The first light of dawn spilled over Steelhart Manor. Yet this morning's peace was fractured by a high-pitched cry echoing down the corridors.
"Marcellus!!" A trembling voice rang out—soft and quavering despite its fury.
"In the service of Steelhart, my lady!" came the measured reply.
Luminara's racing heart noted his crisp uniform, with subtle gold trim glinting at the cuffs. Marcellus bowed so low that his white sleeves nearly brushed the floor. His steel-gray eyes, usually calm, now flickered with concern. Clad in a perfectly tailored dark tunic adorned with subtle gold, white gloves, and the slender Goldcrest signet on his finger, he looked every bit the stalwart butler.
Lady Luminara Celestalon Steelhart—once the radiant jewel of the Celestalon court and now ghost-pale with illness—gripped the gilded balustrade until her knuckles turned white. The morning sun glinted off the tears threading down her cheeks, catching on the pendant at her throat, a gift from the very man who had cast out their son.
"Is there any news of Lucius? Where is my Luci?" she demanded, each word trembling on the edge of despair. "How could Dominus do this? Does he presume me dead simply because I am bedridden?" She could almost taste the bitterness rising in her throat.
Marcellus swallowed, tightening his posture. "I beg your forgiveness, my lady. News remains scarce, but I swear upon the name of Goldcrest and my loyalty to Celestalon—I will find young Master Lucius. I have dispatched Wilfred, and his finest scouts are scouring every road leading from the duchy as we speak."
Luminara's lips quivered. She clutched the balustrade as if the weight of Steelhart itself rested upon her slender wrists. "My son—my firstborn—is out there alone. I can feel it in my bones." Her voice cracked, and a single tear traced down her cheek.
She pressed her hand flat against her chest, feeling the rapid drum of her own heart—and willed it steady. No tears now. She would face Dominus with the same iron resolve that had brought her from Celestalon to Stormridge.
Marcellus lowered his head again, the weight of his duties heavy in his bowed posture. "If I may, my lady—the concern for your health is paramount," his voice softened, and he hesitated—a rare slip in his measured tone. "My lady, I would sooner face dragons than see you weakened further."
"Even Master Caelum has remained shut in the study since last night. He has scarcely eaten and has not taken a drop of water since Master Lucius's departure," he whispered to Luminara.
Her gaze sharpened. "The candied tarts—those are their favorite. Have you tried those? They always…"
"I regret to say, Your Grace, we have tried every comfort. His eyes are swollen from tears and long hours of study."
Marcellus's measured footsteps faded, leaving the corridor's hush to cradle Luminara's ragged breaths. In the distance, behind closed doors, another sound—low voices woven with triumph—rose and fell like a gathering storm, drawing the hush toward the servants' quarters like a faint tide.
The echo of her sobs faded into the stillness of the corridor—and there, behind a low door, came whispered triumph.
In the servants' quarters, hushed whispers swirled. The maids praised young Caelum as the heir apparent—betrothed to the youngest princess of Celestalon—and scorned Lucius's exile as proof of his unworthiness. An invitation had arrived from the Draconic Order's Holy Land, inviting Caelum to study magic and be crowned one day as the next Dragon Sovereign. In their eyes, the Steelhart future had chosen its champion.
Luminara clenched the balustrade tighter. She paused, breath caught in her throat, listening as distant giggles echoed down the corridor—laughter that felt like a blade at her back. Then, silently, she turned from the light.
The last giggle died in the torch-lit corridor, as though the walls themselves swallowed it whole. At the far end, behind a heavy oak door, the flickering candles inside the study beckoned Caelum back to his books.
In the dimly lit study, Caelum Steelhart hunched over a heavy mahogany desk, his fingers anxiously tracing the edges of scattered parchments and open tomes. Flickering candles cast dancing shadows, but his gaze was elsewhere—lost in the hollow silence that once echoed with his brother's laughter.
Marcellus entered quietly, setting down a crystal flagon of water and a small plate of candied tarts. Their sugary allure sparkled under the candlelight, a tempting invitation that Caelum didn't trust his trembling fingers to accept. "Young master," Marcellus said gently, breaking the silence that enveloped them. "You need strength. Please, drink."
With a heavy heart, Caelum glanced up. The usual sparkle in his amethyst eyes was dimmed by worry. He snatched a tart, but in an instant, tossed it back onto the plate with a clatter. "I'd rather face Mother's lectures than choke this down," he muttered, guilt flooding over him. "Not when Luci's out there alone. I'm sorry… I can't rest until I'm strong enough to bring him back."
