The gardens lay quiet beneath the gray veil of morning. Mist curled low along the ground, coiling between the roots of old trees and spilling over the edges of the stone path. The air was cool and wet, carrying the sharp, clean scent of last night's rain. Somewhere, water dripped steadily from the leaves, tiny drops gathering before falling with soft plinks into the grass.
At the center of the garden stood a domed pavilion, its black pillars traced with veins of gold that caught what little light broke through the clouds. Inside, a wide, circular table sat surrounded by five short stools, all carved from pale, smooth stone that seemed to glow faintly in the gray morning light. The entire setup rested on a raised platform, its edges still dark with rainwater. Drops clung to the table's surface, scattering the dim light like tiny shards of glass.
There, across from one another, sat Vaelen and Velza.
Neither spoke at first.
Velza's hands rested lightly on the table, fingertips brushing away the beads of moisture that gathered there. Vaelen leaned back on his stool, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the mist swirling just beyond the platform's edge.
The air between them still held the weight of their last words — Kryth, Kaithryn — the faint tension of something half-revealed.
Vaelen exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the chill. "Where were we?" he asked, his voice calm but deliberate. "Ah, right. Kryth."
He straightened a little, resting his elbows on the cold table. "Let's start from the basics — how Kryth is performed, how it's used, the things they'd drill into you on your first day at the Academy." He drew in a long breath, almost bracing himself. "Here we go."
"Kryth," Vaelen said slowly, tasting the word like it mattered, "is performed by a Kaelith." He let the statement hang for a moment, watching Velza's reaction.
Velza frowned faintly, scratching at her temple. "Then why do people say mage and magic?"
"That's just the general term people use," Vaelen replied, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Kryth is… older. More precise. The word itself comes from the name of our altar."
Velza tilted her head slightly. "What's an altar?"
"In simple terms?" Vaelen's gaze drifted toward the mist curling around the garden. "It's what allows people to use Kryth at all. Without it, there'd be no magic — no Kaelith, no spells, nothing."
Velza leaned forward slightly, curiosity sharpening her expression. "Then… what's the name of our altar?"
Vaelen blinked once, taken off guard. Everyone knew the name of the altar. The question felt strange on her lips.
Is my father hiding something from her? Or is she just acting?
Either way, it wouldn't hurt to tell her.
"It's Kaeryth," Vaelen said at last, the name rolling off his tongue like a weight. "The altar acts as a medium between Kryth and the Kaelith. To use it, a payment is always made. Most people pay with mana… but there are other forms. Some of them are dangerous. Some are worse."
Velza's brows furrowed. "Can you teach me how to use Kryth?"
Vaelen tilted his head, studying her face for a moment before asking, "Are you good with math?"
She hesitated. "…No."
He leaned back with a small shrug. "That's fine. We'll work around it."
His eyes flicked to the sword at her side. "Tell me this, then. How do you make your blade cut the way it does?"
Velza blinked, caught off guard. "I… pour my heart into my blade while I strike. That's all."
Vaelen raised a brow, lips twitching faintly. "That's a rather odd way to describe it." But the thought snapped in his head almost instantly. Wait… Pulse Hypothesis?
He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "When you fight—do you imagine something like waves?"
Velza tilted her head. "Like the ripples on water?"
"Yes."
"I do," she said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Vaelen's fingers tapped against the table, his jaw tightening. This explains everything. She's been channeling mana unconsciously. But that shouldn't be possible…
"What is Pulse Hypothesis?" Velza asked, her voice careful.
"It's… mana behaving like waves. Phases, interference patterns — all that."
Her face went blank. "What?"
Vaelen let out a quiet, amused breath. "Yeah, I didn't think you'd get that. Just pretend I said something impressive."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender wand, holding it between two fingers. "Alright, here's something you will understand. This—" he turned it so the smooth stone tip caught the gray morning light "—is a wand. People use them to cast spells faster. Wands cut down casting time by acting as a focus."
He spun it once in his hand, almost carelessly, before continuing. "Every wand or staff contains a stone. Most kingdoms use artificial stones, carved with very precise patterns. But ours—" a faint grin tugged at his lips "—ours are better. We use refined natural stones, connected to a mana circuit. They can store spell patterns — usually up to eight threads in the common ones. The higher-grade ones can hold up to one loomthread — that's 1,024 threads."
Velza blinked slowly. "You lost me at thread."
"Good," Vaelen said dryly. "Just remember this: the more threads, the stronger the spell. But more isn't always better — too many threads can make a spell unstable."
He set the wand on the table between them. "So, simple version? Wands make magic easier. They keep you from blowing yourself up while trying to cast."
Vaelen tilted his head toward the table. "You can touch the wand if you want."
Velza hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as if suspecting a trick. When Vaelen didn't move, she reached out, fingers brushing the cold stone surface before curling carefully around the wand.
It was heavier than she expected — solid, well-balanced, the weight sitting neatly in her palm. The shaft was a perfect hexagon, each edge crisp and sharp beneath her fingertips. Its body was a deep, polished black, so smooth it almost drank in the morning light.
