The sun hung high over Ansem, its golden rays fracturing through crystalline spires that pierced the capital’s skyline like blades of light. House Corina’s estate sprawled across a verdant hill, a monument to opulence that rivalled the gods’ own halls. Its alabaster walls shimmered with veins of jade and sapphire, woven by ancient TIMBER mages into patterns that pulsed faintly with mana, as if the manor breathed. Artificial mountains loomed behind, their peaks crowned with mist, carved to cradle cascading waterfalls that shimmered like liquid starlight, their roar a low hymn in the air. Low-rank magical creatures: iridescent flutterwings and sapphire-scaled salamanders, darted through manicured gardens, their soft trills blending with the scent of moonbloom and spiced nectar. Marble bridges arched over koi-filled streams, each fish a living jewel, their scales catching the light in ripples of crimson and gold. The estate was a world unto itself, a testament to House Corina’s wealth and power, yet its beauty carried a sharp edge, like a blade veiled in silk.

  Julieta glided through the manor’s halls, her silk slippers whispering against polished obsidian floors that reflected her shadow like a dark mirror. Her auburn hair, pinned loosely, caught the light streaming through stained-glass windows, each pane a tapestry of Ansara’s history - dragons, saints, and forgotten wars.

  Servants in crisp livery bowed low as she passed, their murmurs of “Lady Julieta” deferential but fleeting.

  Behind her, whispers trailed like venomous threads. “Daughter of a concubine,” one maid hissed, her voice barely audible over the clink of silver trays. “Lucky to walk these halls, nothing more.”

  Julieta’s lips tightened, but her stride remained steady, her emerald eyes fixed ahead as if the words were dust on the wind. She had learned long ago to let such barbs glance off her, though each one left a faint sting, a reminder of her place in this gilded cage.

  She pushed open the doors to the Orchid Chamber, a room that seemed to bloom with wealth. Its domed ceiling glittered with chandeliers of frostfire crystal, casting prismatic glints across walls draped in velvet tapestries embroidered with gold thread. Jade statues of celestial beasts, like gryphons and phoenixes, stood sentinel, their eyes winking with embedded opals. A rosewood table groaned under silver ewers of spiced wine and platters of candied figs, their sweetness thick in the air.

  At the room’s heart stood Milano De Corina, her second brother, seventeen and sharp as a freshly honed blade. His features mirrored hers, same auburn hair, same high cheekbones, but his eyes, cold and grey as storm clouds, held none of her warmth. He lounged against a velvet divan, a goblet of wine dangling in his hand, his silk tunic embroidered with House Corina’s crest: a silver dragon coiled around a star.

  “Well, well,” Milano drawled, his voice smooth as poisoned honey, “the woodland adventurer returns. Tell me, dear sister, did the Radon Woods teach you how to dodge assassins, or were you too busy playing hero with orphans?” His lips curled into a smile that cut deeper than any blade.

  Julieta met his gaze, her own smile bright and unshaken, though her fingers twitched at her side. “It was quite the adventure, Milano,” she said, her tone light but edged. “I even plucked a Green Crystal Flower from the heart of the Woods. Father was most pleased, congratulated me himself.” She tilted her head, letting the words sink in, her eyes catching the flicker of envy that twisted Milano’s face.

  Before he could retort, the doors swung open, admitting Manke, House Corina’s steward. His hair with grey sideburns was swept back, his lean frame clad in austere black robes that belied his authority. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned the room before settling on Julieta with a nod.

  Milano straightened, his sneer returning as he rounded on Manke. “You,” he snapped, voice dripping with disdain. “Some steward you are, letting my sister wander into a death trap. What good are you if you can’t protect House Corina’s blood?”

  Manke bowed slightly, unruffled. “Young Master Milano, I understand your concern,” he said, his voice steady as stone. “But the matter has been settled by the Master of the House. Lady Julieta is safe, and justice has been served.” His tone carried a finality that brooked no argument, though Milano’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with impotent rage.

  Milano huffed, tossing his goblet onto the table with a clatter. “Settled,” he muttered, striding toward the door.

  As he passed, his thoughts churned, dark and bitter.

  The door slammed behind him, leaving a heavy silence.

  Julieta’s smile widened, a soft laugh escaping her lips, bright and unguarded. She turned to Manke, her eyes dancing with a warmth that felt foreign in this cold manor.

  The true brotherhood she’d witnessed in Radom’s orphanage, Nerion’s fierce defiance, Myra’s protective embrace, Elisha’s quiet strength, burned in her memory, a stark contrast to Milano’s venom.

  That bond, raw and unpolished, was worth more than all the jade in Ansem.

  Manke’s lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement. “He’ll cool off, my lady,” he said, then lowered his voice, his tone grave. “The Master is furious about the betrayal. The attack on you was no mere banditry; someone meant to strike at House Corina’s heart. Had it not been for your plea, Lykos would be dead, and I’d be facing the Master’s wrath myself.”

