[Vaelminia Kingdom, Argentvale Dukedom, Sothastirith Region, Mystara CXVI AH.]
The sun hung high and bright above Argentvale Ducal Palace, casting golden light through the tall windows and warming the polished stone of the courtyard. It was noon—when the halls were quiet with midday rest or study. The usual calm was broken by the sudden echo of hooves on stone. Eadric arrived with no fanfare, his travel-stained cloak fluttering as he dismounted briskly.
His boots struck the palace floors with a sharp clack-clack-clack, startling the servants and guards alike. He had returned but his presence carried urgency—like thunder before a storm. The Grand Magician was not expected. Not today. Not at all.
Eadric didn't wait for escort or announcement. His strides were long, purposeful. He ignored the startled bows of passing attendants, his eyes sharp as ever beneath the weight of sleepless nights. He carried no scrolls, no staff, only a storm of thoughts behind his aged gaze.
At the duke's chamber, the doors groaned open under the hands of a startled servant. Aldric, seated at his writing desk with half-signed letters before him, looked up—and froze.
"Father?" Aldric blinked, half-standing. "Why in the world—?"
"There's no time," Eadric interrupted, his voice like the snap of winter bark. "I need to speak with you. Privately. It concerns the mark."
Aldric gave a curt nod and subtly raised two fingers—a silent signal. The nearby servant bowed and swiftly ushered everyone out, closing the chamber doors behind them with a soft click.
Aldric's breath caught in his throat. Papers fluttered from his hands as he stood fully now, eyes narrowing with restrained worry. "You went to Nephralith's realm?"
Eadric nodded, removing his gloves slowly. "I did. I spoke to the god's apparition. I found this much—" he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, "—the mark placed on Alaric was not from Nephralith's god."
Silence thickened the chamber. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to pause its crackle.
"…Not Nephralith?" Aldric said, voice barely above a whisper. "Then who?"
"I don't know for sure." Eadric's eyes flickered away. "But I intend to find out."
Aldric exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Relief clashed with confusion in his chest. "Gods. What are we dealing with…"
Eadric said, stepping closer, "Whoever did it… left no ordinary trace. The magic was ancient. Purposeful. And dangerous." His tone lowered. "I've said what I must. Now, I need to see Alaric."
Aldric nodded slowly, shoulders loosening. "Of course. He's probably in the library now. His lessons with Camilla usually begin at noon."
"Then let's not waste time," Eadric said, turning without waiting. The chamber doors swung open behind them again, wind slipping through as the two men stepped out into the corridor.
The library was quiet, kissed by the soft light of noon filtering through stained glass windows. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, and the pages of open books whispered gently with the stir of a cold breeze slipping past the curtains.
At the center of the room, seated at a wooden table surrounded by ink pots and papers, was Alaric. His brow furrowed, quill in hand, eyes glued to the parchment. He looked every bit the diligent noble child—focused, silent, obedient.
Camilla stood near the bookshelves on the far side, arms gently crossed, watching him with that patient, almost motherly gaze she always wore when supervising his lessons. Earlier, she had given him a task: "Write a short story," she said with a gentle smile, "about a brave hero and their companions setting out to stop a great evil." And so, the boy had begun writing. Or rather, pretending to.
Alaric's hand moved smoothly, scratching out neat lines of text, but his mind was far from the imagined tale. He wasn't thinking of heroes or dark lords. He was planning. Scheming, really.
"I'll wait until everyone's asleep," he thought, eyes flicking across the page. "Return the books I took yesterday. Then… the magic book shelf. The third row—glyph theory."
His pulse quickened. The idea of magic books, secrets written inside, thrilled him more than any bedtime story ever could. A small smile nearly betrayed him, but he wiped it away.
Tap... tap... tap…
The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside—measured and firm. Alaric didn't flinch. He heard the door open with a faint creak, but didn't look up. His heart, however, skipped a beat.
Grandfather Eadric's here? Why?
From the corner of his eye, he saw Camilla straighten and glide across the floor. She met them with a graceful bow.
"Your Grace. Grand Magician," she said warmly, her voice low out of courtesy for the 'studying' child nearby. "Alaric has been focused all day. He's nearly finished his assignment."
