"But there's still a chance," Kaelum said, his voice low and deliberate, "that even with mage parents, you could fail the awakening."
The words lingered in the air like a heavy mist, refusing to disperse.
They struck Orion like a sudden blow to the chest. His heartbeat quickened, a dull throb echoing in his ears. The idea had been a distant shadow before—an unlikely outcome easily ignored—but hearing it aloud from his grandfather's mouth made it feel real. Tangible. Dangerous.
Kaelum's expression remained unreadable, eyes sharp beneath his weathered brow. The old man had a way of speaking truths that cut straight through the comfortable illusions people wrapped themselves in. He didn't soften his words; he never had.
"Now, off with you," Kaelum said with a dismissive wave, turning slightly to give his full attention back to the bird perched on his arm—a sleek, raptor-like creature with midnight feathers and intelligent amber eyes. "Prepare for tomorrow."
Orion hesitated a fraction longer, as if waiting for some reassurance, but none came. The bird tilted its head at him, gaze as sharp as its hooked beak, and let out a low, almost mocking trill.
Suppressing a grimace, Orion turned and left. His footsteps were slow at first, weighed down by the knot of unease twisting in his gut. Tomorrow's awakening ceremony loomed over him now, no longer a milestone to anticipate but a precipice to fear.
---
The hallway beyond his grandfather's study was quiet, its stone walls catching faint echoes of his steps. He moved past tall, narrow windows that spilled muted sunlight across the polished floor. Outside, the afternoon was dimming; the light had that softer, golden quality that came before evening. Shadows stretched long, and a cool draft whispered in through a half-open window, carrying with it the earthy scent of distant rain.
Orion's thoughts churned. Failure. He'd heard the word before, even imagined it in passing, but it had never been more than an idle worry. Now it followed him like an invisible predator. What would failure even mean? Would his life in this world be… less? Would it close doors he didn't even know existed?
The questions gnawed at him as he made his way to the library. Calling it a library was generous; it wasn't a sprawling maze of bookshelves like in the grand estates of noble houses, but a modest room tucked away in the quieter wing of the house. His mother had claimed it for herself years ago, filling its shelves with a carefully chosen collection of texts—histories, treatises, manuals, and a few sentimental volumes she never admitted to keeping.
In the past, before his memories had returned, finding anything in here had been a tedious affair. He would have wandered between shelves, reading random spines without much idea of what he was looking for. Now, with the accumulated knowledge of his two lives resting in his mind, his search was focused, deliberate.
He scanned the shelves with quick, sure movements, recalling the title he needed. It didn't take long to find it—a slim, unassuming book bound in faded brown leather: Awakening Anxieties by Jorian K.
Orion pulled it free and settled into one of the fur-cushioned chairs by the window. The leather creaked faintly as he opened the first page, the smell of old parchment rising to greet him. If the title was any indication, the book might have useful insights into tomorrow's ordeal.
Two minutes of skimming later, his expression soured.
"Seriously?" he muttered, flipping another page in irritation. The book was full of meandering anecdotes and recycled encouragements: how some youths grew nervous and backed out of the ceremony at the last minute, how others conquered their fear through deep breathing or positive thinking. Not a single concrete detail about the actual ritual or its mechanics.
He closed it with a dull thud and set it aside.
---
The next book he tried wasn't any better, nor the one after that. Each promised something different on the cover—"A Youth's Guide to Awakening," "Standing Tall Before the Crystal"—but all delivered the same vague comfort with no real information. The fourth book at least had the decency to include a diagram of the ceremonial chamber, but it was crudely drawn and lacked any explanation of the mana process itself.
By the time Orion reached for a fifth book, his frustration was mounting. This one was heavier, the cover worn and the binding reinforced with a strip of darker leather. It had clearly been handled more than the others. He sank deeper into the chair, letting the book's weight settle in his lap before he opened it.
The first page wasted no time with pleasantries.
The Awakening Ceremony, the text began, is a tradition passed down from the earliest days of recorded history. While its exact origin is obscured by the mists of time, its purpose remains unchanged: to awaken and measure the latent magical potential of the youth who stand upon the threshold of adulthood.