His fist collided with the desk, frustration spilling over. "Stupid wind! I've sent more tarts flying than this gust will ever manage!" He kicked the side of the desk, releasing pent-up energy.
Marcellus's expression shifted from concern to mild reproach. "If you devoted half as much time to perfecting your spells as you do to controlling your temper, you would be a master of Gust by now."
Caelum's fists clenched tighter, his voice a strained whisper. "Do you think I don't know what I did? I betrayed him, Grandpa. I—" Horror washed over him, and his words faltered. "I promised Luci I'd fix this. No more half-baked gusts."
With a gentle sigh, Marcellus knelt to meet Caelum's trembling gaze. "You are still the same, young master—mischievous and prone to trouble," he said, his voice softening. "Yet, your love for young master Lucius remains unwavering. The trust he placed in you was a precious bond, and you tossed it aside. Now, you must earn it back."
"Though trust lies shattered, it can yet be reforged in the furnace of love," Marcellus added, allowing the weight of his words to settle in the stillness of the room.
Caelum bit into the tart; its sweetness lingered like a distant memory, but the fire in his chest burned anew. He turned back to his tomes, rolling up his sleeves, determination etched on his face.
Time melted like wax in candlelight. Later, the same flickering light glinted off his upturned pages, almost urging him onward through the night.
For days, Caelum remained in the study, surrounded by ancient and arcane tomes. Each dawn, he awoke with leaden limbs and a pounding head from sleepless hours. By the dim light of the candle, his voice was hoarse from silent prayers to wind spirits. Still, he pressed on, knuckles white against the rune-carved pages. Each evening brought the same sense of defeat: fledgling gusts dissipating before they could materialize.
One evening, as candlelight danced across the rune-carved pages, Marcellus stood watch at his side. Caelum's fingers trembled over the text. "I don't understand," he whispered. "Why won't it hold? I have been trying for three days now."
Marcellus leaned closer, his voice low. "Your Mana Sovereign gift grants you raw potential, but magic without form is like a sword without an edge." He knelt beside Caelum and unfurled a brittle scroll. "Millennia ago, long before the Draconic Order, humans and dwarves studied the mana flow of a dying dragon—"
"Ancient dragon's mana flow?" Caelum interrupted.
"Yes, what they discovered became our salvation: the mana circles. For Gust, a second-tier magic, your second circle must be forged—"
"W-will it be painful?" Caelum whispered.
"You can do it, young master. You are strong. The second circle acts as a ring of cold steel around your heart that channels mana precisely."
Caelum wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath shallow. "My first mana circle was formed by the elders when Lucius and I turned ten. Should I go talk to my father for the second circle?"
"The first is a gift," Marcellus stated, his eyes sharp with memory. "The second must be earned. It must be forged with precision… and endured through pain."
Caelum's brow creased. He twisted his fingers in the folds of his tunic. "How do I even begin?"
Marcellus paused, reading the boy's eyes. "Imagine the warmth of your first circle, then enclose it—feel the iron bite into your ribs. Each pulse will test you. Each success will hone your control."
Caelum closed his eyes, his chest tightening as if iron bands were already winding around it. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "All right...I'll try."
That night, Caelum sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, hand pressed to his chest. He drew mana inward, feeling the familiar warmth of his first circle. Slowly, he traced the pattern Marcellus had sketched in charcoal: a smaller ring encircling the first, with lines extending like dragon wings. He visualized each line snapping shut around him like a band of wrought iron, cold and unyielding. Pain flared, each pulse of mana feeling like a blade against his ribs. His vision blurred, and he gasped as control slipped away.
He collapsed onto the cold floor, chest heaving. Marcellus knelt beside him, pressing a damp cloth to his brow. "Rest, young master. We can try again later."
A single candle flickered and died, plunging the study into half-shadow—mirroring the void inside Caelum's heart.
By dawn on the fourth morning since Lucius's exile, the study's silence felt imbued with Caelum's unspoken hopes and failures.
Over the next two days, Caelum rose before dawn, practicing breath control, focusing his mind, and gradually infusing mana. Each failure brought despair, but each correction ignited a flicker of progress.
A hush fell over the manor as news of his success rippled through the corridors. The same hush that had accompanied Lucius's exile now crackled with anticipation.
