The incident occurred on the 27th of Enliven, 2477 AK, as His Imperial Highest Prince Jasper Nezir was returning to the imperial capital from an official visit to the Imperial University for Applied Thaumaturgy. The imperial carriage was nearing the Halo. The passengers were His Highness and Lady Milisandra Tasmin, captain of the prince’s imperial guard. The rest of the guard detachment marched alongside the carriage. Prince Jasper was lounging in his seat, eating grapes. Lady Tamsin was perusing a military treatise.

  Hereunder is a transcription of the reported interaction leading to the incident.

  Prince Jasper, casual: Hey, Mili, quick question. If I wanted to grow tomatoes, should I plant them in the shade or the sun?

  Lady Tamsin: …What?

  Prince Jasper: Tomatoes. You know, the red things. Where do I put them?

  Lady Tamsin, deadpan: In the palace kitchen, where the cooks can deal with them.

  Prince Jasper: No, I mean, for gardening. Sun or shade?

  Lady Tamsin, frustrated: How the Void should I know?

  Prince Jasper: Well, you’re an Elf.

  Lady Tamsin, threatening: …And?

  Prince Jasper, gesturing vaguely: Oh, you know. Trees. Nature. Plants. That whole thing.

  Lady Tamsin, in disbelief: Are you saying that I—a titled imperial noble, sworn protector of the crown, and fifth-step grandmaster of the blade—am also some kind of expert in botany… because I’m an Elf?

  Prince Jasper: …Maybe?

  Lady Tamsin, furious: You shithead—!

  The captain then engaged in aggressive actions, physically assaulting His Highness. The prince escaped through the carriage window, followed by the captain, who was eventually subdued by the rest of the guards.

  While the captain was held down to the ground:

  Lady Tamsin: I HAVE KILLED MEN FOR LESS, YOU RIDICULOUS EXCUSE FOR A PRINCE!!

  Prince Jasper, dismissive: Well, I guess I’ll ask one of the palace gardeners.

  Lady Tamsin, furious: You’ll be seeing a palace healer first! Unhand me, Sir Kertain! I’ll rid the imperial family of this undignified buffoon!

  The incident caused a significant delay in the prince’s return to the capital.

  For her actions, Lady Tamsin was sentenced to a week of house arrest for disorderly conduct. The charges of lèse-majesté and declared intent of magnicide were formally dismissed by Prince Jasper, who stated on the official record: “I probably deserved it.”

  —incident report between Lady Milisandia Tamsin and Prince Jasper Nezir, Radiant Empire military personnel records, 2477 AK.

  -

  Remembrance 15, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Grey Woods

  “I did it!”

  Sarmin’s excited shout startled Kaydence awake. “Ah– wha–?!” She jerked upright with a gasp, her heart hammering as the final curls of her nightmare dissipated. Her arms flailed and barely caught onto the tree branch before she could slip off.

  In the clearing below, Sarmin waved at her, practically vibrating with excitement. “Kay, I-I think I felt it! I felt the mana!”

  His words blew the last remnants of sleep away. Frowning, Kaydence gazed up. The sky was already darkening into dusky oranges, the sun dipping behind the giant ash trees. Her frown deepened. Had she really been asleep that long? She had only intended to pretend to sleep.

  She swung down from her perch, landing with a soft thud that sent puffs of snow scattering around her boots. Without missing a beat, she strode toward Sarmin, stopping before him and crossing her arms. “What did you just say?”

  His grin did not falter under her stare. “I felt it! I really did!”

  “That so?” Kaydence narrowed her eyes. “You sure it’s not just gas?”

  Mana permeated everything. It was the foundation of reality itself. Those who could bend it to their will were called “mages,” while those who lacked the ability were dubbed “mundane.” But even among those with potential, sensing mana for the first time was supposed to take days, even weeks of disciplined meditation.

  Even among prodigies, achieving awareness in less than a week was rare enough to turn heads. Back in Seifer’s days, such individuals would have been fiercely targetted by every mage tower in the Shattered Kingdoms—either for recruitment... or termination.

  Competition back then was cutthroat, often literally.

