The air in the Duke Vaelion's private study was thick with the scent of aged mahogany and simmering tension. Duke Vaelion, a man whose very existence was built upon the flawless reputation of his house, sat across from Lord Redmane, Elias's father, whose stern face was framed by a thick, well-groomed red beard.
"...And that is what I heard, Duke Vaelion," Lord Redmane concluded, his voice a gravelly rumble. "My Elias reported the incident himself. The girl's power—it's not Elemental, nor Spirit-based. It's chaotic Creation, Sir."
Duke Vaelion, his white hair slicked back immaculately, rubbed his temples. "Chaos. That word alone disgraces the Vaelion name. My daughter—my elder daughter—finally manifests magic after all these years, and it is a poorly controlled abomination? A proximity charm, Lord Redmane! She nearly caused a diplomatic incident by accosting the Crown Prince and a trusted Knight!"
"Prince Damon was remarkably composed, given the circumstances," Lord Redmane countered. "He only questioned the political wisdom of the event. But the fact remains, your daughter is a live wire. The timing, too—just weeks before the Royal Auction."
Duke Vaelion sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "The timing is irrelevant. I simply hoped she would manifest something graceful, like Lunessa's healing light. Something that adds to our standing. If this chaos cannot be tamed, I swear, I would rather she had remained without a core entirely than drag the Vaelion name through the mud with unstable, vulgar magic."
"Vulgar," Lord Redmane repeated, a flicker of disapproval in his eyes. "Be careful, Duke. Cyril Ravenshade is a powerful ally. Do not let your pride interfere with his research."
"I will not," Vaelion snapped. "But mark my words, if Stellaria causes one more spectacle, she will be confined to the estate until her twenty-first birthday. The reputation of the Vaelion family is not hers to play with."
The plot thread was officially spinning.
Meanwhile, deep within the isolation of the Ravenshade Research Wing, Alya was thoroughly disgusted with her life choices.
She was inside the Containment Field, and her second private session with Cyril was turning into a gastronomic nightmare.
"A simple non-organic structure, Stellaria. A single piece of glass," Cyril instructed, his voice coming through the intercom. He stood outside the cylinder, his purple hair slightly dishevelled, his gaze moving constantly between Alya and the complex mana diagnostics on his console.
Alya closed her eyes, focused on the word glass. Clear. Hard. Sharp edges. No nutritional value whatsoever.
She channeled the golden energy from her core. It felt warm, pliant, and utterly disobedient.
When she opened her eyes, in her palm rested a perfect, ripe, gleaming red tomato.
A frustrated groan escaped her. She tossed the tomato onto the obsidian floor.
"Again," Cyril commanded, his jaw tight.
"A coin," Alya tried, channeling money, power, and metal.
She materialized a handful of perfectly ripened grapes—purple, plump, and dangerously juicy.
Alya threw her hands up. The area outside the Containment Field was becoming a low-carb farmer's market. Piles of freshly grown squash, avocados, and various legumes were accumulating on the pristine black floor.
"Why!?" Alya shouted in frustration. "Why can I materialize an illegal, historical binding charm and a pure silver ladle, but I cannot make a simple nail or a piece of glass? Why is my life filled with tomatoes!?"
Cyril finally stepped away from the console, crossing his arms and surveying the growing pile of high-quality organic produce with a mixture of annoyance and scientific glee.
"It's fascinating, Stellaria," he drawled, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It seems your conscious will only accounts for ten percent of the output. The rest is driven by deep, primal, and often contradictory subconscious needs."
"My primal need is to survive, not open a roadside stand!"
"The book of charms was created when your life was in danger. The gold serpent—the Ravenshade crest—was created when you desired an immediate anchor of stability," Cyril countered, his voice softening with unnerving analysis. "But when you try for simple, mundane objects, the core reverts to a fundamental, low-risk creation. Food is life, Stellaria. Perhaps your core is manifesting survival itself."
Alya slumped. He was too good. He was seeing the naked truth of her fear.
She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dissipate the building tension headache. She reached up and pushed the heavy cascade of her long black hair over her shoulder, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her neck.
Cyril's eyes, which had been fixed on the console, suddenly flickered up to her.
Alya was still standing inside the containment field, framed by the cold, sleek glass. The golden light from her core, though suppressed, still gave her skin a slight luminescence. The simple act of pushing her hair aside seemed to break his analytical focus.
Cyril's breathing hitched. His amber eyes, usually obscured by his glasses and clinical distance, went wide, tracking the curve of her exposed neck.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward the glass.
He's thinking about the data, Alya told herself desperately, trying to anchor her focus. He's thinking about the molecular structure of my cervical spine.
Cyril's fingers twitched slightly, resting near the containment controls. He was no longer looking at the diagnostics. He was looking only at her.
"Before… last year," Cyril murmured, his voice now lower, rougher than before. "You never manifested anything. You were… unremarkable."
He took another step, his face coming close to the thick glass, his intense gaze sweeping over her face and focusing on the crimson intensity of her eyes.
"I never noticed how… distracting," he paused, searching for the correct scientific term, "how uniquely structured you were. Your energy signature has fundamentally changed who you are, Anomaly."
He gave a slow, predatory grin that sent a shiver down Alya's spine. The frustration over the tomatoes seemed to vanish, replaced by a dark, possessive glee.
"The sheer annoyance of a perfectly ripe pile of produce is now a trivial price to pay," he said, tapping the glass lightly with his knuckle, making her jump. "I am going to catalog every fear, every contradiction, and every ambitious subconscious desire your core harbors, Stellaria. And when I am done, you will be the most perfectly understood creation in the world."
The temperature in the lab seemed to drop. Alya realized the scientific loyalty quest was swiftly merging into the sensual love story Lumina had promised. Cyril had accepted her chaos, and now, he was entirely focused on her.
"The session is complete for today," Cyril announced, but he didn't move. He continued to hold her gaze through the glass, his smile unnerving. "But think about the Royal Auction. I will require your full cooperation in analyzing the political atmosphere. Prepare your mind, Stellaria. It's time to test your output in a high-stakes environment."
He turned finally, leaving Alya trapped inside the now-dormant Containment Field with a pile of her embarrassing produce, facing a genius mage whose academic obsession was quickly turning personal. The six-week countdown to the auction had begun.