The words drew him in immediately. The book explained that the rite involved stimulating a young person's mana at the age of fifteen, the point at which their magical potential was most accessible. Those older than fifteen could still undergo it with varying results, but those younger risked "squandering the fullness of their gift."
It went on to describe the ceremony's importance not just to the individual but to their family, whose reputation could rise or fall based on the outcome. Detailed passages explained the role of the mana crystal, the sudden surge of energy when contact was made, and the brief, decisive moment when one's magical path was revealed.
Orion read with growing intensity, absorbing each line until twenty-five minutes had passed without his noticing. Closing the book at last, he let out a slow breath, the words replaying in his mind. This was real information—finally.
He returned the tome to its place and paused, eyes flicking along the shelves again.
I don't know enough about this world, he realized. His recovered memories had given him language, cultural basics, and an understanding of his family's standing, but they hadn't filled in the deeper gaps. The nature of magic here was still shrouded, the roles of mages and their place in society still half-formed in his mind.
Determined to change that, he scanned the shelves again, recalling a title he'd glimpsed earlier. "Something about mages… Mage Chronicles?"
---
After a short search, he found it: a thick, dust-coated volume clearly untouched for years. He brushed away the grime with his sleeve, revealing the faded gold letters on its cover: Mage Chronicles.
The name was almost pompous, but that didn't bother him. If the content was useful, it could call itself The Great Tome of All Things for all he cared.
"This is going to take a while," he muttered to himself, settling back into the chair and opening the first page.
Hours melted away. Outside, the sun slipped toward the horizon, bleeding warm orange light through the window until it faded into the cool blues of evening. Orion barely noticed, so absorbed was he in the book's accounts of mages throughout history—figures of immense influence who shaped kingdoms and even continents with their power.
The room's magic lanterns eventually began their slow glow, but tonight they flickered strangely, never quite reaching full brightness. Shadows pooled at the edges of the shelves, stretching long fingers toward him as the light dimmed further.
At last, he closed the Mage Chronicles and slid it back onto its shelf. The weight of new knowledge pressed pleasantly on his thoughts, but it was also overwhelming. Eridoria—the name of this vast, alien world—was far larger than Earth. Its eight continents dwarfed the ones he remembered from his old life. Aethyrs, where he now lived, was itself so vast it could swallow his former home world whole.
It was a land of countless kingdoms and empires, dotted with cities older than any human nation back on Earth.Elves, dwarves, beastmen, and humans lived here—sometimes in harmony, often in tension. And everywhere, magic threaded through the heart of life.
His mother's healing spells had been his only direct experience with it, small and personal. But the Chronicles spoke of grander displays—mages conjuring storms, moving mountains, or sealing away entire armies.
Orion rubbed his temples. The headache had been building for a while now, fed by the flood of new terms, histories, and names. "Too much to take in at once," he muttered.
A faint chuckle escaped him at a stray thought—asking his mother and grandfather to spar for his entertainment. The absurdity of it was almost enough to distract him from his fatigue.
---
"What stupid idea's got you laughing?" a voice asked from the dimness.
Orion stiffened, glancing around. The magic lantern's faint light barely held back the creeping dark that seemed to slither across the walls.
Of course. His grandfather.
Kaelum was a darkness mage—his mother had told him as much—but knowing it didn't make his appearances any less unsettling. The shadows near the far wall thickened, curling in on themselves before parting like a veil.
"Having fun spying on me?" Orion said dryly, though his gaze flicked toward the shadows still retreating into the corners. "Where's your prideful bird?"
The remark was intentional. That raptor's arrogant bearing, its sharp stares and refusal to let anyone but Kaelum touch it, had long irritated him.
The lanterns flared suddenly, their glow pushing back the shadows. Kaelum stood there, tall and sharp-eyed, the bird now perched on his shoulder like a sentry. Its amber gaze fixed on Orion, unblinking.
"Rich words," Kaelum said, smirking faintly, "from a lad fretting over the awakening just hours ago."
Orion ignored the jab. He wasn't scowling at his grandfather's words—those were expected. No, it was the bird, its head tilted slightly as if it understood every word and found him wanting.
He had the distinct, uncomfortable sense that it did.