. Our sparring matches have grown too predictable, too easy. I hold back, out of respect for him and for the people who watch us, but it's not enough to challenge me.
The thought of the training grounds keeps me going. That's where the real trials are—where I'll finally face challenges I can't predict, where I can put all the skills I've honed to the test. But for now, I'm stuck here, my body aching with the hunger for something more, my mind restless with the weight of what's to come.
Training with Ramon is fine, but it's not what I need. I need the training grounds. I need the unknown.
And yet, it's not just about the physical training. It's the quiet moments where I stand alone, my blindfold tight against my face, and I listen to the world. I listen to the whispers of the wind in the trees, the hum of mana that pulses through the air like an invisible current. My hands have learned the art of reaching out, tracing the faintest contours of energy. The outlines of people around me have grown sharper, clearer. I no longer need to fumble through the world. I can feel it, hear it.
The whispers of the world outside these walls are louder now. I can feel the rising tension in the air. The devils… they're growing closer, but still, they remain a threat on the horizon, a shadow I cannot yet touch. I know that I have one task ahead: prepare.
During these months, I learn more than just how to fight. I learn about the world of magic beyond my own small bubble. One day, I find myself at the auction house with Marcus Saint Clair, surrounded by the rich scents of old books and polished wood. My fingers trace the edges of weapons, armor, and trinkets displayed on velvet-lined tables, each piece a treasure.
The auction house breathes with magic, every item a pulsing knot of mana against the thick, polished air. I stand beside Marcus Saint Clair, the blindfold tight across my eyes. The world stretches before me not in sights, but in currents — flowing rivers of power, jagged edges of energy, and the soft murmuring hums of enchanted objects that crowd the room.
The scents are sharp: oil and old wood, dust and leather, mixed with the faint, metallic taste of heavy mana. Voices ripple around me — deep murmurs, sudden flares of excitement — but I block them out, focusing instead on the invisible landscape of mana swirling in the air.
The price tag beside the sword seems absurd to me, though I don't say anything aloud. I don't even know how to process the numbers. My family never dealt in such sums. Gold, so much gold for a single weapon. My thoughts swirl with the weight of it, trying to imagine a world where something like this could be casually purchased.
Marcus, sensing my hesitation, chuckles softly. "Don't worry about the price, Annabel. These are birthday gifts for you, after all." He gives me a knowing smile. "I'm one of the richest men on the continent. Gold means little to me."
I blink, momentarily thrown off balance. I don't quite know how to respond to that. The sheer scale of his wealth is something I can't fathom. I've never seen so much gold in one place, and here he is, speaking as though it's nothing.
His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, like it's a shared secret between us. "I'll make sure you have what you need for the training grounds, Annabel. You deserve the best."
We move from table to table, each item a beacon in my senses. Weapons, armor, artifacts — some old, their magic frayed and tired; others crackling with fresh power that makes the hairs on my arms rise.
At one table, my hand grazes a sword's hilt — and I pull back sharply. Beneath my fingertips, the mana is a jagged thing, pulsing with hunger and rage. A cursed blade, maybe. I step away, heart racing.
Marcus chuckles under his breath. "Careful. Some things here bite."
I nod, swallowing hard.
Further along, I sense it: a dense, quiet presence standing alone, its mana coiled like a sleeping dragon. Not loud, not violent — but deep and old. I drift toward it instinctively.
A polished bo staff. I cannot see it, but its outline shimmers in my awareness, the energy folded in upon itself like a promise. When I reach out, the staff answers — a low, thrumming note against my skin, almost like a heartbeat.
This wasn't just a birthday present. It was a weapon for a battlefield I hadn't yet seen, but would soon step into. A future waiting just beyond the horizon.
Marcus's voice lowers, reverent. "Ah. You feel it too."
I nod, fingers hovering just short of touching it.
"That staff," he says, "comes from a lost set of weapons. Mythical, some said. It can shift — extend, split into twin blades when called upon. Only a few ever mastered it."
The mana stirs against my fingertips, testing me. It isn't offering itself freely. It weighs me, measures the strength behind my hesitation.
Somewhere nearby, a sharper mana signature flares — a sudden spike of frustration. Someone else is watching. Another bidder, or maybe just an onlooker… but I feel the stare, like a knife against the back of my neck.
I tense, but Marcus's hand rests lightly on my shoulder. Solid. Calm.
"You'll master it," he says simply, as though it's already decided.
I hesitate. "What's the catch?"
"The magic is… choosy," Marcus says, almost amused. "If you don't respect it, it will fight you."
A flare of stubborn pride wells up in me. I won't let it fight me. I'll learn. I'll adapt.
"This will be your birthday gift," Marcus says, louder now. I can feel the attention of the room shift toward us — curious, greedy, envious.
I trace the outline of the staff one more time, feeling its pulse align with mine, a silent agreement sealed in that moment.
"I'll put it to good use," I whisper.
Marcus chuckles low in his throat. "I never doubted it.
"Marcus, what about armor?" I ask, my fingers moving over the edge of a piece of light, flexible material. The mana signature feels strong but not overwhelming, like it would offer protection without slowing me down.
"That," Marcus says with a hint of pride, "is a rare weave from the southern provinces. Light, enchanted with protective spells, and designed for speed. You'll need something like that for the grounds—armor that doesn't weigh you down but still offers protection against those unpredictable beasts."
