Several weeks had passed since Elian's return from the neutral city of Askov. In that time, routine seemed to have regained its quiet rhythm, though always marked by the lingering shadows within the family's hearts. By day, Elian helped Elise with small tasks, played with Emanuelle, and accompanied Anthony in the garden, where the mage tended the herbs she used for her potions. Life went on with a semblance of normalcy, as though the house itself wished to offer a brief respite before the next storm arrived.
But it was Maria who sought his presence the most. Any excuse served to call him near: asking him to sweep the floor, to hold the cloth while she wiped the table, or simply to sit at her side and talk. Everyone in the house understood. It was her way of clinging to him, of stealing what time she could before he was taken from her again. Maria had always been a mother-owl—yet with him, even more so.
Speaking of the owl… that shadowed presence that had so often appeared at crucial moments had not shown itself once since Elian's return from Askov. The absence disturbed him more than he wished to admit. In silence, he waited for it to appear—if only as a mute omen among the trees. But the void persisted, and that silence weighed heavier than any visitation.
Maria, who rarely liked to go to crowded places, even began leaving the house more often in those days—and always with Elian by her side. One cold morning, she approached him with a simple request:
"Elian, will you come with me to buy a few provisions missing from Elise's pantry?"
He did not hesitate. He too longed to spend every moment beside her, knowing well that soon enough time itself would wrench them apart.
"Yes!" he answered, his voice bright with a joy he barely contained. The memory of the last time he had been to the market came unbidden: the day he had bought the red dress for Emanuelle, just before the journey to Askov.
And of course, Emanuelle would not be left behind. She skipped forward, insisting on joining them. By contrast, Anthony chose to remain home. That choice left Elian with a silent discomfort. He knew his brother did not blame him for their father's death, yet the distance between them gnawed at him all the same.
The sun was only beginning to climb when the three left the house. Low on the eastern horizon, it painted the sky in shades of gold and purple. The cold, damp wind coiled through the narrow streets, slipping past the simple but comfortable clothes they wore.
Emanuelle wore the red dress Elian had given her—the fabric swayed with every light, dancing step. Maria wore a blue dress falling just below her knees, trimmed with discreet red accents. The blue mirrored the intensity of her eyes, while the red drew out the fire of her hair, a cascade of flame spilling down her back. The contrast was so vivid that, for a moment, Elian thought his mother looked like a fragment of sky and fire walking beside him.
At home, Elian could wear whatever he wished: a simple tunic, a healer's robe when helping Elise, or plain everyday clothes. But outside was different. On the streets, he had to carry the colors of the Dark Throne. It was not merely clothing—it was a mark.
That morning, he wore a black long-sleeved shirt adorned with crimson lines that caught the pale light. His trousers, equally dark, ended at the shins, streaked with red like the cuts of a burning blade. On his chest, embroidered with precision, was the sigil of the Dark Throne: a triangle tangled in scarlet roots. It marked him not only as an apprentice but as one under the direct protection of one of the Eleven Ancients.
This did not mean that members of the order had no life outside of it. Iolanda was proof of that. Whenever possible, she chose common clothes, leaving the weight of her uniform for when the hierarchy demanded it. Elian's case, however, was different. Ancient Marduk himself had decreed that he must present himself thus in public—not out of vanity, but strategy. Anyone daring to touch the boy—whether at Baron Hoffmann's command or another enemy's—would know immediately he was no helpless peasant child but one shielded by the Dark Throne itself.
Iolanda too accompanied them that morning. Unlike the austere military garb of her ceremonial attire, she wore the clothes of a simple traveler: beige linen trousers, sturdy boots laced to her shins, and a short-sleeved green blouse, practical and unadorned. Her long black-blue hair was loose, swaying softly in the breeze.
As supervisor, her role went beyond guarding Elian. Marduk's scroll had been clear: she was not only to train him but to serve as his family's personal guard until the other Dark Throne mages arrived in Brumaria. That would only happen once the new house was built and the order's branch established.
Until then, Iolanda was their bond to the Dark Throne—a presence that carried safety, vigilance, and the constant reminder of Elian's inescapable fate.
"You needn't accompany us, Iolanda," Maria said, her tone calm but laced with longing she could not hide.
It was not that she disliked the mage's presence. What she yearned for was something increasingly rare: a simple moment of intimacy with her children, free of the looming shadow of war, orders, and Elian's inevitable departure. Iolanda, uniformed or not, was a living reminder that such time was running out.
