The steam from Viviane's teacup curled in the air like a lazy ghost, vanishing into the soft light of Avalon's. The gazebo's wooden floor creaked gently under her weight as she leaned back, the rim of her porcelain cup pressed lightly against her lips. Sssip. The tea, brewed from starlit herbs, was still warm, still bitter—just the way she liked it.
Outside, the Tower of Avalon hummed softly, its ancient stones vibrating with the rhythm of unsettled magic. For the last three and a half years—Contrarian years, she reminded herself—the tremble hadn't stopped. It was the time magic. Twisting, settling, folding over itself like windblown silk. Until it fully settled, Avalon would remain… isolated. She couldn't send her white bird down to Contraria. Couldn't reach nor observe him.
Clink. The cup touched the saucer again.
"I wonder how you're doing now, Satria," she murmured, voice barely louder than the rustle of Avalon's drifting leaves. Her golden eyes reflected the silver-blue sky above, where clouds swirled in slow, deliberate patterns. "Stuck in that little body… does it still feel like you?"
The question lingered, unanswered as always.
She sipped again. A memory surfaced—him, grinning like a fool as he deliberately emphasized the word master every chance he got, drawing it out just to see her flustered.
A chuckle bubbled up before she could stop it. "Hmph… Insolent brat."
She leaned forward, her fingers drumming against the table. If he was suffering, if the nightmares were still haunting him, then he deserved it. Just a little. For all the times he made her blush. For every off-handed nickname and cheeky remark.
"Oh, I'm going to make you pay," she said with a slow, wicked smile.
Viviane swirled the tea in her cup, her gaze sharpening as a thought surfaced. Of course—she still needed to prepare for Satria's training. Proper magical instruction, as any respectable master should provide. It was her duty, after all.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
"Training? Yes. But with suffering. Sweet, delicious suffering. It's my duty as your master, after all. Just wait."
She chuckled softly, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "I shall have my revenge."
The sky above the Tower of Avalon pulsed faintly, a sign that the magic was stabilizing. The veil would soon part. Soon, the little white bird would take wing once more—carrying her gaze, her will, and perhaps a warning.
And when it did… she would find him.
Meanwhile, down there on Contraria—
"—I wish to learn magic."
The moment hung in the air like a held breath.
Across the long polished table, three sets of eyes turned toward the small voice that had broken the comfortable rhythm of breakfast. Golden light spilled through tall arched windows, warming the room's fine tapestries and silverware, but all warmth seemed to vanish in an instant.
Clink.
Duchess Elysienne's spoon slipped from her fingers, landing softly in her porridge with a dull splash. Serana blinked, toast halfway to her lips, while Duke Aldric's teacup hovered mid-air.
Alaric sat upright, legs not quite reaching the floor, but his voice carried a quiet certainty. His hands were folded neatly on his lap. He looked them in the eyes, his expression calm—too calm for his age.
"Magic," Aldric echoed, lowering the cup with a quiet thunk. "You want to learn magic?"
"Yes, Father," Alaric said, without hesitation.
A sharp pause followed. Not one of anger—but of unease.
"But why?" Elysienne finally asked, her tone wrapped in caution. "Where is this coming from?"
Alaric paused, careful not to falter. "I've just been thinking," he said. "I want to learn. To understand it."
They can't know… not about the mana core. Not yet.
I've tried forming it. Again. And again. But nothing's working. The shape dissolves, the energy slips through my fingers. Something's wrong, something's amiss. I need answers.
Serana leaned forward, brows drawn. "You're still very young, Alaric. Magic isn't something you can play with. Especially not in our family."
Aldric's gaze sharpened, shadowed by caution.
"Our bloodline doesn't resist magic, Alaric—it embraces it. Too easily, too completely. Magic doesn't just answer us. Sometimes, it's like hunting us."
"I see," Alaric replied. "But, Father… I'm not gonna do spells or anything. I just… I really wanna learn."
Elysienne's lips parted, but no words came at first. Her eyes searched his face. There was no tantrum in him. No recklessness. Just something quiet and urgent.
"You're serious about this?" she whispered.
Alaric nodded. "Yes. I want to learn, Mother… Please."