Aldric smiled softly. Eadric's eyes, however, were sharp and quiet, studying Alaric with unreadable depth. Still, Alaric kept writing, his face a mask of innocent effort.
Just a little longer, he thought. Let them believe I'm just a little boy.
He dotted the last sentence with flourish. The page read, "The hero stood before the dark gate, heart trembling, but unafraid."
Ironically fitting.
The three of them didn't speak as they waited.
The library's stillness held them in a kind of reverent hush, broken only by the occasional scratch of a quill or the turning of a page. Aldric stood beside Eadric near the entrance, his arms folded loosely, eyes resting on his son.
Eadric remained unreadable, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on Alaric with a quiet intensity. Camilla had returned to her station, pretending to reshelve a book, though her gaze often flicked to the boy as well.
Inside, Alaric's mind raced. Are they watching closely? Did Eadric come to examine me? Did he find something about the mark? Does he know…?
Questions looped through him, but outwardly, he remained calm.
After a few more carefully written lines, he set the quill down with grace. A small, almost theatrical pause. Then he gently capped the ink pot and aligned the edge of the books with the table's grain. All small signals, quiet declarations: I'm done.
Camilla moved first, gliding toward him with her usual light step. She peered down at the papers, her finger tracing the last line. "A good structure," she murmured. "There's strength in this one's resolve. And… a bit of mischief in the way you wrote the party's archer. Clever."
Alaric smiled faintly. "Thank you, Camilla."
She chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from his face. "Well done, young master."
Then came Eadric. His approach was slower, more measured, and something in the air seemed to tighten with each of his steps. He knelt beside Alaric's chair, eyes soft but searching.
"May I?" he asked gently, one hand raised—not to touch, but to sense.
Alaric nodded.
Eadric extended his hand, hovering it just an inch above Alaric's chest. His eyes half-closed. The faint hum of mana stirred the air around his fingers.
Then—
Thump.
Eadric's breath caught.
He blinked. Pulled back his hand. Looked again.
The mark… the ancient curse, the corrupted seal he had felt in Alaric's undeveloped mana core—was gone.
His expression cracked, lips parting slightly. Surprise. Relief. Confusion. Even fear.
"It's gone," he whispered, barely audible. "The mark… it's no longer there."
The silence after Eadric's words was like the hush after thunder.
Aldric moved closer, his eyes narrowed, searching his son's face—then Eadric's. "You're certain?" he asked, his voice caught between hope and disbelief.
Eadric nodded slowly, still trying to fully grasp it himself. "It's not just gone… It's been replaced," he said, his hand hovering again, this time not to check, but to gesture—like outlining something profound. "His mana presence… It's dense. Unnaturally so."
He turned back to Aldric, something almost amused in his tone. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this child's raw potential already rivals that of a fully trained magician."
Alaric blinked, trying to appear surprised. Careful, he told himself. Play the part.
Aldric, however, looked anything but calm. He exhaled sharply, the breath escaping him like a deflating lung. "You mean… the mark didn't harm him? It made him… stronger?"
Eadric shrugged lightly, as though the world often made no sense to even its wisest. "It's possible the curse was parasitic at first… but something must've changed. Maybe the magic inside him resisted. Or maybe it adapted. Either way," he turned again to look at Alaric, "what remains is no wound. It's power. Unshaped, yes—but vast."
There was a pause. Then, with a glint of wryness, Eadric added, "A curse that makes you stronger? Some might call that a blessing in disguise."
Aldric let out a faint, disbelieving laugh, then walked over to Alaric and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thank the gods," he murmured, and gave Eadric a grateful look. "You came all this way. Just for this. Thank you, Father."
Eadric waved the gratitude aside. "I only needed to see it for myself. Now that I have, I'll be returning to the capital before sundown."
Alaric turned toward him, trying to look concerned. "Grandfather, you're not staying the night?"
"I'd like to," Eadric said, "but I've been away from my post far too long."
He paused at the library door, then glanced back, the old weight returning to his eyes. "Keep his mind busy. But don't let him rush. Growth without control is just another kind of danger."