  Julieta nodded, her smile fading. “Lykos has changed,” she said softly, her fingers brushing the edge of a velvet tapestry. “He’s not the proud fool he was. He trains every day now, harder than I’ve ever seen. You, too, Manke, you seem… renewed. Even Father’s lighter, happier. Why is that?”

  Manke’s eyes gleamed, a secret dancing behind them. “That, my lady, is a matter between the Master and me,” he said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Just as you keep a secret of your own, one you’ve not shared even with him.” He tilted his head, a silent acknowledgement of the weight she carried.

  Julieta’s gaze dropped to the floor, her heart tightening. The Fruit of the Mountain God, Nerion’s vow, Mikael’s cryptic warning, they burned in her mind, a truth she longed to confess to her father. She’d stood at the edge of telling him everything, the words trembling on her tongue, but Mikael’s plea for silence held her fast. Honouring that request was a chain around her heart, heavy but unbreakable. She looked up, forcing a smile. “Some secrets are worth keeping,” she said quietly.

  “And the attack,” she continued, her voice steadying. “Was it truly House Alara?”

  Manke’s brow furrowed, his fingers tapping the hilt of a ceremonial dagger at his belt. “Everything points to them: coin trails, whispers in Rhodar, the Beastman’s presence. But the Master isn’t convinced. A Beastman is no small thing; aligning with one isn’t just noble rivalry, it’s treason, a step too far even for Alara’s ambition. Yet the evidence is hard to dismiss. They may well have had a hand in it.”

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  Julieta nodded, her mind racing. The Beastman’s snarling face flashed in her memory, its claws glinting in the Woods’ dim light.

  She pushed the thought aside, focusing on Manke’s next words. “The Master won’t press you for your secret,” he said, his tone softening. “He trusts the one who asked you to keep it—a trust deeper than blood. But he’s turning his eyes to the Frontier now. He’s spoken with House Varona, and they’ll watch it closely. Their heir may even visit it soon. You should go to them, my lady, strengthen those ties, after all, they are some of our closest allies.”

  Julieta’s eyes brightened, a spark of curiosity igniting. Thinking about the Frontier, Radom, and Nerion. They called to her, a world of raw loyalty far from Ansem’s glittering schemes. Perhaps she could also find something similar here in this gilded cage of hers. “I will,” she said, her voice firm, a vow of her own taking root.

  “By the way, did you manage to send the gifts I selected for Nerion and his family?” asked Julieta with a smile on her face, the memory of recent events filling her heart.

  “Yes, young miss, it’s already been done as per your instructions. I’m sure they’ll love your presents,” answered Manke with a smile of his own. He also wanted to give all the help he could to that friend he had been missing for over twenty-five years.

  Two days had passed since the attic’s secrets reshaped Nerion’s world, and Radom’s orphanage buzzed with a rare lightness. The backyard, a patchwork of packed earth and stubborn weeds, glowed under a late afternoon sun, its rays slanting through gnarled oaks to dapple the ground in gold.

  Laughter rang out as children sparred with new wooden staffs, their linen tunics—crisp and unpatched, gifts from House Corina, flashing in the light.

  A clinking purse of gold, tightly managed by Myra to keep Mikael’s thirst at bay, had brought training mats and polished cudgels, tools that made the orphans feel like warriors, not castoffs.

  The air carried the tang of sweat and fresh-cut cedar, a promise of better days.

  Elisha danced at the yard’s edge, his lion-like hair catching the sun as he spun a curved blade, its steel gleaming with austere elegance. No noble’s gaudy ornament, this was a true Rank 6 artefact, a gift from House Corina that sang of combat’s purity: sleek, unadorned, and deadly.

  His usual Praetorian stoicism had cracked, a silly grin breaking through as he flowed through stances, the blade an extension of his will. He’d barely set it down since it arrived, practising until his muscles burned, each swing a love letter to the weapon’s craft.

  The other children paused to watch, their cheers mingling with the blade’s soft hum, a faint mana pulse woven into its edge.

  Nerion sat cross-legged on a worn mat, his splinted arms lighter now, the Moonpetal Salve’s minty sting fading.

  Before him lay his own gift, sent by Manke himself: an ancient scroll, its parchment yellowed and edges frayed, sealed with runes that glowed faintly when his fingers brushed them, a whisper of Mana tingling his skin.

  The Short Ode of the Snow Fairies.It was a Low-grade Meditation Technique, and was no mere trinket. In Ansara, such scrolls were rarer than dragon’s tears, their secrets hoarded by noble houses, as costly as a warlord’s ransom.

  This one, Manke’s own practice, promised to draw the Natural Energy of Heaven and Earth into the Mind Palace, calming the soul to channel Mana. It detailed the Heavenly Gates, portals of power within the mind, and the principles of TIMBER, knowledge reserved for elites. A faint chance existed to open the Ice Heavenly Gate first, birthing an Ice Magus, though the first Gate was often random.