His voice was even, but inside, his thoughts spun like smoke. If I don't solve my mana core, I'll never be able to fight the Decay.
Aldric let out a slow breath and looked to Elysienne. Her fingers twitched near her spoon. Serana stayed quiet.
"We're not saying no," Aldric finally said. "But we need time to think this through."
Alaric lowered his gaze with a small nod.
It wasn't the answer he wanted.
But it was the best one he could get—for now.
"I still think you two are being too cautious," Serana said, arms crossed as she leaned back in her chair. "It's natural for boys his age to be curious about magic."
"He's three," Elysienne snapped, her tone sharp despite the composed expression she wore. "He still stumbles in the hallway at night. He's too young to handle something as volatile as mana."
Serana folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on, Elsy. It's not like we were any different."
Alaric blinked slowly, spooning the last of his mashed fruit with delicate precision. He didn't look up. He just listened.
Aldric gave a thoughtful hum, tapping one finger against his cup. "But curiosity at this age means something."
"And that's where it begins," Elysienne shot back, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. "First theory, then experimentation. Magic isn't a toy. One mistake and—" She caught herself, eyes flicking to Alaric. "He's our son."
Why is this so troublesome? Alaric thought, letting their words pass over him like water. I only asked to study. Isn't that what noble children are supposed to do?
He had Viviane's knowledge tucked inside him—patterns, theory, memory. But even with her teachings from Avalon, his mana refused to settle. The flow here is different. Too soft. Somehow it's… too thin.
"I'm not saying throw him into training," Serana said, gesturing vaguely with her fork. "But let him learn something. Theories, glyphs—whatever's safe. He's smarter than most boys his age."
"He's not most boys," Elysienne said, her voice tight now, trembling at the edge. "He's an Argentvale."
Alaric finally glanced up. Her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles pale. She's not afraid of magic, he realized. She's afraid of losing me. That fear rang louder than any word she'd spoken.
Aldric folded his hands together, expression unreadable.
"Magic isn't just knowledge, Alaric," he said at last, directing his gaze toward his son. "It's dangerous. It needs practice, diligence, control—and patience."
Alaric replied quietly. "I'll be careful, Father."
Elysienne exhaled shakily.
Elysienne didn't answer. Her lips parted, but no words followed. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers clenched white around the edge of her gown. She looked at Alaric—not as the curious child he was, but as something more fragile.
A storm of emotions welled behind her eyes—fear, love, helplessness.
Alaric folded his hands and cleared his throat, mimicking the diplomatic poise he'd seen from Aldric.
"If it's too soon," he began carefully, "then maybe… I could learn under someone."
Elysienne raised an eyebrow. "A teacher?"
"Uhm, more like… a study partner?" Alaric replied with a soft smile. "Someone who can guide me."
Serana chuckled into her cup. "That's brilliant. I like it."
Elysienne looked unconvinced, but said nothing.
Aldric leaned back with a low laugh. "You've thought this through?"
Alaric gave an innocent nod, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Uhm, just a little."
"Well then," Aldric said, rubbing his chin. "We should begin with reading and writing."
"And who," Serana asked, her voice softer now, "do you have in mind for something like this? You've heard what people are still saying."
The rumors hadn't faded with time—they'd only grown quieter, whispered behind closed doors. Servants still crossed themselves when Alaric passed, and some noble families had stopped bringing their children to court altogether. The title clung to him like a shadow: the Cursed Child of Argentvale.
Aldric's jaw tightened. Of course he'd heard the rumors—from Serana herself, whispered late at night when they thought Alaric was asleep. He hated how powerless they made him feel.
Before Aldric could answer, a quiet knock came at the door. Camilla, the maid, entered carrying a fresh pot of tea.
"Camilla," Aldric called smoothly. "Perfect timing."
Camilla blinked. "Yes, my lord?"
"How would you feel about taking on a new role? As Alaric's tutor."
There was a clatter as the teapot nearly slipped from her hands. "T-Tutor?! I—I'm just a maid! Surely someone more… professional—?"
"You used to be an adventurer," Serana reminded her, grinning. "You know the glyphs, don't you?"
