Shiro woke to the muted glow of morning sunlight spilling across the curtains. For a moment he didn't move, letting himself pretend he was back in his old room, that the last few days had been nothing more than a strange dream. But the air smelled faintly of rosewater, not the cedarwood polish of home, and when he sat up he found himself in a guest bed far softer than anything he'd ever slept on.
A muffled giggle came from across the room. Elira was crouched over a tray someone had left behind, picking at sugared fruits with the guilty expression of a thief.
"You're finally awake," she said around a mouthful of candied plum. "I thought you were going to sleep the whole day."
Mirielle stood at the tall window, her small hands pressed to the glass. "The garden is huge, Shiro! It's bigger than the whole schoolyard!"
He blinked blearily at both of them, the memory of the night before settling like a stone in his stomach. The teleportation, the chase, his parents being taken… none of that had vanished just because the sheets were clean. He scrubbed a hand over his face and swung his legs off the bed.
The door opened with a graceful push, and Selene entered, sunlight catching in her pale hair. She wasn't wearing the elaborate gown from yesterday but a simple blue dress that made her look—if only slightly—less like a noble and more like the girl he used to know.
"Still half-asleep?" she teased, tilting her head. "I told the staff not to disturb you. You looked like you'd collapse if anyone so much as breathed near you."
Elira smirked. "He was out like a rock. Not very heroic, is he?"
Shiro glared at her, but Selene laughed, the sound soft and warm. "Come on," she said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Breakfast is waiting. And my kitchen staff will riot if they find out I let a guest starve in one of our rooms."
The dining hall was a world away from anything Shiro was used to. Sunlight streamed in through stained glass, throwing colors across a long polished table set with silver and porcelain. His sisters took it all in with wide eyes: Mirielle bouncing in her chair as though the cushions themselves were enchanted, Elira pretending not to be impressed while sneaking glances at every chandelier.
Selene sat across from Shiro, sipping her tea with a calmness that made him feel even more out of place. Halfway through the meal, she set her cup down and smiled faintly.
"You know," she said, as though commenting on the weather, "when we were children, Shiro promised he'd marry me someday."
The berry Shiro had been chewing lodged halfway down his throat. He coughed violently, slamming a fist against his chest until he managed to swallow. "W-what are you talking about?!"
Elira's fork froze halfway to her mouth. Slowly, a grin spread across her face. "Oh? Big brother, you forgot?"
"I didn't—! That's not—!"
Mirielle clasped her hands dramatically. "You made a promise and then forgot? That's so mean, Shiro!"
Selene hid her smile behind her teacup, eyes sparkling. "I suppose I should forgive him. Children do make foolish promises. Still…" she let the words trail off deliberately, "…a promise is a promise."
Elira leaned toward him with exaggerated seriousness. "Guess you'll just have to keep it, brother."
"I—stop saying things like that!" Shiro sputtered, cheeks burning as both his sisters broke into laughter.
For the briefest moment, the heaviness in his chest lifted. The morning air smelled faintly of butter and baked bread, and sunlight washed across the table, and the sound of his sisters' laughter made it almost possible to forget the weight pressing on them. Almost.
Far from the warmth of Selene's dining hall, the Temple's underground chamber was cloaked in stone and silence. No sunlight reached this place—only the faint glow of glyphs etched into the walls, pulsing like veins of light through the dark.
Shiro's parents knelt in the center of the room, their wrists bound with chains that shimmered faintly, not metal but woven strands of magic. Each link pulsed in rhythm with their heartbeats, binding more than flesh.
At the head of the chamber, upon a raised dais, sat the High Inquisitor. His robes were layered white and crimson, a golden sigil of the gods gleaming upon his chest. Around him, lesser priests formed a circle, their faces obscured by hoods, chanting in low tones.
"You stand accused," the Inquisitor intoned, his voice carrying like iron struck against stone, "of spawning the anomaly. Your household has given birth to a child outside the sacred cycle. Explain yourselves."
Shiro's father lifted his head. His face bore marks of exhaustion, but his eyes remained steady. "My son was born like any other. If the gods see him as an anomaly, then it is they who must answer why—not us."
