The next day, the forest air was crisp, alive with the sound of wooden swords clashing in rhythmic strikes.
Clack—clack—clack.
Garrick deflected each blow effortlessly, his stance unshaken as Kaien lunged again, this time mixing a pulse of magic into his horizontal slash.
The air shimmered faintly blue—but Garrick's blade moved faster, breaking the flow and countering with a light tap to Kaien's shoulder that sent him stumbling back.
Kaien exhaled sharply, sweat dripping from his temple.
"Still too slow," Garrick said, lowering his weapon.
Before Kaien could retort, his mind wandered to what Lyra had told him yesterday—the story about the Ebonveil, about Garrick and her father, when she was about to reveal the truth behind her father's death.
She had stopped midway and never finished it.
He remembered how her voice trembled mid-sentence, how she muttered softly to herself, "Why am I telling this to a child…"
Then she'd turned away, a single tear slipping down her cheek before forcing a small smile to end the conversation.
A sharp clash pulled him back to the present. Garrick had resumed their sparring, his movements deceptively calm.
Lyra, sitting nearby with a quarterstaff across her knees, shouted,
"Kaien! Don't just swing! Try channeling your mana through the strike—like this!"
She traced glowing runes in the air—guidance and amplification lines.
Kaien followed her advice, his next attack heavier and faster, but Garrick still managed to block it with ease—and even had enough time to smirk before countering and sending Kaien flying onto his back.
Before Kaien could stand, both he and Garrick paused, sensing something above.
A faint gleam of gold crossed the morning sky.
Kaien saw an opportunity to strike, thinking Garrick was distracted—but before he could land his blow, Garrick sidestepped and sent him flying again.
Then a golden bird—a messenger—descended, wings trailing light, and landed neatly on Garrick's outstretched arm.
It carried a sealed letter, bearing the sigil of the Holy Nation.
Garrick's expression darkened as he broke the seal.
Kaien blinked, recalling what he saw last night—Garrick stepping outside to deliver a letter, though he hadn't known to whom.
Lyra had scolded him then:
"Old man, you should be resting! Why are you sending letters at this hour?"
"Just… making sure the capital's still standing," Garrick had replied quietly, his eyes distant.
"You mean the Ebonveil earlier?" she'd asked.
"Yes. It appeared out of nowhere. I just want to know what happened to the capital."
Now, in the present, Lyra's voice broke the silence.
"What does it say, Uncle?"
Garrick folded the parchment slowly.
"Nothing happened to the capital," he said. "The Ebonveil didn't appear there… but in the South Kingdom."
Lyra's eyes widened. "The South…?"
Before she could ask more, Garrick's hand tightened—and the letter burst into golden flame, turning to ash in seconds.
Kaien frowned. "Why'd you burn it?"
Garrick turned away. "It was nothing."
But Lyra noticed the brief flicker of irritation behind his calm expression—he had read something that clearly got under his skin.
He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the wind to carry it:
["Tch… still writing nonsense like a child."]
---
Later that day, Kaien stretched his arms.
"If you're done brooding, old man…" he hesitated slightly before adding,
"I'll take Big Sis Lyra with me. We'll scout the Forest of Duskveil—see if the monsters are restless because of what happened yesterday."
Garrick gave a curt nod.
"Be careful. The forest's been too quiet since dawn."
Lyra joined Kaien, adjusting her cloak. "Let's go, then."
---
[In the Forest of Duskveil]
They walked beneath towering blackwood trees, shafts of light piercing through the leaves.
For hours, no monster appeared—no sounds, no traces.
Kaien sighed. "Strange. Usually we'd see at least a shadow beast by now."
They stopped near a stream, the silence heavy.
Kaien turned toward her. "Hey, Big Sis Lyra. I've been meaning to ask—why do you always chant your spells, even though you can cast without chanting? You mentioned that in your story yesterday."
Lyra blinked, surprised.
"Because it's proper. The chant gives respect to the element and discipline to the caster. I only use chantless magic during emergencies. Besides—" she smiled faintly, "—it helps me remember spell names."
Kaien grinned. "So if you fight a monster, will you chant politely or skip straight to survival?"
Lyra laughed softly. "I'll try my best to chant first. If that fails… then I'll improvise."
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze softening.
"Only a handful of mages can use chantless magic. In this generation… I'm the only one known to do it."
Kaien whistled. "Then you really are one of a kind."
Lyra looked off into the distance. "One of a kind, huh…" she murmured, her expression distant—
and a memory flickered in her mind.
---
[Flashback — Crimson's Magic Tower, Years Ago]
The great doors of the Tower slammed open.
"Elders!" Lucan Valemont's voice echoed through the hall. "Behold my daughter—Lyra Valemont!"
The elders murmured as the small girl stepped forward.
"Show them, little one," Lucan said proudly.
Lyra raised her hands. Light bloomed from her palms, forming a radiant orb. Then, without a single word, the light twisted—becoming a flickering flame that danced above her fingers.
The elders gasped.
"Oh, Great Star above…" one whispered.
"Impossible," another muttered. "Chantless magic was lost centuries ago!"
Lucan crossed his arms, smirking.
"Not lost—just waiting for another genius like her!"
He laughed, ruffling Lyra's hair. "She'll surpass me in no time."
The Tower welcomed her as a prodigy.
For years, she excelled—mastering theory, rune engraving, artifact translation, alchemy.
Every test, she passed flawlessly.
Until the intermediate stage.
When she tried to cast stronger spells, her magic faltered—manifesting, then collapsing before completion.
She could form one spell at a time, no more. Dual-casting failed. Her once-celebrated gift began to look like a flaw.
Whispers spread.
Mockery followed.
Her classmates stole her notes and claimed her research.
The elders who once praised her turned away.
One day, during practice, a student scoffed,
"Why even bother doing chantless magic if you can only cast one spell, Catalystless Lyra? You think being different makes you special?"
Their laughter echoed through the hall.
That day, Lyra began chanting her spells—not because she needed to, but because she wanted to belong.
Only one elder, a kind old man named Theron, stayed by her side.
"Lyra," he said gently, "genius isn't measured by how much magic you can wield, but by how deeply you understand it. You've already surpassed them in mind, even if not in power. Believe in yourself. You are a one-of-a-kind girl."
Those words kept her standing.
She tried her best to blend in, chanting like everyone else.
But the day came when the Tower elders decided she was unfit.
Theron fought for her, defending her honor and her research, but the council silenced him.
After her contract with the Tower ended, Lyra was quietly expelled.
Not long after, Garrick appeared at the Tower gates.
Without a word, he took her away.
---
[Back to Present]
By the time Lyra and Kaien returned to the cabin, the sky was dipped in orange.
Garrick sat by the window, sharpening his blade.
"No monsters," Kaien reported. "Not even a trace."
Lyra nodded. "It's like they're… hiding."
Garrick's brow furrowed. "That's natural after the ebonveil."
Kaien stretched and headed inside. "I'll prep dinner. Maybe they're scared of you, old man."
Lyra chuckled softly at that, but her gaze lingered on the horizon.
Her reflection glimmered faintly on the cabin window as she whispered to herself,
Elder Theron… are you still watching the stars like you used to?
---
[Crimson's Magic Tower — The Capital]
In a tall spire overlooking the valley, Elder Theron sat by the window, gazing toward the distant forest.
The wind carried faint traces of the past—echoes of laughter long gone.
"Lyra…" he murmured softly. "How are you, child? Have you found the light your father spoke of?"
The tower bells tolled in the distance—solemn, haunting.
And beyond the horizon, thunder rolled across the southern sky.
The light of morning was fading—and the storm was coming.
---End of Chapter 11---