Camilla bowed, her hands folded politely. "Will he be safe now, Lord Eadric?"
There was a heartbeat of silence before Eadric answered. His voice was quiet, tinged with something heavy. "For now… But this world always has other plans."
Then he turned and left, the soft echo of his boots the only farewell.
*
The halls of the Argentvale palace were asleep. Shadows stretched long across the marble floors, the only sound the faint ticking of some distant clock—tick, tick, tick—like the pulse of a dreaming palace.
Alaric crept along the corridor, barefoot and careful, his small arms hugging a bundle of books to his chest. The thick wooden doors of the library loomed ahead like a gate, and tonight, he meant to slip through it—again.
He pushed the door open with the softest creak. Crrkkk. A wince. He paused. Nothing stirred.
With a breath held tight in his lungs, Alaric padded into the library. The air smelled of parchment and dust, old ink and secrets. Moonlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows, painting pale rivers across the floor.
He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this before. His hands worked quickly, slipping the "borrowed" books back into their places—Essays on Mana Flow, Foundations of Channeling, and the child-friendly but not-so-subtle "So You've Found a Spark". In their place, he began scanning the higher shelves, gaze drawn toward the section marked Magic books.
"I just need one," he muttered under his breath. "One book. One clue."
His fingers brushed along spines bearing no titles—just symbols etched in shimmering ink, invisible unless kissed by moonlight. He reached toward one in particular: He Who Must Not Be Named. The title alone made his spine tingle.
But just as his hand curled around its edge, a soft whssssk stirred the stillness.
Alaric froze.
It wasn't the wind.
A whisper. Not made of words, but… of sensation. It slid across his skin like a cold breath, dancing at the edges of hearing. Maybe. Maybe not. It was gone before he could be sure.
His heart leapt into his throat.
He ducked instinctively behind the nearest bookshelf, pressing his back against the wood. The book is still in hand. Breath shallow. Pulse hammering.
Nothing moved. No footsteps. No creak of floorboards. But the silence felt… heavier now. Like the room was watching.
Clutching the forbidden tome to his chest, Alaric dared not move.
He waited.
Elsewhere in the sleeping palace, where candle flames had long since guttered out, and the only patrols were drowsy guards yawning beneath flickering sconces, a shadow moved—without sound, without pause.
The figure clung to the walls like a wisp of night. Cloaked in black, face hidden behind a sleek mask stitched with silver thread, it moved with eerie grace—one hand always brushing door frames, the other poised near the hilt of a slender blade tucked beneath its sash.
Shff. Step. Shff. Pause.
The rhythm was calculated. Every breath is measured. Every footstep is softer than falling dust. It passed behind a patrolling guard with such practiced ease it seemed the air itself had bent to hide it.
A loose strand of hair—a pale glint in the dark—slipped from under the mask. A feline flick of the head tucked it back. The intruder was not human. Not quite. Something about the stillness of its tail—yes, a tail—gave it away, swaying just once before stilling again like a hunting cat.
Meanwhile, in the library, Alaric had not moved for what felt like forever.
His ears strained. The whisper hadn't returned. The silence had begun to feel almost mundane again, like he'd imagined the whole thing.
He finally exhaled. "Probably just a cat," he muttered, daring to emerge from his hiding spot. "Or some weird echo." But the words didn't comfort him. Something still prickled at his skin.
He turned toward the exit—the book now tucked beneath his shirt—and pressed the door open with breathless care.
The hallway beyond was awash in pale moonlight. Empty. Still. But… the air felt disturbed, as if something had passed through just moments ago.
Then he saw it. A fleeting motion ahead—a figure slipping around the corridor's edge like a shadow cutting through mist. It didn't run, didn't panic. It was… searching. One gloved hand gently tested the door to the drawing room, then the music chamber, then paused at the tapestry hall.
Alaric's breath caught.
This wasn't a servant. And definitely not a… small cat.
Fear pulled at his legs, whispering for him to turn back. But curiosity gripped tighter.
He crept after the figure, barefoot on the cold floor. He kept to the sides, ducking behind busts and benches, the rich night silks of the palace tapestries shielding his small form. His heart thumped in his ears, but he stayed quiet.