  But less than a day? That was unnatural—slightly terrifying, even. Kaydence studied Sarmin closely, while the boy sputtered at her crude accusation. Maybe it’s an Elf thing– Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Her breath misted in the cold. “What exactly did you feel?”

  Sarmin touched his stomach, brows furrowed in concentration. “I-I feel something, i-in my b-b-belly. It’s… warm and t-tingly, and it’s… sp-p-preading? Like there’s a f-fire inside.” His eyes lit up. “Does that mean I have fire magic?! Like you and Thomas?”

  “Probably not. I told you, wrong racial compatibility.” She walked behind him. “And don’t mention me and that lowlife in the same sentence. Don’t compare yourself to him, either. He’s not worth the brain power. You’re going to be leagues above that loser anyway. Now try to–” She noticed Sarmin shooting her a stunned look. “What?”

  “Ah! Err…” He blushed. “Thank you.”

  “...Don’t get used to it,” she huffed and yanked Sarmin’s coat up, exposing his back to the frigid cold.

  “Eeeep!”

  Ignoring his started yelp, Kaydence pressed a hand on his lower back. “I want you to show me,” she demanded. “I’m going to send some of my mana inside you. You shouldn’t notice, but if you do, don’t resist.”

  “B-B-But you said…”

  “I know what I said,” she snapped, then sighed, forcefully calming herself. “This is only for observation. If you’ve already sensed your own mana, it shouldn’t matter. Focus on that warm sensation in your stomach and try to drink it in, or eat it– Hell, sniff it– whatever mental image works for you as long as you’re absorbing it. Okay?”

  “O-Okay. I’ll try.”

  “You do that.”

  Kaydence closed her eyes, steadying herself. Despite her words, she had to focus on keeping her mana touch feather-light. Any slight disturbance could upset the balance of Sarmin’s mana, squashing any progress he had made—assuming his claim was correct.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Normally, his aura would fight her, rendering her stealth efforts moot. But she was using Life mana, unique in its interaction with aura. All living things subconsciously craved life, and a skilled Life mage could exploit that instinct to bypass a person’s defensive aura—so long as the target was not actively blocking them. Without this phenomenon, magical healing would be nearly impossible.

  Even so, some resistance was inevitable. A person’s aura was an extension of their inner self, conscious and subconscious. Letting another’s mana in was deeply intimate—and dangerous, like baring one’s throat to someone’s blade and trusting them not to cut. No one surrendered that kind of control completely.

  Which was why, when her power slipped into Sarmin without a hint of resistance, Kaydence was so stunned that she almost lost focus.

  “Kay? D-Did I do it?”

  “Eh?” Kaydence blurted out dumbly before catching herself. “I mean… Nah. Didn’t feel a thing. Why don’t you try again? But this time, like you mean it. Okay, twig?”

  That was odd… Kaydence refocused, steadily channelling her power into Sarmin. Mana flowed from her fingertips, through his back, and toward the mana pool in his abdomen. Once again, there was no resistance—which was really weird and kind of creepy. But this time, she did not let it distract her.

  She sensed the pulse of pure Arcane mana inside him, the remnant of the Spirit Water he had drank. As she observed in disbelief, Sarmin’s meagre mana ebbed and flowed against it. With each tiny surge, a sliver of Arcane energy eroded, dissolving into his shallow mana pool.

  It was not much. But it was something.

  Son of a whore!

  She pulled back her mana and removed her hand from his back, wiping her clammy palm on his coat with a grimace. Sarmin was sweating profusely despite the cold.

  “D… Did I do it?” He slumped, panting.

  “Y-Yeah, you did alright,” Kaydence managed to sound casual. He really doesn’t have much mana, she mused. But that control… A shallow mana pool was always something that could be deepened with time, practice, and meditation. But without control, even taking the first step of magic mastery would be a struggle. Sarmin would not have that problem. “Congratulations. You didn’t completely waste my day.”

  He let out a weak cheer before collapsing backwards into the dirt, limbs shaking from exhaustion.

  But Kaydence did not give him any time to rest. With a smirk, she grabbed him by the front of his coat, hoisted him up with one hand, and slung him over her shoulder like a sack of grain.

  “H-Hey! K-Kay?” he stammered, squirming weakly.

