Let's see… there's a theory where an object can be enchanted by an individual who falls into a state of resonance with it. When that happens, a deep, symbiotic connection is forged, and the object supposedly awakens, manifesting abilities far beyond its ordinary nature. It's not just about imbuing an item with magic; it's about the item developing a will, a memory, a nascent consciousness of its own.
There are even rumors that plants or common materials, after long exposure to a person's unique ethereal signature, acquire strange powers of their own. Some say a sword, after decades in the hands of a single warrior, can gain a spirit, deflecting a fatal blow on its own as if to protect its master. Others whisper of flowers blooming under moonlight in a secluded garden, their petals holding properties that defy the known laws of alchemy, capable of healing wounds that even the most potent spells cannot mend. But despite all the speculation, all the folklore and third-hand accounts, there's never been any valid evidence that it was caused directly by the Ether Stone.
The connection is always correlational, never causal, a frustrating dead end for any serious researcher.
Melin chewed on her finger absentmindedly, her brows furrowed as the thought circled in her head. She'd spent weeks buried in the academy's grand library, her fingers stained with the dust of ancient tomes, chasing down footnotes and cross-referencing apocryphal texts. Every path, every theory, every historical anomaly seemed to orbit one central point.
Why does everything keep leading back to that stone?
The more she read, the more it felt as though every road branched back to that one origin. A single glowing rock, something so small, dictating the flow of history itself from the rise of forgotten empires to the very fabric of magical theory. The idea was more than just a puzzle; it was a weight that left her feeling profoundly uneasy, as if she were staring at a keyhole that revealed an eye staring back.
"Why are you so down? Was that supposed to be an important lesson?" Ray asked curiously, tilting his head. He had been watching her for a few minutes, seeing her drift from focused reading to a thousand-yard stare that seemed to pierce right through the stone walls of the classroom.
His voice carried a casual teasing tone, but it faltered as he got a better look at her face. He quickly noticed the heaviness in her eyes, the faint lines of exhaustion that weren't there a month ago.
"Come on, what's wrong now?" Ray pressed, leaning a little closer, his voice softening with genuine concern. "You look like you just discovered the world is ending and you're the only one who read the memo."
Melin let out a soft, weary sigh, the sound laced with a deep, grating disappointment. "I didn't get the answer I wanted to hear. I really thought that once I came here, to the most prestigious academy in the kingdom, I'd finally find it. I thought someone here would have the truth, a real, documented piece of evidence. But… nothing. It's just more theories built on top of other theories. A house of cards."
Her shoulders drooped, and for a brief moment, she seemed far smaller than usual, weighed down by an invisible burden that made her hug her books to her chest like a shield.
Ray scratched the back of his head, looking around for a moment. "Well, Teacher Sylvia is just a foundational magic instructor. She sticks to the approved curriculum. You can't expect her to delve into forbidden lore during first period. You can always ask around, or maybe you'll meet another instructor who knows something. I've heard old Professor Elmsworth in the Antiquities department is a walking encyclopedia of weird stuff. This place is bigger than it looks."
Melin didn't respond immediately. Her search felt too personal to be solved by a simple recommendation. She lifted her gaze toward the bustling courtyard where clusters of students moved in energetic groups. Their chatter drifted faintly in the air laughter, arguments, announcements for club meetings all merging into one lively current of youthful ambition. Her eyes, however, locked on one particular crowd standing near the central fountain.
"Hey, it's the student council members… they're really going at it even during break time."
The group of perfectly composed figures radiated an aura of effortless importance. They weren't just students; they were institutions. Their crisp, immaculate uniforms, the way they carried themselves with an almost unnatural poise, even the faint air of authority clinging to their movements it was enough to silence a corridor without a single word being spoken.
Melin shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling a familiar prickle of anxiety. "Doesn't it feel uneasy around them? Even when you didn't do anything wrong, they still make you feel like you're under judgment, like they're evaluating your very existence against some impossible standard."
Ray let out a short, explosive laugh, the sound filled with relief. "You're a hundred percent right. I thought I was the only one feeling that way. Last week, the vice president gave me a look for leaning against a pillar. A look! I felt like the pillar and I had personally offended his ancestors."
Melin chuckled faintly, the sound a small, fragile thing. Ray's humor was a welcome distraction, but the heaviness in her heart still lingered. She knew her search wouldn't end here, that this was just one more closed door in a seemingly endless hallway. Yet with every dead end, the uncertainty gnawed at her resolve, making her wonder if she was chasing a ghost.
Back on the rooftop, a different scene played out under the pale afternoon sun.
"Why is she suddenly singing now?" End muttered under his breath, his patience, already worn to a thread, threatening to snap entirely.
One moment, Lilian had been crying loudly a sudden, theatrical eruption of sobs that had startled him and a nearby flock of pigeons. The next, she was humming a strange, disjointed tune, her head tilted to the sky as if her tears had been nothing more than a passing shower.
Unpredictable… that's what she is, End thought grimly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. She was a whirlwind of contradictions, a storm in human form.
"She started crying out of nowhere the moment she got you," a cynical voice whispered at the back of his mind, a familiar echo of his own frustration.
End groaned aloud, rubbing his temples with more force. "So, so… that stupid princess. Waaa, waa… ugh, I don't even want to remember that." The memory was a fresh, irritating wound.
Lilian, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected, turning to him with a bright, curious expression.
"Hey, where are you going? I still wanted to talk more," she called out, her steps light and airy, a stark contrast to the heartbroken girl from moments ago. She moved to intercept him, not with aggression, but with a dancer's fluid grace.
"No. If you want to vent your anger, find somebody else, not me," End replied flatly, his voice a low growl. He was not a confidant. He was not a friend. He was a wall, and he wanted to be left alone. He turned his back to her, a clear dismissal.
But Lilian only grinned mischievously, a glint in her eyes. "No, no, you aren't going anywhere. You're the school's rule-breaking student, the troublemaker everyone whispers about. The lone wolf. So you don't get to run away that easily. You, of all people, should understand the need for a good vent."
End stopped and glared at her over his shoulder. "Huh? Same for you then, isn't it? The princess's lapdog has a reputation of her own."
Lilian laughed softly, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard. "No, no, it's fine for me." Her tone was strangely carefree, almost arrogant, as if the rules the rest of them lived by were merely suggestions she could ignore at will.
"I do all the dirty work for that princess," she admitted, her smile twisting into something less cheerful and more conspiratorial. "You think that doesn't come with some special benefits? A little chaos is overlooked when you're the one cleaning up bigger messes."
End's jaw tightened. Benefits, huh? It sounded more like a leash.
"If she's bored, can't she play on her own? Why drag me into it? Why is she acting so selfish…" End's thoughts trailed off as he watched Lilian move again, his frustration momentarily overridden by sheer disbelief.
Now she wasn't crying, and she wasn't singing either. She was… dancing. Right there, on the sun-baked tiles of the empty rooftop, she began to twirl. It wasn't a graceful waltz or a formal ballet; it was a strange, improvisational performance, full of sharp, frantic turns that suddenly softened into moments of serene stillness. Her skirt fluttered with each spin, her shadow gliding across the tiles, and for a moment, she looked less like a troubled girl and more like a captured spirit set free from an invisible chain.