Whatever it was, it wasn't just wandering.
It was looking for something.
The palace at night breathed differently. Its silence was alive—filled with the creaks of wood, the distant hush of wind slipping between columns. Alaric moved like breath through that stillness, feet soft, body low, shadow clinging to shadow.
He followed the intruder down a narrow corridor flanked by shuttered windows, each one silvered by moonlight. The cool air slid along his skin, but he ignored the chill. His eyes stayed fixed on the black-cloaked figure ahead—silent, measured, graceful.
Clink. A latch tested. The figure tried the vault door. Locked. It lingered, hand resting against the intricate rune-lock, then withdrew.
Next, it paused at the door to Eadric's guest room. Alaric's heart spiked. He inched closer, pressing his small frame behind a suit of armor on display. The mask turned toward the door—but again, no attempt to enter. Just… a moment of study. A whisper of intention. Then it moved on.
The intruder's tail flicked once, impatient.
The Duchess's chambers were next. Alaric held his breath. He remembered sleeping in that room many times, curled against his mother's side. If this was an assassin—if it was here for her—
But again, the figure passed by without stepping inside.
Confused, Alaric narrowed his eyes. This wasn't how assassins worked. It wasn't erratic. It wasn't targeting anyone.
It was searching. Mapping. Prioritizing.
Alaric—small in body but still shaped by a mind once trained to find meaning in patterns—watched with narrowed eyes. In his past life, Satria had built intelligence from data, trained machines to read human behavior. That instinct hadn't died with him. It stirred now, repurposed. He wasn't just watching the intruder—he was analyzing it.
Every pause, every turn, every hesitation.
It moved through a back servant stairwell next—slipping behind a door that led into the lower kitchens. Alaric followed, now confident in his rhythm. Down cold stone steps, through a darkened storage room thick with the smell of flour and old wood, past shelves stacked with untouched silverware.
Then came the pivot—up again, through a twisting corridor that would confuse anyone unfamiliar with the ducal estate's layout. But Alaric knew. He knew where this path ended.
The gallery.
A quiet, locked room filled with tokens of prestige—painted vases, ornamental swords, silver-framed portraits, and lavish accessories gifted by nobles and honored guests. These were not magical artifacts, but displayed to commemorate alliances and the esteem once shown to House Argentvale.
The figure stopped at the door. Gloved fingers hovered over the handle.
Alaric's breath hitched. His body froze.
The gallery wasn't guarded. It didn't need to be.
The door creaked open.
And the figure slipped inside.
Alaric pressed his back against the cold stone beside a marble statue. He peeked around the edge just as the intruder stepped fully into the gallery, the pale moonlight filtering through a narrow stained glass window to silhouette her form.
She was not a man.
The intruder was a Therianthrope—feline, female, and unmistakably elegant in motion. Midnight-black fur peeked from under the seams of her bodysuit. Her long tail swayed, brushing against a shelf with ease. Her ears, pointed and twitching, caught the slightest shift in the air.
Each of her movements are like shadows.
She wasn't clumsy. She wasn't lost. She moved with purpose—deliberate, quick, silent. Not an amateur. Not a trespasser. A burglar.
Alaric's throat tightened as he watched her produce a small charm from a pouch on her hip—a thin obsidian disc etched with shifting silver glyphs. Holding it close to the display cabinet, she whispered something low and breathy. The air trembled. The protective ward shimmered, cracked, then fell apart like dust.
Pfft. A sound like glass sighing.
Alaric gripped the edge of the statue he hid behind. His palms were damp. His mind raced. Should I shout? Run? Confront her?
But she moved again—slipping behind one of the bookshelves, tapping along its edge, then pressing a rune-hidden latch with gloved fingers.
Click.
A narrow compartment opened in the wall. Dust spilled out.
From it, she pulled a small velvet box.
Her breath hitched. Just slightly. Her ears lowered.
She opened the box with slow reverence. Inside sat a necklace of white pearls—simple, yet pure. Each orb pulsed faintly, like moonlight breathing. The glow touched her face, and for the first time, Alaric could see her eyes clearly: golden, wide, and no longer just calculating.
Recognition glinted in them.