  “Look, twig,” she said, tightening her grip to keep him from slipping away. “Normally, I’d have you finish absorbing the Arcane mana from the water, but you’re just too slow. The sun’s setting, and we still need those roots and berries. So, we’re heading back. And we’re running. Try not to fall off.”

  “Wha—? Wait—!” Sarmin’s protest was cut short as Kaydence took off like an arrow off a bow. She vaulted over the evergreen hedge and charged through the woods, making sure to exaggerate the bounce in her jog, shaking and jolting her package with each pounding step. “W. Wait. K. Kay. I. Am. G. G. Go. Ing. To. Be. Si. Ick!”

  Kaydence was unmoved. “Puke on me, twig, and I’ll strip you naked, hang you upside down from the tallest tree I can find, and leave you there for a day.”

  “Wha-a-a-a-a–?!”

  Ignoring his panic, she circulated more Life mana into her legs. “Hold on tight, twig. I’m picking up the pace.

  “N-Not. A-Again! Nyo-o-o-o-o-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!!”

  Sarmin’s cry trailed after them as the trees melded into streaks of grey against the white backdrop of the snowed-in woods.

  * * *

  Through blurry vision, the man stared at the reed stalk quivering in his numb grip. Once more, he tried to weave it into the half-finished basket in his lap, but his fingers fumbled uselessly. The reed slipped free from his grasp and fell to the floor.

  His breath shuddered out—too quiet for a sigh, yet heavy with unspoken grievances. His aching hand dropped, fingers curled like limp talons. He clutched his wrist, willing the tremors to stop, but his body had long stopped heeding his commands.

  A slender hand touched his knee.

  He did not need to turn his head to know the woman beside him had already completed three baskets, while he struggled to finish just one.

  He looked at her anyway.

  “Not worry. Calm. Everyone struggles first time!” Pale fingers shaped the signs fluidly, nearly matching the woman’s lips—though he could barely make those out anymore.

  Her voice reverberated faintly through the stone floor. The subtle, passive Earth spell he relied on to supplement his crippled senses picked up the warm cheer in her tone. Even the ever-present tremors of the aetheric lifts, rumbling in the distance at the tail end of the Split, could not drown out the vibrant chime of her laughter.

  Alenhil watched her with an affable smile, letting his fear and discomfort ebb away like ripples on a pond. The Human’s face was a pale blur to his failing sight, a haze of indistinct features blending into one another. And yet, in his mind’s eye, she remained vivid—every detail etched into his heart as though carved in stone. He knew the way her brown eyes sparkled with emotions, how her freckled cheeks dimpled when she grinned, and how her lips always curved at the corner—as if forever laughing at a secret only she understood.

  Annet Templeton was not a beauty to sing ballads about or wage wars over. Even by Human standards, she was plain: unfortunately freckled, mousy, and perpetually dishevelled. Beside an Elven maiden, the comparison would be most unkind.

  And yet, none of that mattered.

  For through her shone an inner strength more captivating than the grandest wonders of the world. Her cheer was not reckless, or feigned, or born of naivety. It was the warmth of someone who had faced adversity, who had known struggle and pain, and had emerged not hardened, but gentler—not bitter, but boundlessly compassionate to those who suffered as she once had.

  Alenhil could have waxed poetic for hours about the freckles scattered across her skin like constellations dotting the night sky, about how her brown eyes held the richest, warmest hues of the earth, or how her very soul seemed touched by Selma, the benevolent Goddess of the Hearth. There was power in her kindness, quiet strength in her humility. Like the goddess, she was a pillar of warmth and support, unassuming yet unwavering—a steady flame that sheltered all around her.

  Alas, it was not his place to voice such thoughts. Though he shamelessly basked in her warmth, it would not be fair to encourage the young woman’s infatuation.

  It would not be fair to either of them.

  Annet raised her arms above her head, stretching with a loud, satisfied groan. Once, Alenhil would have frowned upon such a lack of decorum. The ladies of the Crystal Pagoda would have further torn into her with honeyed smiles and erudite verses. For moons, her clan would have been shamed for raising a daughter of such poor bearings.

  Alenhil sighed, brushing the memories away. He could only shake his head at himself for ever entertaining such silliness.