"B-basic ones! My Lady," Camilla protested, flustered.
Aldric waved a hand. "It's just reading and writing, for now. I believe you are capable enough."
"I… I—" Camilla looked helplessly between them all.
Alaric turned to his mother, his eyes wide and earnest.
"Please, Mother? I want to learn so I can fight back the nightmares… they feel real."
Elysienne's hand reached across the table, resting gently on Alaric's. Her voice was low, tight with emotion.
"All I want is for you to be safe. If this helps… then we'll try. But you must promise us you'll be careful."
"I promise," Alaric said, nodding quickly.
Aldric gave a small nod of approval. Then he turned to Camilla, saying nothing—just waiting.
Camilla froze under the weight of four expectant faces. Alaric's hopeful eyes. Aldric's steady gaze. Serana's amused smirk. Elysienne's quiet, watchful calm.
She sighed. "I suppose… if it's just reading and writing…"
She folded her arms, already regretting the decision even as she made it. She tended to Alaric's needs every day—how different could this be? Teaching him a few glyphs couldn't possibly be worse than cleaning up after his daily chaos… probably.
Satisfied, Alaric sat there quietly—hiding a triumphant smile behind his teacup. One step closer, he thought, with logic, sincerity… and just the right amount of charm.
Duke Aldric steepled his fingers, regarding his son with quiet gravity.
"If we are to do this, it will be under clear terms," he said firmly. "No spellcasting. No incantations. No practical magic of any kind. Only reading and writing. You'll begin with the basics."
Alaric nodded once, calm and composed. "Understood."
Elysienne, silent until now, exhaled softly. Her eyes lingered on her son's small face."You're too clever for a boy your age," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "It worries me."
Aldric leaned forward, his voice quiet but weighty. "Alaric. Magic is not a toy. It is power—real, dangerous power. One misstep can change everything."
Alaric met his father's gaze, the look in his eyes far too old for his age. "I understand Father," he said. "I'll take it seriously."
Something in his tone made the room still. Not childish eagerness, but a sober, measured understanding. Aldric gave a small, approving nod.
"Very well. Your lessons will begin at noon," he said, turning toward the waiting Grand Butler at the edge of the room.
"Inform the Grand Chamberlain. The study chamber and library are to be opened and arranged for Alaric."
"At once, Your Grace," Grand Butler replied with a bow.
"And Camilla," Aldric added, rising from his chair, "go with him. You'll need to review the archives and gather texts."
Camilla, still slightly pale from her new duty, gave a reluctant curtsy. "Yes, Your Grace."
As they left the room, the morning light cast long shadows behind them.
Alaric remained in his seat, watching them go, a soft smile playing on his lips. With this, the path opens, he thought. His plan set into motion. From here on, I walk forward—without disturbance.
*
The study chamber smelled of old parchment and polished wood. Sunlight spilled through a tall arched window, dancing across shelves filled with tomes older than most nobles. In the center of the room, at a low desk just his size, Alaric sat upright with anticipation.
Camilla stood nearby, clutching a worn beginner's text in one hand and a slate in the other. She cleared her throat theatrically. "Alright, young master," she said in her best teacher-voice, "today we begin with the foundation—Vaelminian glyphs."
Alaric nodded solemnly. "I'm ready."of all education
She cracked open the book to the first page. Inked in bold strokes were five basic glyphs, each etched with care and labeled with their phonetic sounds and symbolic meaning.
"These are your base glyphs," Camilla said, kneeling beside him. "You'll need to recognize and write them before we even think about magic theory."
Alaric studied the symbols. Angular, yet flowing—like someone had tried to draw meaning from wind and stone. He picked up the chalk and, after only a few seconds of quiet concentration, reproduced all five glyphs flawlessly on the slate.
Camilla blinked. "Huh."
He moved on, copying the next few without hesitation. Lines, loops, rhythm. Easy.
"…Huh," she repeated, frowning now. "That's… a bit fast."
"I learn quickly," Alaric replied innocently, carefully wiping his slate for the next round.
So this is what it's like, he mused. A child's brain really is something else. Information just slides right in.