I nod, already imagining how it would feel to wear it. Not too heavy, not too restrictive. Exactly what I need.
I can feel Marcus watching me for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful, as if assessing something deeper than what is immediately visible. "You know," he says, almost absently, "you're far too mature for your age. It's like talking to an adult, not a young girl."
I give him a tight, reassuring smile. "I've had to grow up fast, I guess."
"The weeks pass like falling dominoes—each one bringing me closer to the day I'm both anticipating and dreading."
And with it, a storm of attention I never wanted.
Word has spread. Whispers move through the city like wildfire — the blind girl with the elf king's favor, seen at auction with Marcus Saint Clair, the continent's richest man. Nobles and officials from distant corners of the kingdom send letters, requests for meetings, tokens of curiosity and interest. Even the King himself has sent a missive: a polite, formal note saying he would attend the gathering in person.
It doesn't feel real. It feels like a trap waiting to close around me.
Mother fusses more with each passing day, organizing everything down to the smallest detail. I try to escape the preparations whenever I can, slipping off to the training yard with Ramon, but I can't avoid it forever.
And soon, the inevitable comes.
"Annabel," Mother calls sweetly from the sitting room, "it's time for your final fitting."
I stiffen. Ramon, standing beside me with a training staff in hand, gives me a look of mock sympathy and quickly retreats, leaving me alone to face my doom.
Dragging my feet, I follow the sound of Mother's voice. I can already smell the overwhelming scents of perfume and silk polish. Inside, seamstresses flutter like birds, the air thick with the rustle of fine fabrics and the low murmur of disapproving voices.
"You can't possibly fight in that," I mutter under my breath as I reach out, fingers brushing the stiff layers of satin and corset boning waiting for me.
Mother laughs — a warm, musical sound — but there's iron beneath it. "You're not fighting tonight, darling. You're making an impression."
"I'd rather wear my training leathers," I grumble, tugging at the tight laces they try to wrap around my waist.
"And scandalize half the nobility?" Mother teases. "You'll survive a few hours of discomfort. Consider it part of your training."
Reluctantly, I let them dress me. The gown is a nightmare of weight and stiffness — layers of silk and embroidered velvet, cinched tight enough that breathing feels like a strategic decision. Jewels are woven into my hair, and delicate gloves are slid onto my hands, muting my sense of touch even further.
When they finally step back to admire their work, I shift uncomfortably, feeling like a doll someone's placed on a pedestal.
"You look beautiful," Mother says, her voice rich with pride. "Truly breathtaking."
I don't feel beautiful. I feel trapped.
But I give her a small smile anyway, because she means well, and because tonight isn't about comfort — it's about survival of a different kind.
"Come," she says, taking my arm gently. "The guests will arrive soon. Even the King himself. Tonight, you step into their world."
I nod, my heart pounding, the weight of the moment pressing down harder than the corset. Tonight, everything changes.
And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, where instinct still whispers louder than reason, I wonder:
Are they coming to celebrate me? Or to measure me, the way that staff at the auction house did?
The doors open.
A wave of sound and sensation hits me — laughter, clinking glasses, the rustle of silk and velvet, the undercurrent of mana humming in the crowded hall.
Mother leads me forward, every step measured and slow. I can feel the air change as heads turn, conversations pausing, curiosity sharpening into something more pointed.
Their eyes are on me.
Me.
The blindfolded girl with too much attention, too many rumors clinging to her like a second skin.
I move carefully, feeling the swirl of mana signatures around my skin— restless, brittle — nobles and officials, advisors and generals, each carrying their own ambitions like banners raised high.
And then —
The current breaks.
A presence enters the hall, so dense and crushing that it feels like the world itself pauses to make way.
The hum of magic dulls around me. Even the strongest auras falter like candles guttering in the wind.
I suck in a breath, every nerve screaming that something impossible has stepped into the room.
It's not like King Beren's golden, commanding fire.
It's not like Sir Aethon's honed, ice-cold strength.
No.
This mana is vast.
Silent.
Complete.
If Sir Aethon's presence was a blade, this was a black sun — a gravity that pulled at everything around it without even trying.
Almost a hundred times stronger, I realize, heart hammering against my ribs.
It's not even a contest.
This isn't possible.
Dr. Lorre said even he would struggle against multiple devils — but this…
This mana feels endless. Like a mountain too high to ever climb. Like a battlefield already lost before the first sword is drawn.
How could even a devil stand against this?
The ground tilts under me.
My legs buckle — just for a heartbeat — and I barely catch myself before I fall.
Mother's hand tightens on my arm instantly, her voice a soft, urgent whisper only I can hear.
"Easy, darling," she murmurs, keeping her tone light, but her mana flares in a small, anxious ripple.
But she doesn't feel it the way I do.
None of them do.
They're not blind.
They can't hear mana like this, can't feel it digging into the bones.
And this mana is aimed at me.
Only I know how close I just came to being crushed under the sheer weight of it.
And then —
He moves on.
Past me.
Without a word.
As if I am not even worth a second glance.
A sick twist curls in my gut.
Did I disappoint him?
Or did I simply not exist at all in his eyes?
Mother's hand lingers on my arm, steadying me, saying everything and nothing at once.
I already know.
That was Lincoln.
The Stage 0 mage.
The strongesthuman alive.
And tonight, he saw me —
and chose to look away.