Inside, the house was exactly what the stone façade had promised.
Crossing the main door, we were greeted by a cozy living room, though laden with an air of grandeur that contrasted sharply with our former life. Three sturdy fabric sofas—not as luxurious as Elise's, yet far beyond anything we had ever known—were arranged neatly, inviting us to rest.
To the left, a fireplace already burned softly, fueled not by wood but by a polished firestone, square-shaped, about twenty centimeters across. The heat it released was steady, constant, unlike the fickle flame of timber, and it bathed the room in amber light. Above it, a vase held sunflowers, their heads already bowing westward, following the sun sinking beyond the window.
Beside the fireplace stood a finely crafted wooden shelf. It bore a variety of volumes: books on administration and the kingdom's history, children's fables, romances, and even two neutral grimoires—unbound to any order, suited for beginners. To us, once mere farmers, this already seemed like a library.
On the right side of the entrance, the kitchen stretched in an open plan. Above the sink, fastened to a wrought-iron frame, floated a waterstone, smooth and round, releasing a steady stream when the small faucet below it was turned. To the left of the sink stood a heavy stove that at first glance resembled a wood-burning one—but at each of its four burners glowed a perfectly spherical firestone, each about ten centimeters wide, giving uniform flame.
In the center, marking the divide between living room and kitchen, stood a varnished wooden table with five chairs. Above it, two lampshades hung from the ceiling, spreading a soft glow thanks to tiny two-centimeter stones set inside glass globes that shielded and diffused their light.
Every detail of the house seemed designed for both function and warmth. It wasn't as lavish as Elise's home, but it carried its own beauty—closer to our reality, yet far beyond what we had ever possessed.
We stood speechless before the joined kitchen and living room, unable to hide our awe. For those who had come from a hut of wood and clay, this felt like another world.
Anthony was the first to break the silence, his face darkened with irritation and something close to resentment.
"I don't have magic like Mother and my siblings," he said, folding his arms. "How am I supposed to turn the stones on and off? Don't you need mana for that?"
His question was genuine. I looked at the stones scattered throughout the house, and for the first time, the thought struck me. How would it work for him? Until then, I had never considered it. At Elise's house, it was always Mother or Elise who activated the stones—sometimes even Manu or me. I had taken it for granted, never thinking how Anthony lived with that exclusion.
The weight of it sank in my chest. Maybe I had turned a blind eye all along. We wielded magic without effort, and Anthony… Anthony had always been outside of it, trying to mask the sting of being left behind.
"You're right," Anna, the mage who accompanied us, answered calmly. "That's why this house uses a different kind of stone. They can be handled by anyone—even those without mana."
I looked again, now seeing the subtle differences. These firestones glowed not with pure orange like the ones in Elise's house, but with a reddish ember tone. The waterstone, too, was not the deep navy I remembered—it shimmered with a darker hue, almost nocturnal.
"These are the kind used in fortifications or weaponry," Iolanda explained, her voice steady. "They last less than conventional stones, but they're still functional."
"How long?" I asked, stepping closer to the waterstone above the sink. Its glow pulsed like a fragile heart.
"A year at most," Anna replied.
A year. I thought of it in silence. For the rich, perhaps trivial—easily replaced. But for us, every coin had always been forged in blood and sweat.
It may be cheap for them… but for us, every coin is a battle.
I glanced at Anthony. His face was stern, but behind it I saw the truth—he didn't want to be a burden. He just wanted to belong.
"So… how do I actually turn them on and off?" he pressed.
"The waterstone—just tap the iron frame holding it," Anna explained patiently. "That iron is a conductor. It channels intent, even from those without mana."
Ah… so this was what Iolanda meant when she spoke of conductive materials on our way back from Askov?
Wait—if that's really what I think it is… then it's absurdly expensive!
"The firestones work the same way," Anna continued, pointing to the fireplace. "Just touch the iron on the side."
My thoughts collided.
Damn it! I've barely started earning and I'm already neck-deep in debt to the order.
I cast a sidelong glance at Ancião Marduk. He was watching me with the faintest, mocking smile, as if he could read every curse echoing in my skull. Then he turned away, indifferent.
"Let's see the other rooms," he said, his voice a blade in the air.
We followed him down the hall, where four bedrooms and a bath waited. My steps felt heavy, as though I were trailing a hangman, not a benefactor.
Inwardly, I cursed every stone, every iron conductor, every luxury that felt more like chains than gifts.
I really did sell my soul to the devil, Father, I thought, staring at the broad back of the Ancião ahead of me.
The bedrooms were simple, yet ordered: one bed each, with a desk set beside them, as if prepared already for nights of study and silence. When I entered mine, my chest tightened. Two reasons pierced me at once.
The first: a memory of my past life. Luana and I, side by side at the kitchen table, notebooks open, laughing when one made a mistake and the other corrected it. She mastered Portuguese and math, I leaned toward history, geography, and physics. We were inseparable. We were siblings in truth. That memory struck like a knife, because now she was dead—dead by my own hands.