He recalled similar sensations in his old life, learning programming languages and syntax trees. Glyphs were no different—just another structure to decode.
Camilla watched him scribble the next glyph with perfect balance. "Okay, I'm impressed—and mildly terrified."
The first lesson had only begun, and already, Alaric was a page ahead.
The study chamber slowly transformed into something more than just a classroom. Over the next few weeks, Camilla made learning feel more like a game than a task.
"Trace this glyph with your finger in the sand," she said, sliding over a shallow tray filled with fine silver-dust sand. "Nice and slow—don't cheat!"
Alaric giggled, obediently carving the elegant curve of the glyph, its shape looping like a fish hook. "Like this?"
"Mmhmm. Good enough to pass as a three-year-old," she teased, ruffling his hair.
Truthfully, Alaric could already see the logic behind the writing. The glyphs—complex, looping, branching—reminded him of Javanese Aksara.
Form changed based on tone, formality, placement in a sentence. He'd already figured out the vowel markers and how silent modifiers affected flow. But he kept his progress slow. Too quick and questions would follow.
Camilla shifted their exercises often: from chalkboard scribbles to quill pen and papers, and once even finger-painting the glyphs on enchanted paper that shimmered when stroked correctly.
"Stroke order matters!" she'd call out, swatting his hand gently when he went too fast. "You're writing ha-na-ca, not trying to summon a giant toad."
Each lesson ended with Camilla teaching him simple phrases. "This one means 'by your grace, noble sir.' You'll need that someday when the Duke brings guests." She tapped the phrase with her pointer.
It was fun. Like decoding a puzzle no one else could see.
Then came the mishap.
Alaric proudly traced the glyphs onto a parchment. Camilla leaned over, squinted, and giggled.
"What? What's so funny?"
"You were supposed to write 'Silence is the virtue of life,'" Camilla said, studying the page. "But this says 'Silence is the music of life.'"
She paused for a moment, then gave a small sigh. "Your strokes are uneven. The curves slipped here."
Alaric looked down, deflated. "It felt right when I wrote it."
Camilla softened. "It's not wrong. Just… not what I asked."
"It's the vowel tail, Alaric. You curved it left instead of right."
The lessons deepened, not just in difficulty but in meaning.
Camilla had stopped hovering. Instead of constant corrections, she now set down longer sentences for Alaric to copy, her trust in him growing with every clean stroke of the brush.
"Let's try something with more flair," she said one morning, laying out a short courtly decree with complex glyph variations. "You're ready for formality... I think."
Alaric smirked, dipping his brush. In the margins of the parchment, he scribbled a private note in a cipher of looping, twisting lines—his own little code. These flowery nobles really love their commas.
Camilla didn't notice. She was too busy showing him how to control his posture, adjust his wrist angle, and avoid ink blotches. "A good grip keeps the mana balanced through the stroke," she explained, gently guiding his fingers around the quill. "Otherwise your glyphs look drunk."
He chuckled. This was nothing like Viviane's method. Those were structural. Exact. But with Camilla, things were softer. Messier. More… human.
"You know," she said as she refilled the ink, "I once learned glyphs by copying bakery signs during my travels. Couldn't afford scrolls. Just watched what people posted on market stalls."
Alaric blinked. "You learned to read... by bread?"
"Best teacher in the world: hunger," she replied with a wink.
Inspired, Alaric started writing tiny stories at the bottom of his worksheets. Just a sentence or two: A magician's moving castle. A pirate who wears a straw hat. Simple words, nothing dramatic—but his way of playing with language.
Camilla caught on. "These are actually pretty good," she said one afternoon. "Add some flourishes next time. Make them yours."
Soon, his homework included not just noble decrees and copied passages, but decorative borders and sketched emblems. He wasn't just learning—he was making.
Then, one day, Camilla placed a lacquered scroll tube on his desk.
"For your work," she said simply.
Alaric held it in his hands, the polished wood catching the afternoon light. "Thank you," he whispered.
In that moment, he wasn't a reincarnated man or a cursed child.
He was just a student.
Lessons became a habit. The soft scratch of pen on paper, the rustle of scrolls, the scent of ink—Alaric's world now moved to this rhythm.