  For a normal soul, it could raise Mana one level per year; a prodigy might reach Adept by ten. Nerion, at five, nearly six, was no normal soul.

  He’d begun practising the moment the scroll was his, cross-legged in the attic’s dusty hush, his breath syncing with the Ode’s rhythmic chants. Mana surged into his Mind Palace, a shimmering lake within his soul, swelling faster than he’d dreamed.

  His talent was a wildfire.

  By the Woods, his Mana had hit level 5, his Qi already at 7, teetering on 8.

  In two years, with this scroll, he could be an Adept by seven or eight, a feat unheard of in Radom’s dust.

  But as Mana flooded his mind, a horror gripped him.

  His Qi, hard-earned through Mikael’s gruelling drills, was dissolving, its warmth leaching from his meridians like water through cracked earth.

  He froze, the scroll trembling in his hands, Mikael’s and Silvestre’s warnings echoing: Qi and Mana cannot rise together.

  Vexed, Nerion sought answers. He found Mikael in the backyard, guiding Elisha through sword stances, his scarred hands steady as he corrected a grip. Myra was nearby, her Centurion’s braid swinging as she barked orders at a gaggle of orphans, their cudgels clashing in clumsy mimicry of warriors.

  The sun dipped low, painting the yard in amber, the air thick with dust and effort. Nerion clutched the scroll, his voice small but urgent. “Father, my Qi… It’s fading. The Mana’s rising, but it’s eating my Qi. Is there no way to keep both?”

  Mikael turned, his Saint’s gaze heavy, though a flicker of expectation softened it. Elisha lowered his blade, his grin fading to a Praetorian’s calm as he listened. “I figured you’d come soon, runt,” Mikael said, his voice rough as gravel but warm. “Your talent for Mana doesn’t surprise me. You’re a rare case, Nerion, gifted enough to choose a path. Most are born for one, Qi or Mana, and never face this. But in the end, you can’t walk both. The First Law of AEON forbids it.”

  He knelt, his cloak pooling like shadows, and recited from the Libro Sanctus, his voice rising like a chant over the yard’s din:

  “

  The words hung heavy, their cadence a hymn to AEON’s unyielding truth, the orphans pausing as if the air itself had stilled.

  Nerion’s eyes widened, the scroll’s runes pulsing faintly in his grip. Elisha stepped closer, his blade resting on his shoulder, his gaze steady but warm. “I’m proud of you, Nerion,” he said softly, his voice a rare break from stoicism. “But you’re barely six. This choice is heavy for someone so young.”

  Mikael sighed, his scarred face softening, a ghost of the Dragon General in his eyes. “Truth is, I wanted you to be a Warrior, runt. Your Qi’s already near Level 8, a marvel for your age. But Manke saw your Mana’s spark. Why else send you that scroll? He wrote to me, said Ansara needs a TIMBER Mage, pouring gold into training Adepts. As a Magus, your path might outshine any Warrior’s in this kingdom.”

  Nerion’s heart twisted. “But Father, can’t I keep both? I love training with Elisha with Myra. The you taught me, it’s yours, isn’t it? I don’t want to lose that.”

  Mikael’s lips twitched, a rare pride glinting. “That technique, runt, moves the Natural Energy itself. It’s no mere Qi trick; it’s the seed of a Martial Art, the Free Flowing Fist, crafted by my family’s First Ancestor, who helped forge Ansara. None but he mastered it fully, and it’s lain dormant since. When you used the Revolution in the Woods, I saw his echo in you. I’ve taught your brothers my own techniques, born of my travels, but you, I’d teach you the Free Flowing Fist. It’s rooted in balance, in the world’s equilibrium, but choose it, and Mana’s path closes.”

  Nerion’s chest tightened, the scroll heavy in one hand, the Genesis Stone’s warmth pulsing at his neck. The Free Flowing Fist called to him, a legacy of Mikael’s blood, but the Ode’s Mana surged in his Mind Palace, a siren’s song. He was torn, his young mind reeling at the choice.

  Elisha crouched beside him, his blade glinting as he spoke, voice gentle. “Don’t carry this alone, Nerion. It’s a hard choice, but you don’t need to make it now. Try both. Train the Fist with Father, practice the Ode’s meditation. Your body will speak, show you what fits. Then you decide.”

  Mikael nodded, rising. “Your brother’s right. Come, runt. The Free Flowing Fist is a secret, not to be shared, not even with your siblings. Swear it.” Nerion nodded, his eyes blazing with resolve. “Good. The movements I’ll teach are sacred, rooted in balance. Learn them with your whole soul.”

  The yard’s light faded, the oaks’ shadows stretching long. Nerion clutched the scroll and Stone, a fire kindling in his heart. He’d train both paths, Qi and Mana, until his body chose… or until he carved a path no law could bind.