  In the first place, why was he even comparing Annet to the daughters of the High Clans? Had he not moments ago considered it pointless and cruel? Touch, ears, mouth, eyes… Is my mind going next? But even knowing his own folly, he could not help but picture her clad in a silk hanfu on the misty shores of Lake Wuetang.

  “Today finish. Late now,” Annet signed at him, startling Alenhil from his ruminations. A fourth, unfinished basket lay beside her, discarded—out of quiet consideration for him, he knew.

  Annet’s head turned towards the tiny window of her cramped, dimly lit, rocky abode. Beyond the closed shutter, the sunset’s orange glow had given way to the blackness of night. Alenhil’s blurred sight no longer allowed him to decipher her expressions, but her body language was enough. The woman was worried.

  “They home soon,” he signed, catching her attention. A trickle of worry for his own son rose in his throat, but he breathed it out. Salami?n was with the little tigress, and she would keep the boy safe—of that, Alenhil was certain.

  “They better!” Annet’s posture promised stern reprimands, but her heart was not in it.

  She masked it well, but the attack on her home had left the woman unbalanced, her foundations cracked. Now, more than ever, she leaned on her daughter for stability. Yet, in a cruel irony, the little tigress—so afraid that her claws might wound her mother—failed to see that the walls she built between them caused a far deeper pain.

  Their relationship was hardly healthy. Though its roots were sane, they grew through starving soil that stubbornly refused to be watered. Alenhil knew that mother and daughter, each in their own way, wished for him to become a pillar of support, someone to help shoulder Annet’s burdens. But that was a role he could never fill.

  What nourishment could he offer them? He, who had failed his own kin too many times? He, who could barely help his own flesh and blood grow?

  Nothing.

  He could do nothing.

  Bereft of his house, his name, his strength—his very future—he had nothing to give but a miserable few years of burden and the certainty of grief.

  The Elf’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, and the ghost of a long-exhausted fury fleeted across his placid features. Old regrets gnawed at him like termites hollowing out a tree’s bark—memories of fading green eyes, gazing up at him with love and gratitude even as their owner’s lifeblood ran down his blade.

  Fortunately, Annet was too distracted to notice the shift in his mood as the door creaked open.

  Even with his dulled senses, Alenhil did not miss the way tension seized her limbs, her body going rigid. His fingers drifted toward the dagger strapped to his thigh. Though he was a disgrace of a man, useless in every way that truly mattered, he could at least fend off a few Human thugs, if only long enough to give Annet a chance to escape.

  The tension drained away when the door finished its swing, revealing a sour-faced little tigress and a trembling Salami?n hunkering behind her. Alenhil’s son wobbled unsteadily on his feet, clearly rattled by whatever Annet’s daughter had put him through, but otherwise whole and unharmed. A knot loosened in his chest.

  While Annet bombarded the children with a lecture on family rules and curfews, Alenhil’s gaze settled on his son.

  As always, the boy stirred up mixed feelings that even a decade had failed to untangle. Love, guilt, regret—all knotted together in a burden that Alenhil had long since resigned himself to carrying. He had never wished for the boy to be born, never believed his current self fit to be a father. In that, he had failed Salami?n from the very start.

  And yet, recently—very recently—a new emotion had surfaced from the stagnant depths of his heart, rising above the mire of melancholy and shame.

  Relief.

  A fortnight ago, something had changed within the boy.

  While Alenhil was not looking, the little sprout he had failed to nurture had found a resolve of his own. Whatever truly happened that night, it planted a seed in Salami?n. It was still tiny and fragile, that seed, but given care, given time, it would surely grow into a magnificent tree.

  For the first time in half a century, Alenhil felt something akin to hope—a sense of purpose. For the first time since his exile, he dared to pray, to ask the gods for a little more time, a little more strength in his failing body, a little longer before the inevitable claimed him. He did not need much, just enough to watch over this budding seed, to be there, even if only briefly, for the son he had neglected for too long.

  It was too little, too late. He knew that. He had long since squandered his right to call himself a father. But if the Heavens still allowed him one small mercy, let him remain a little longer.

  Long enough to, should the need arise, lay down what remained of his life.

  For the only thing, he now realised, he had ever been truly proud of.

  His legacy.

  His son.

  Please… just a little longer.

  * * * * *

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