"Elias," Duke Valerius's voice was quiet, but steel ran through it. "Take Lianna to the house. And bring me my sword."
The girl stopped, threw Caelan a quick, anxious glance, but still obediently followed the butler under the arch of ivy. The west garden fell silent. Only the faint murmur of the pond remained, and the two of them standing in the grass.
A minute later, the butler returned, carrying a long blade in a dark scabbard. The Duke accepted it with respect, drew the blade, and revealed steel etched with elegant fire-patterns.
"This blade is the symbol of our house," the Duke said. "For generations, it has protected our lands from Chaos."
He took the sword in both hands and began to feed it with his mana. Thin veins along the steel lit up, and a moment later, a steady orange flame rolled down the edge. Its heat could be felt from several paces away.
"No matter how much power I pour into it, it gives nothing more than this," Valerius explained. "This is its limit."
He lowered the sword vertically, point to the ground. "Touch the hilt—and give it your mana."
Caelan stepped forward. His small palms rested on the cold, heavy hilt. He felt nothing special—only the chill of the metal. He repeated the familiar process: instead of forming a sphere between his hands, he simply changed the "coordinates" of its destination, directing the flow of pure mana into the artifact.
For a heartbeat—nothing. Then the sword erupted.
Not orange, not red, but a blinding blue flame, hot as a smith's forge at full roar. It burst sideways, its heat searing both the Duke and the boy.
Valerius reflexively snatched his hands back. With a loud clang, like a hammer striking an anvil, the sword bit into the earth. The blue flame roared for several more seconds before vanishing, leaving the air thick with the scent of ash and scorched steel.
A ringing silence fell over the garden. The Duke stood motionless, staring at the sword, then shifted his gaze to Caelan. His shock gave way to a strange, quiet, almost hysterical laugh—the laugh of a man whose boldest hypothesis had just become reality.
"No burns?" he finally asked, composing himself. "No," Caelan replied. A faint, almost unsettling smile touched his lips.
A thought flashed through his mind: 'blue stars are the hottest.'
"Decades," the Duke murmured, more to himself. "A-rank mages dedicate their lives to achieving white flame. But blue… that's S-rank. The realm of living legends." He paused, his eyes unfocused as if recalling ancient texts. "They say you can't reach it through simple training. That it requires a different kind of understanding… one born from a trauma so profound it rewrites your very soul's connection to the flame."
"Come," Valerius said sharply, turning toward the manor. "We have matters to discuss while we wait."
They entered his study. The Duke gestured for Caelan to take a chair, then turned to the butler. "Elias, send a runner to the Academy. Immediately. Inform Magister Ellard that I demand his presence. Tell him the theory has been confirmed. He will understand."
The butler bowed silently and left, closing the doors behind him. The Duke slowly approached Caelan. From an inside pocket, he retrieved a small metal tool.
"This needs to be corrected," he said calmly.
With a soft click, the tool touched the collar's lock. The metal band sprang open. Valerius removed it from Caelan's neck and placed it on the desk.
Seeing the unspoken question in the child's eyes, the Duke offered a faint smile. "That collar was a contract for 'Lot Number Six'," he explained. "That contract is now dissolved. Before me stands Caelan, a ward of House Valerius. And wards do not wear leashes. Besides," he added, his voice lowering, "for what we are about to study… I need your intellect, not your obedience. The collar would only get in the way."
Caelan didn't answer. He simply touched the skin on his neck, feeling the unexpected lightness. There was no joy or gratitude in his mind.
An hour passed in silence. Suddenly, the study doors burst open.
A tall, lean man in a dark cloak stood in the doorway. His silver hair was disheveled, and his fingers and the hem of his clothes were stained with soot. Without a word of greeting, he hurled a ball of fire straight at the Duke.
Valerius raised a hand, and a transparent shield flickered into existence. The fire shattered against it harmlessly.
"Ellard," the Duke said dryly. "Good to see you're still alive." "You dragged me from my laboratory at the brink of a breakthrough for this?" Ellard shot back, striding into the room. "Don't tell me you actually found proof for that fairytale theory of yours." "It's not a theory anymore," Valerius replied evenly. "It's… something else."
Ellard cast a quick, dismissive glance at Caelan… then looked again, longer this time. His irritation shifted to deep curiosity. "...Who is this?" "That is why you are here," the Duke said. "Explain." "No," Valerius replied, nodding at Caelan. "Watch."
Caelan felt the fatigue pressing down on his small body. He suppressed a yawn, once again bringing his palms to face each other. He didn't give an instruction. It was simpler than that—just a thought, ordering the particles that permeated his body to gather into a single whole.
Between his hands, the sphere of pure mana began to form again.
Ellard, who in his life had seen the magic of the most powerful elves and dwarves, froze. His cynical mask as a scholar cracked and crumbled. The Magister's face took on an expression Valerius hadn't seen in years—pure, childlike wonder. It was as if he were seeing a rainbow for the first time.
Slowly, as if afraid to startle a mythical creature, he stepped forward. His hand trembled as he reached for the sphere. His fingers passed through it, feeling absolutely nothing—no heat, no cold, no force.
"Tell me," the Duke's voice was quiet but clear. "No resistance, no fluctuations, none of the inherent traits."
"Impossible…" Ellard whispered, pulling his hand back uncertainly. "So those theories… they were true. No shade. No resistance."
He abruptly turned to Caelan. The fire of an obsessed researcher burned in his eyes. He leaned down to the child and asked the first question that came to his mind: "Do you know what you are doing?"