The second was crueler still: I would hardly use this room. In less than two months, I would leave for Askov, following Marduk and likely Iolanda. The room was mine, yet not mine. A reminder that my time with my family was running out.
Mother's room was larger, fitted with a sturdy double bed. Each chamber had a window, letting the late afternoon light gild the stone walls. It was beautiful, yes—but for us, born of clay and wood, it felt almost excessive.
When we finished touring the rooms and bath, we gathered back in the living room.
"Do you like it?" Iolanda asked as we sat on the sofas. Mother, ever the mistress of the home, moved to the kitchen to brew tea.
While she stirred pots and adjusted firestones, she answered without turning:
"Yes… but it feels too luxurious."
She was right. Too luxurious for a family of farmers. I had seen finer homes in my past life, but this was different—it wasn't only wealth, it was a gift laced with intent.
"You're right," Marduk said, crossing his legs, hands clasped beneath his chin. His voice filled the room like a tolling bell. "That's exactly why I did it. The family of my disciple cannot—must not—live in anything less."
Mother stayed quiet until she returned with the tray, her movements measured, forced into calm. She served us one by one. The hot aroma spread through the room, nearly drowning out the weight of the Ancião's presence.
After a few sips, she spoke again, bowing deeply:
"First, I must thank you for this house, Ancião Marduk."
"There's no need," he replied without hesitation. "As I said, your son will repay it in time."
My stomach twisted. Again, the chains pressed down—this house felt more like a debt carved in stone.
"I'll help pay for it," my mother said suddenly, her voice firm.
Marduk's crimson eyes slid toward her.
"No. This is between me and your son. Do not insist."
She fell silent, swallowing the weight of his words. Yet she murmured softly:
"I understand… but thank you."
Silence hung heavy. Then, as if holding back for too long, she asked:
"May I… ask a question I've never asked before?"
"Go on," Marduk answered, calm yet watchful.
"Why did you accept my son as your disciple?"
"If I told you it was charity, would you believe me?" he asked, his voice a low provocation.
"Of course not," she replied, steady.
A crooked smile touched his lips.
"Smart woman," he muttered, laced with sarcasm.
The silence that followed weighed like stone. Then he continued:
"There are reasons I can't reveal yet. But for now, two. First: your son has talent. That will serve me within the order."
"So… political reasons?" she pressed, anger surfacing in her tone.
"Exactly," he admitted without flinching, then added, "But not only that."
He lifted the cup, drained it, as though swallowing old memories with the tea. When he spoke again, his voice carried a deeper burden:
"I see myself in him as a child."
The room froze. Even the soft crackle of the firestone seemed to vanish. I felt everyone hold their breath—or perhaps it was just me, clinging to every word.
"What do you mean?" my mother asked, torn between doubt and surprise.
Marduk's gaze drifted, distant, reaching for memories he would rather not.
"To be brief: when I was his age, perhaps a little older, I completed my first tunnel of the Qliphoth." His words carried no pride, only pain. "At eight or nine, I watched my parents butchered before my eyes. It drove me into unbridled fury, into the thirst for vengeance."
A shiver ran through me. The parallel was unmistakable. I too had been consumed by vengeance in my past life, and even after slaughtering so many, I never filled the void. I died a monster. The only difference between us seemed to be control.
He went on, his voice roughened by memory:
"Before I could even rise, I nearly died. And it was then, inexplicably, that I was drawn into my first tunnel: wrath."
"How was it?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
His crimson eyes locked onto mine, burning like coals in a cavern.
"Hard. I almost failed. But after a long battle within myself, I overcame it."
"So you no longer desire vengeance?" my mother asked.
A harsh smile crossed his face.
"Of course I do," he said, voice like steel grinding against stone. "The difference is I no longer let wrath rule me. It doesn't mean I don't feel anger, hatred, or scorn. It only means they don't command me anymore."
Mother sighed, her shoulders loosening a fraction.
"I see. Thank you for your answer," she said, then added firmly, "I only hope Elian won't be harmed because of this."
Marduk straightened, his presence swelling until the room felt smaller.
"I promise he won't. My word—not as Ancião of the Dark Throne, but as Demétrio Marduk."
Something in his tone was different. It wasn't politics. It wasn't strategy. For the first time, it sounded… human.
The conversation lingered, though lighter. By the time we noticed, the sun had sunk, staining the sky blood-red before surrendering to night. Marduk, with his four guards, finally departed, leaving behind the echo of his promise.
Iolanda and Anna remained as sentinels, firm and silent. Mother spoke quietly with them, struggling to hold her calm. As for me, only exhaustion remained. I climbed to my room and let myself fall into bed.
The day had been long, filled with revelations and burdens that weren't mine, yet pressed upon me all the same. Closing my eyes, I already sensed it: tomorrow, more shadows would come.