A murmur ran through the priests, but the Inquisitor silenced them with a raised hand. He gestured, and two figures stepped forward: Soul-Seers. Their eyes glowed faintly blue, irises swimming with ghostly reflections. They carried chains of light, coiling in their hands like living serpents.
"Probe their memories," the Inquisitor commanded.
The Soul-Seers pressed the glowing chains to Shiro's parents' foreheads. At once, faint images rippled into the air: fragments of laughter in their home, nights by the fire, Elira's birth, Mirielle's smile. Warmth, family, love. Then the visions warped, turning jagged as the Seers pushed deeper. Shiro's father clenched his teeth, resisting, while his mother's lips trembled but she stayed silent.
"Where is the boy?" the Inquisitor asked again, voice cutting through the chamber. "Where is the anomaly?"
"We don't know," Shiro's father spat, forcing each word past clenched teeth. "And if we did, we would never hand him to butchers dressed as priests."
Gasps echoed, one priest stepping forward in outrage. But the Inquisitor only studied them, unblinking, as though they were insects trapped in glass.
The Soul-Seers increased their pressure. Shards of memory spilled like broken glass: Shiro as a child running through fields, Elira chasing him with sticks, Mirielle holding his hand. All harmless. All ordinary.
Yet one memory surfaced unbidden, a faint whisper of something else—Shiro, standing in the square, the circle of light at the ceremony beginning to ripple strangely. The priests leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
The Inquisitor's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Ah. There it is." He rose, the hem of his robes brushing against the stone. "The gods do not err. The anomaly exists. And it will be found."
The chains pulsed tighter, digging into skin. Shiro's mother finally spoke, voice steady despite the blood welling at her wrists. "If you lay a hand on him, you will bring ruin upon yourselves. The gods you worship do not protect you—they cage you."
A cold silence swept the chamber.
Then the Inquisitor leaned closer, his shadow falling over them. "We shall see whose faith breaks first."
The priests resumed their chanting, the chains flaring brighter as the interrogation deepened.
The estate's training yard smelled faintly of steel and sun-baked stone. Rows of dummies lined one side, and a sparring ring was marked out in chalk across the gravel. Shiro stood there uneasily, his sisters clinging to the fence as if afraid they'd be told to leave.
Selene strode ahead, bright as ever, but her father's presence weighed heavy. Lord Calvus lingered at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his sharp eyes tracking every movement.
At the center of the yard stood the instructor. He was nothing like Shiro expected. Not young, not old — his face carried the creases of someone who'd lived through battles, his hair iron-gray and cropped short. His robes were plain, trimmed only with a thread of silver, but power rolled from him like heat.
"This is him?" the man said, his gaze cutting over Shiro in a single sweep. "The anomaly boy?"
Shiro stiffened. Selene opened her mouth, but Lord Calvus raised a hand to silence her.
"Yes. He needs training."
The instructor stepped closer. His eyes were sharp, unsettlingly clear, as if they saw more than flesh. Shiro had to stop himself from looking away.
"Name?"
"…Shiro Ashvale."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
"Lives remembered?"
The question cut like a blade. Shiro's throat tightened. "…None."
A flicker crossed the man's face — not pity, not mockery. Just interest, cool and clinical. "So it's true."
Selene crossed her arms, glaring at the instructor. "He's not powerless. He already—"
"Quiet," the man said, not unkindly, but firmly enough that Selene actually bit her tongue. "I'll be the judge of that."
He turned back to Shiro. "Listen well. Magic is not a gift. It is a structure. The Cycle grants access to the knowledge of past lives. That is why most mages awaken into power — centuries of refinement echoing through them. But you…" He tilted his head, studying Shiro as though examining a curious insect. "…you have no such echo."
Heat rose in Shiro's face. His fists clenched at his sides. "Then I can't do anything?"
The instructor's voice sharpened. "I did not say that. It means you have no anchor. No foundation. That makes you dangerous. You could collapse into nothing… or build something no one has ever seen."
Elira leaned close to Mirielle, whispering too loudly, "That sounds like a fancy way of saying he's either amazing or useless."
"Shhh!" Mirielle hissed.