Caelan looked at him. He himself didn't fully understand how he did it. Explaining that he just 'thought' and it happened would sound strange and would only raise more questions. To avoid drawing unnecessary attention, he decided to hide behind the best mask he had.
He let the sphere of mana dissolve and spread his small hands in a gesture of exaggerated, helpless confusion. He tilted his head, his eyes wide with feigned innocence as he looked from one stunned man to the other.
"I'm just gathering it," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, laced with a hint of a childish lisp. "Is… is there another way to do it?"
A deafening silence fell over the room. Ellard, the brilliant Magister of the Academy, silently opened and closed his mouth. Duke Valerius, one of the most powerful aristocrats in the kingdom, cleared his throat loudly into his fist, looking away. The dignity of two adult men had just been obliterated by the innocent question of a four-year-old child.
"Ahem… Ellard," the Duke was the first to break the silence, taking control of the situation. "As you can see, standard methods won't work here. What did you expect to hear?"
He turned to Caelan gently. "Is this the first time you've… done something like this?"
Caelan, with another yawn, simply nodded. "Yes."
It was then that Ellard finally snapped out of his trance. Noticing the boy's fatigue, he instantly switched from a shocked researcher to a professional. His voice became serious. He addressed Caelan directly: "You're yawning. That's a dangerous sign. You are on the verge of exhausting your mana reserves. If you deplete yourself completely, you could fall unconscious. You might sleep for two days, if you're lucky. In the worst-case scenario, a month won't be enough for your body to recover."
"That's enough for today," the Duke concluded, his voice echoing in the silence that followed the demonstration. He raised his voice, calling towards the door, "Elias!"
A soft click sounded as the door swung open. But before the butler could take a single step into the study, Ellard's exasperated voice cut him off.
"Valerius, are you insane? Where in the hell did you dig him up?!"
"I bought him," the Duke replied calmly. He paused for a fraction of a second before adding, "...at an auction."
A tense silence fell. Caelan watched as Ellard's gaze swept across the room and landed on the desk, where a thin metal collar rested on the polished wood. The Magister's eyes widened with a dawning horror.
"Elias," the Duke's calm command cut through the tension. "Escort him to his room."
The butler began to move into the study, his steps slow and almost silent. He walked towards Caelan at a deliberate pace, as if intentionally giving the conversation time to unfold, his own curiosity veiled behind a mask of indifference.
And the conversation continued—in Ellard's furious, venomous whisper.
"Have you lost your mind?!" he hissed as Elias drew closer to the boy. "A slave collar! On him?! If anyone finds out… Valerius, you won't just be stripped of your title. The Church will burn you at the stake as a heretic, and the Crown will declare you a traitor!"
The Duke didn't even flinch. He stood with his back to them, staring into the fireplace, the very picture of unshakable calm.
Caelan remained still. He wasn't analyzing. He was listening. The words seared themselves into his memory, sharp and distinct. Collar. Heretic. Traitor.
Elias reached him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent prompt to move. They started for the door.
Behind them, Ellard's tone shifted. The fury gave way to a heavy, defeated sigh.
"Fine…" he breathed out as they reached the threshold. "It's done. For all our sakes, I hope no one else knows. Did you… did you even test anything? Give him an artifact?"
"I had him channel his mana into the blade," Valerius answered, his voice even.
Elias and Caelan stepped out of the room. The heavy door began to swing shut, reducing the scene inside to a narrow sliver of light and sound.
"The flame was blue."
And in the instant before the door latched, a roar erupted from the study. A wild, triumphant roar from Ellard, filled with awe and pure, unadulterated madness.
"BLUE FLAME?! BY THE FORGE, THAT'S THE MARK OF BALDRIM STONEFIST! THE GRAndmaster of the dw..a..!"
The dull thud of the lock cut off the world, plunging the hallway into silence.
They walked in silence. Caelan didn't look around; his gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his mind was working at full capacity.
Blue flame... S-rank. So, it's not an anomaly. It's the pinnacle of a skill that has been achieved before. Baldrim Stonefist... a dwarf, by the sound of it. Like the one in the tapestry. That means there are records, legends. I'm not unique, just exceedingly rare. A fact.
A faint smile touched his lips.
But then, there's the other thing. Heretic. Traitor.
His thoughts turned back to the conversation he'd overheard.
The Duke took such a risk by buying me. Why? For a theory? No, that's absurd; he bought me before the demonstration of my power. Then... was it for Lianna? To buy an elf, risking his title, just for his daughter's company? Unlikely. There has to be something more. Something to do with me being an elf. But I don't have enough data. For now, I'll have to set that question aside.
He understood that the Duke's trust in Ellard was key. Their connection now revolved around him. This was his greatest asset and his greatest danger.
As he sifted through these thoughts, they arrived at his room. Dusk was already settling outside. His body ached with fatigue—not just physical, but mental. He remembered Ellard's warning about mana exhaustion. About how one could sleep for two days, or even a month.
It was so similar to what he'd read in dozens of stories. The exhaustion of magical power as a catalyst for its growth. Like that mage girl from the anime who collapsed after every explosion. Like that slime who evolved by naming his subordinates. It was a rule of the genre, and now, perhaps, a rule of this world. A direct path to development.
Caelan walked to the bed and sat on the edge. His gaze drifted to the window, to the last rays of sun fading behind the rooftops.
To gain true freedom... I need power.
In this world, power was mana.
He lay back on the soft pillows, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He closed his eyes and, gathering the last of his strength, reached for that light within him again. Not for the fire. Just for the 'light'.
He gave everything.
And fell into darkness.