She knew what this was. Not just its value—its meaning.
Alaric's fingers curled tighter around the pedestal. His heart was thumping again.
Not out of fear.
But something stranger. Like curiosity—or déjà vu.
He had no name for it—only knew he couldn't look away.
Alaric's breath caught. He had to move—had to act. The moment the woman tucked the velvet box into a hidden pouch, he turned and sprinted, legs light, heart pounding.
But he didn't even make it past the statue.
Fwip—!
A blur. A rush of wind. Then darkness wrapped around him like silk.
He stumbled, barely processing the sudden weightlessness before he was gently, almost gracefully, pinned against the floor. No pain—just the startling sensation of being outmatched. A gloved hand pressed to his shoulder, not roughly, but with enough pressure to keep him still.
"Mm..." Her voice drifted in close, low and calm, like someone reading a bedtime story with a wicked twist. "You're brave. Not clever—but brave."
Alaric's wide eyes met hers—gold gleaming in the dim light, slitted pupils dancing with mirth. Her face hovered inches above his. There was no malice in her expression. Just amusement. As though he were a kitten trying to swat a falcon from the sky.
"You're not ready to stop me, boy," she whispered, and for a moment, her voice flickered with something familiar. "But keep chasing shadows… You might surprise me one day."
Before he could blink, she rose in one impossibly fluid motion.
Her body melted into the gloom. One step. Two. Then—
Gone.
A shimmer of rippling shadow marked the air where she'd stood. As if reality had sighed her out of existence.
Alaric lay still for several seconds. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum of war. His cheeks were hot with humiliation—not because he failed to stop her, but because he never had a chance.
He pushed himself up, brushing off dust that wasn't there. She could've hurt him. Could've stolen more. But she didn't.
She only took… that necklace.
The way she looked at it. The pause. The whisper in her voice. It wasn't greed.
The next morning, sunlight had barely spilled across the palace floors when Alaric was summoned.
He stood stiffly in his nightshirt, bare feet cold against the floor. His parents sat across from him in the morning parlor, framed by tall windows and the quiet rustle of curtains swaying in the breeze.
Duke Aldric Argentvale looked tired—his jaw set, his fingers steepled with restraint. Beside him, Duchess Elysienne's expression was softer, but her eyes flicked with sharp concern.
Camilla stood just behind Alaric, lips pursed tightly like she was holding back a sigh that had been waiting all night to escape.
"So," Aldric began, voice low, measured. "You snuck out of your room. Broke into the library?"
Alaric squirmed. "I didn't break in. The door wasn't even locked."
"That doesn't make it less forbidden," Elysienne said gently but firmly. "You could have been hurt, Alaric. What if something had gone wrong?"
He dropped his gaze. "I was careful. I just wanted to read."
Aldric's eyebrow twitched. "Just… read?"
"Yes! I returned the books I took before! I only wanted to find more… about mana structures and rune compression and maybe—"
"That's enough," Aldric cut in, raising a hand. He exchanged a look with his wife. "You're not being punished for curiosity, son. You're being punished for recklessness. And disobedience."
"But I didn't take anything!"
"No," Elysienne said, her voice softening, "but someone else did. Something valuable. If you hadn't been there, we might not have known so soon—but you could've been in danger."
"I was fine," he mumbled, but it lacked conviction now.
Aldric exhaled through his nose, like a storm barely held behind a dam. "For one week, no library access. All your books will be removed from your chambers."
"What?!" Alaric looked up, panic blooming in his chest.
Elysienne added gently, "And during that time, you'll attend additional lessons. Non-magical ones. Etiquette. Poetry. Dancing."
"Dancing?" Alaric repeated like the word itself betrayed him.
Camilla stepped forward with a resigned shrug. "I'll make sure he follows the schedule. Closely."
"But I hate it!"
"Alaric," Aldric's tone brooked no debate.
Alaric let out a small groan and dragged his palms down his face.
Elysienne knelt and kissed his forehead with a quiet laugh. "Then behave better."
The worst part wasn't the lectures.
It was knowing he wouldn't be allowed near the magic books—just when he'd begun scratching at something bigger.
But for now… he had no choice but to endure—and dance.