Selene smirked, though her eyes darted toward Shiro, worried. "So you'll teach him, then?"
The instructor's lips curved into something that might've been a smile, if one squinted. "I'll test him. If he fails, no training will matter."
Lord Calvus finally spoke, his voice carrying over the yard. "Good. Prove he isn't a waste of my daughter's goodwill. Or of my roof."
The words cut deeper than Shiro expected. He felt Selene bristle at her father's tone, but she didn't argue. Instead, she stepped closer to Shiro, her hand brushing his arm — grounding him.
"Don't let him get in your head," she whispered. "You've got this."
The instructor raised a hand. Glyphs of pale light shimmered in the air between his fingers, forming a circle inscribed with symbols Shiro couldn't begin to understand. The air around them thickened, humming with power.
"Step inside the circle," the instructor said. "Show me if the gods left you truly empty… or if they made something worse."
Shiro swallowed hard, every nerve in his body screaming. But he stepped forward anyway.
The circle of light pulsed, faint at first, then brighter, as though it recognized Shiro's presence. The air grew heavy, pressing against his skin. He swallowed and stepped inside.
At once, the symbols flared. Threads of energy licked across his arms like fire, searing and cold all at once.
"Steady," the instructor commanded. His voice cut through the ringing in Shiro's ears. "Do not fight it. Breathe."
Shiro tried. Gods, he tried. But the pressure wasn't like anything he'd felt before. It wasn't only magic — it was memory. Whispers brushed the edges of his mind, not his own, not anyone's he could name. A thousand half-formed voices clamored, pressing against the hollow inside him, desperate to pour in.
He staggered. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," the instructor snapped. "Magic is the act of shaping. Not taking, not begging — shaping. Direct it, or it will devour you."
Selene's hands gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles whitened. Elira buried her face in Mirielle's shoulder, but Mirielle couldn't look away, her wide eyes reflecting the circle's glow.
The light surged higher. The ground trembled. Shiro's breath came ragged. He felt like a container filled with water too fast, too violently — cracking at the seams.
And then—
A laugh. Inside his head. Smooth, mocking, familiar.
"So this is how you break yourself? Pathetic. But if you truly want power… borrow mine."
The magician's voice. The same one from the temple, from the dream. It coiled around him like smoke.
"No—" Shiro hissed aloud, clutching his head.
The instructor's voice barked: "Focus!"
But it was too late.
Light exploded.
The circle shattered into shards of fire that shot across the yard. The nearest training dummy burst into flames, wood cracking as it collapsed. Energy lashed upward in a wild column, scorching the air before dissipating as suddenly as it had come.
Shiro collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, smoke curling from his fingertips. The silence afterward was deafening.
Selene was the first to move, leaping the fence and running to him. "Shiro!" She caught his shoulders, searching his face in panic. "Are you hurt?!"
He shook his head weakly. His body screamed with exhaustion, but nothing felt broken. Just… drained.
The instructor approached slowly. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with something sharp.
"…Interesting."
Shiro looked up at him, trembling. "I failed."
"No." The instructor crouched, meeting his gaze directly. "You survived."
The words hung there, heavy, almost like praise.
Then Lord Calvus's voice cut across the yard, cool and hard. "And nearly burned my estate down in the process."
Selene shot him a glare but said nothing.
The instructor rose, brushing ash from his robes. "He is not like others. He lacks the discipline of past lives. But what I saw today…" He glanced at Shiro again, measuring. "…is raw potential. Wild, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But not empty."
Shiro's stomach twisted. Raw potential. Dangerous. Not empty. None of it sounded like hope.
The instructor folded his arms. "You will need training. Control. Without it, you'll kill yourself — or worse, others. With it… you might carve a new path."
Shiro looked down at his hands, still faintly trembling, the smell of smoke clinging to them. A path? Or a curse?
The magician's voice drifted back, faint and taunting, like a whisper carried on the wind.
"You're beginning to see it, aren't you? You're not powerless. You're mine."
Shiro flinched. Selene squeezed his shoulder tighter, steady, grounding.
The instructor's final words sealed the moment:
"Training begins tomorrow. Fail again, and you will not walk away."