Her thumb traced over the faint orange patterns that ran the length of the wand — fine, threadlike lines forming precise, geometric loops across each flat face. The lines almost seemed to hum under her touch, like distant strings vibrating with a sound too low to hear.
At either end, the black shaft connected to gray caps of stone, cool and slightly rough, grounding the sleekness of the piece. The tip was shaped into a clean point, while the base was flat, practical, as though designed to withstand use.
Her gaze lingered on the gem in the center — an orange hexagon, flawless, glowing faintly in the morning fog. Vertical lines shot through its heart, catching the light in sharp flashes, like fire trapped inside crystal.
Velza turned the wand slowly in her hand. It felt deliberate, orderly, precise — as though every part of it was made to obey rules she couldn't see.
Her fingers twitched slightly as she set it down, her voice quieter than before. "Feels… alive. But not like a sword. A sword listens. This feels like it's watching me."
Vaelen's head lifted slightly at that, his expression shifting — just enough for her to notice. For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed his face, then was gone.
"That's… not wrong," he said at last, leaning forward, his voice dropping. "The gem is attuned to Kaeryth. Everything you feel from it — it's because the altar is listening back. The wand is just a voice. The altar decides what to do with what you say."
Velza's brows furrowed. "Decides? You mean it can refuse?"
Vaelen smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, it can do more than refuse."
A cool breeze cut across the pavilion, stirring the mist around them. Velza glanced at the wand again, suddenly aware of the faint hum still vibrating in her fingertips, as though the thing was waiting for her to speak.
She let her hands fall into her lap. "Yeah. I think I'll stick with my sword."
Vaelen leaned back, satisfied. "Good choice."
"So, this is enough for today. We'll continue later. I have to do something."
He stood and slipped the wand back into his pocket with a soft click of stone against fabric.
Velza rose as well, brushing dew from her skirt. "I'll follow you."
"I'd rather do this alone." He exhaled through his nose, resigned. "…Suit yourself."
They left the pavilion together, the stone steps slick beneath their boots. The garden greeted them with quiet — that heavy, gray kind of silence that feels like it's waiting for something to happen. Mist drifted low, curling around their ankles as they walked the winding path.
Vaelen said nothing at first. His gaze stayed low, scanning the beds and tangled rows of plants as though searching for something specific. Velza matched his pace, her footsteps muted by the damp earth, watching him more than the garden.
She had never seen him this quiet — not brooding, not irritated, just… quiet.
He paused by a shaded patch near an iron trellis, knelt, and with careful fingers plucked a cluster of small, glossy berries.
"Belladonna," he murmured, as if the name mattered only to himself. The deep purple fruit glistened with moisture, almost too dark against the pale morning light.
A little further on, he found bittersweet nightshade, its delicate purple-and-yellow star-shaped flowers still shining with dew. He gathered them with the same precision, tucking them carefully into his hand.
They walked deeper into the garden, and he stopped again by a patch of bright orange blooms. "Butterfly weed," he said softly, almost to the plants. The flowers were vivid against the gray morning, like sparks on wet stone.
Next came camellias, their waxy petals beaded with water, and carnations — first white, then pink, then yellow — each plucked with quiet deliberation.
Velza watched him, her brows knitting as the bouquet grew in his hands.
Purple hyacinths came last, their sweet, heady scent cutting through the cool dampness in the air. He held them longer than the others before adding them to the bundle.
He straightened, his hands now full of color and fragrance — a strange, almost chaotic mixture of blossoms. But there was nothing careless in the way he handled them. Each flower had been chosen with purpose.
"Hyssop," he said finally, spotting the slender stalks of blue flowers growing near the edge of the path. He took a few, then moved to a stand of red spider lilies.
Their pale, curved petals seemed to glow faintly in the mist, ghostly and delicate. He gathered them last, arranging them with a kind of reverence before binding the stems together with a strip of twine he pulled from his belt.
Velza opened her mouth once, then shut it again. The quiet felt like it belonged to him, not her.
When he was done, he stood looking at the bouquet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The mixture was wild, a clash of colors and meanings, yet in his hands it looked deliberate — a message, though one she could not yet read.
Finally, he turned and began walking again, his grip on the flowers loose but sure. Velza followed in silence, the soft crunch of gravel and the steady rhythm of their steps the only sounds.
I've never seen him this silent, she thought, glancing at the side of his face. Whatever this is… it matters to him.
The path curved, leading them past a small clearing Velza hadn't noticed before. Four graves sat there, marked by simple stone markers darkened by rain. Moss clung to their edges, and fresh droplets still traced slow lines down their surfaces.
Vaelen slowed. His steps grew quieter, more deliberate, until he stopped entirely.
Velza waited, watching his shoulders rise and fall once in a long, steady breath.
For a moment, he just stood there, bouquet held loosely at his side. Then he moved on without a word, his boots barely making a sound on the wet stone.
Velza followed, saying nothing — because somehow, silence felt like the only thing she could offer.