Chapter 8 – Margicules
Margicules.
A magical energy, smaller than dust, but brighter than stars. That's what I call them.
I don't remember the face of my parents, or even their voices, but I remember the first time I opened my eyes in the orphanage. The air was thick, heavy with rot and dust—but in between all that filth, I saw them. Tiny specks of light, drifting slowly like lazy fireflies.
At first, I thought they were part of a dream. But no. They were real.
Margicules.
Back then, there were only a few. So few that I would spend hours staring at the air, counting them, chasing them with my eyes as they shimmered and vanished. The nuns thought I was strange. They scolded me for daydreaming. But I wasn't daydreaming—I was watching the very building blocks of magic.
Because that's what margicules are: the smallest pieces of mana. The air is full of them, but only the gifted can sense them, let alone see them. For me, they've always been as visible as dirt on the floor or cracks in the wall.
And I learned something else. Their colors.
Red for anger. Blue for hunger. Green for envy. They don't just carry magic—they carry emotions, too. They swirl around people, painting them in truths they can't hide.
Even now, sitting in this noble house, I can see them everywhere. The air is full of them here—thousands, no, tens of thousands. Flowing like a river through every room, pulsing with light.
The slums had barely any. But this place… it's drowning in them.
"Exactly 62,400 margicules in this dining hall," Noctis's voice hums in my mind, calm and precise. "More than your entire orphanage ever had at once."
I lower my gaze, hiding the faint smile tugging at my lips.
They don't know that I see all of this. To the duke's family, I'm just a child. A curiosity they bought.
But to me… margicules are the threads that stitch the world together. And I've been watching those threads since before I could even walk.
---
At the long dining table, the duke finally spoke, his deep voice slicing through the silence.
"We will test the boy's affinity."
My chest tightened. I looked up slowly. The family's eyes were on me again—the duchess's calm, the eldest son's suspicion, the daughter's curiosity, and the youngest's unreadable stare.
I already knew what they wanted: proof.
Proof of what I was.
And the margicules swirling around their bodies whispered their feelings into me—violet caution, pale yellow doubt, a hint of red hunger for truth.
I clenched my fists in my lap.
They wanted to measure me. But how much was I willing to reveal?
End of Chapter 8