"I cannot, Maria," Iolanda replied, walking beside them, her posture as erect and disciplined as ever. "My father—" she paused, correcting herself, "Ancient Marduk, ordered me to keep close watch over Elian."
Maria's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp with challenge.
"He distrusts Elian?" The words carried the unspoken: How dare they question my son's honor?
Iolanda breathed deeply before answering.
"That is not it, Maria," she said, measured and steady. "Ancient Marduk values his word above all. If anything were to happen to your son under my supervision…" She paused, glancing at the street around them. "…even I do not know what would become of me."
Maria stared, incredulous. Her thoughts spun: How could a father threaten his own daughter? But it was not that. Marduk, for all his severity, cared deeply for his own. Yet he was still one of the Eleven. Within that council, politics weighed as heavily as blood. Not even he could shield his daughter if the game of power demanded sacrifice.
They walked on in silence, their steps uneven over Brumaria's rough roads. The packed earth broke into ruts and pits, forcing every stride to be careful. The contrast with Askov was stark: there, avenues were paved with stone, water ran clean in channels, waste hidden in underground ducts. Here, life was harsh—women hauled heavy buckets from wells, children ran barefoot through mud, and sewage festered in ditches cut beside the houses.
Elian walked at his mother's side, golden eyes taking in everything. He had grown up amid this setting, but now, after seeing Askov, the neglect of Brumaria stood out with painful clarity. Iolanda strode steady, while Maria felt herself torn with every step—between pride for having her children still by her side, and rage at knowing her life, her village, her grief, were little more than footnotes in the games of the great orders.
As they moved through the market, Maria could not stop her gaze from drifting over every worn face. The frayed clothes, the stooped shoulders of those bearing too much, the mingled scents of dust and sweat—everything screamed of poverty that suffocated Brumaria.
Elian had told her with shining eyes what Askov was like: stone streets, clear channels of water, abundant markets alive even in the cold. Maria had listened intently, and within her grew a yearning to see such a city one day. Elian, noticing, had promised to take her there. A simple wish, yet to her it seemed distant, dreamlike.
The four entered shops to make their purchases. Everywhere they went, eyes followed Elian. Not ordinary glances—stares of shock, distrust, and unease. It was not every day that one saw a child in the colors of one of the three great orders. Murmurs shadowed their steps.
The most astonished was Roque, the merchant who had once dealt with Arthur—the same man who had first seen Elian and Emanuelle years ago, walking into his shop as mere farmer's children.
"Well, if it isn't Arthur's children," Roque said, bowing respectfully to Maria. "Miss Maria, my deepest condolences for your loss."
"Thank you, Roque," she answered, bowing in return, though her voice wavered.
Then the merchant looked at Elian, his eyes narrowing at the black and crimson garb.
"Boy… what are you doing in those clothes?" he asked, calm but weighted with concern. "You do know wearing the symbols of an order without belonging to it is forbidden, don't you?" His gaze shifted to Maria, silently demanding an explanation.
Maria's blood boiled. Her hand trembled as it clenched her dress. How dare he question my son? She was about to lash out, but before her voice could rise, Iolanda's cut through the air.
"My name is Iolanda," she said, lifting her chin. From her dimensional amulet she drew the sigil of the Dark Throne, its metal gleaming under the light. "I am a mage of the Dark Throne and Elian's supervisor." Her voice carried the weight of iron. "He is the apprentice of Ancient Marduk. Choose your words carefully when speaking of him and his family."
Roque blanched. He straightened quickly, avoiding her gaze.
"I… meant no offense," he stammered. "It was only concern. Pretending to belong to an order—everyone knows that is a grave crime. I only… worried."
Maria drew a long breath, reining in the fury still pounding in her chest.
"It's all right, Roque," she said, her voice softer. "It was just a misunderstanding."
The merchant's shoulders eased. Grateful, he hurried to change the subject.
"So… what do you need today?"
"A kilo of wheat flour," Maria requested.
Roque vanished into the back and returned with a paper sack.
"Here you are, Miss Maria."
She already held coins in her hand when she asked,
"How much?"
"Nothing," Roque said firmly. "It is a gift. This flour comes from the sack I purchased from your late husband. Please, accept it."
Maria froze. The weight of the memory pierced her chest. Her first instinct was to refuse; she wanted no charity, no favors born of pity or fear of the order. But Roque insisted, and the more he spoke of Arthur, the harder it became to say no.
Elian, silent, watched the scene. Inside, a cold thought hardened: If this path I chose ensures my mother is treated with respect, then I will follow it to the very end.