A few days passed.
With that time came visitors.
"Good afternoon," Aldric said one day, entering the study chamber with arms crossed but eyes amused. "Let's see what our little Alaric has been up to."
Camilla stiffened. "Of course, Your Grace. He's been… very diligent."
Alaric handed over his latest workbook with an innocent blink.
Aldric flipped through the pages, brow rising. "Hmm. Formal script, no ink smudges, proper stroke flow. Camilla, are you sure he's not copying from an old scribe hiding under the desk?"
Alaric gave a small, proud smile.
Later that day, Serana burst in with a bundle of word tiles. "Quick! Glyph quiz! Loser gets no honey cake!"
Camilla sighed. "Lady Serana, this isn't a—"
"Game?" Serana grinned. "Exactly. Come on, Alaric. Which glyph means 'honor' and which one means 'duty'?"
"Trick question," Alaric said calmly. "They're the same root, just different modifiers."
Serana whistled. "Cheeky."
Sometimes Elysienne joined too, quietly sitting by the window while Camilla taught. She never interrupted, only observed—hands folded, eyes soft. After lessons, she'd linger to tuck a strand of hair behind Alaric's ear or gently smooth his collar.
"You've done well," she said once, brushing his hair with quiet pride. "And you, Camilla... thank you."
Camilla flushed scarlet. "Just doing my job, Your Grace."
Under their watchful eyes, he didn't feel trapped.
He felt seen. Cherished.
For the first time in his second life, Alaric was part of something gentle.
Something like a family.
*
The ducal palace was quiet. Long past bedtime, with the halls cloaked in shadows, Alaric slipped from his room, a candle flickering in his small hand. His footsteps were soft, practiced—like a thief in his own home.
For weeks, he had studied patiently under Camilla's careful eye—letters, glyphs, grammar, noble script. He had absorbed it all. Each stroke, each word had been a step toward this moment. He had waited, pretending to struggle, hiding the speed at which his mind moved. But tonight, he no longer needed to pretend.
He was ready.
Tonight, he wasn't sneaking sweets or mischief. He was seeking knowledge.
The library door groaned faintly as he pushed it open. Inside, rows of books loomed like sleeping giants. He moved straight to the section on magical theory, dragging a stool to reach the shelves he wasn't supposed to touch. One by one, he pulled volumes down, flipping through pages by candlelight.
He was looking for an answer. Specifically: How does one develop a mana core?
What he found chilled him more than the night air.
Every book he opened said the same thing, in language both clinical and absolute: core formation in children under five was exceedingly rare, bordering on impossible.
The reason wasn't ignorance or lack of will—it was biology. A child's mana channels were simply too immature, underdeveloped pathways too narrow and fragile to circulate the volatile flow of raw mana safely. Even prodigies, it seemed, had to wait. No amount of talent, no advanced technique, no ancient secret could override the fundamental truth written into the body.
Even the most gifted mages in history, those who awakened early, had only begun forming their cores around their fifth year—after their organs had adapted and the natural mana within their bodies had stabilized. Until then, any forced attempt at core formation risked backlash, burnout, or permanent damage.
So that's why…
All his past attempts. All his failures. Not because he misunderstood Viviane's teachings. Not because he'd forgotten.
It wasn't a matter of effort. It was timing—because his body simply wasn't ready.
Frustration welled in his chest. His candlelight wavered as his hands trembled. He had the knowledge. He had the will. But the vessel he was given—this small, fragile body—refused to cooperate.
For a moment, despair crept in.
Am I really stuck like this?
He clenched his fists. Took a breath.
No. This wasn't defeat. This was physiology. Nature. A wall, yes—but not an unscalable one.
If the problem was time, then he would wait. But not idly.
He would train in secret, absorbing mana bit by bit. He would teach his body to flow, to channel, to prepare. So when his time came, he wouldn't start from nothing. He would be ready.
Quietly, he returned the book to its shelf and crept back to his bed.
Lying beneath the covers, he stared at the ceiling, the candle's glow fading.
Even if I have to wait—I won't be idle. I'm not the same as I used to be.