That night, emboldened by his brief triumphs with the gusts, Caelum stayed until the lanterns flickered out. His fingers traced the curves of the rune in the dark, a silent vow echoing in the stillness.
On the morning of his departure, as pale light crept through the mullioned windows, Caelum sat at the threshold of the study. Marcellus handed him a leather-wrapped vial of mana potion. "Today, try once more."
Caelum inhaled deeply. He summoned the pulse of his first mana circle, then the agony of the second. This time, as pain spiked, he tightened his focus instead of recoiling. He shaped the mana and felt it coalesce at his breastbone. A soft glow blossomed beneath his tunic. He pressed his palm to his chest and felt the satisfying click of arcane energies locking into place. It was as if his heart had been recast in iron, tempered by resolve.
He stood, his voice thick with awe. "I've done it."
Marcellus bowed his head in pride. "Your second circle is formed, young master. You are ready for Drakenspire."
Word of Caelum's second mana circle spread across the Archduchy with the sunrise. Messengers raced to Stormridge City, bearing the news of his newfound mastery. In every tavern and merchant's stall, the name "Caelum Steelhart" was whispered with awe and expectation.
At the courtyard gates, dawn's first lanterns flickered to life, mirroring the candlelight in the study and heralding a new day.
Back at the manor, the household bustled with activity. Servants packed crates of provisions and loaded Carath-deer-drawn carriages with the young sovereign's travel gear. Armorers polished Caelum's light cuirass, while librarians secured precious tomes for his studies.
Lady Luminara observed the commotion from the grand staircase, her gaze distant and unflinching. Marcellus approached her softly. "Your Grace, are you unwell?"
She drew a steadying breath. "My second son embarks for Drakenspire, yet Dominus remains unmoved by our firstborn's fate. His heart holds honor, not mercy." She paused, glancing at the corridor that led to Lucius's empty chambers. "No, I can't stay here any longer. I see no reason."
Luminara's heart still throbbed with the ache of separation—the same ache that had haunted every corridor and candlelit chamber since Lucius's departure.
Marcellus bowed. "Your return to Celestis will offer rest and counsel among your kin."
Luminara nodded, her breath shallow but resolute. "Prepare my carriage," she said softly, her voice slightly strained. "I must depart for Celestis at dusk."
Below, the packing continued, the bustling activity contrasting with her fatigue. Emberfield-bound merchants loaded barrels of rations, while scouts inspected their mounts for the journey ahead. Luminara glanced at Marcellus, her trusted butler, as they stood over a parchment map unfurled on the mahogany table.
"I wish to take the shorter route through Greenwood Forest," she suggested, her finger tracing the path southwest with determination. "It's direct… through Greenwood City, then south to Celestis. It should save us nearly two days of travel."
Marcellus frowned, concern etched on his brow. "Your Grace, while that route may be faster, it comes with increasing dangers. Reports indicate a rise in sightings of beasts—specifically, owlbears and Orcs." He paused, his voice gentle yet firm. "Additionally, young master Lucius left through the Southern gate. He likely headed southeast towards Emberfield first, as it is the closest city and safer on foot. For your safety, and in hopes of tracing his path, we should travel directly through Emberfield."
Luminara exhaled slowly, her gaze resting on her loyal father figure. Though anxiety swirled within her, the wisdom in his words resonated deeply. "Very well, Marcellus," she relented, a hint of weakness in her tone. "We will journey southeast to Emberfield, then southwest to Greenwood City, and finally onward to Celestis."
Marcellus nodded, rolling up the map with practiced ease. He gestured toward the courtyard, where Caelum prepared his own journey. "Master Caelum's path lies northeast through Frostspine Pass to Drakenspire. I advise against any detours; the wilds grow perilous in spring," he added, his gaze flickering back to her.
As the sunset cast blood-red hues across the courtyard torches, infusing the air with a sense of bittersweet urgency, the manor gates swung open. Lady Luminara's carriage rolled forward down the southern road, with Marcellus steadfastly at her side, guiding her toward Emberfield and the uncertain path ahead. Moments later, Caelum's caravan turned northeast toward the Frostspine Pass, the snow-capped peaks of the northern plateau calling him onward.
So began two diverging paths: a mother seeking solace and a son bound for Drakenspire, each journey infused with both hope and the shadows of their entwined fates.