The translucent sheet he was holding began to disintegrated into faint light particles — its edges breaking apart into glimmering particles that drifted upward like dust catching stray light. Lance froze, watching as the glowing fragments swirled once before sinking straight into his single pages grimoire. The light vanished beneath the parchment's surface, fading away like sparks sinking into dark water.
For a long moment, he just stared. "What the hell was that…" he muttered, flipping the page over, searching for any difference.
Nothing. The parchment was the same dull shade, same faint three-leaf emblem, same silence.
No reaction. No warmth. No changes from before still not a single word on it.
"Did it… absorb it?" he whispered, running his thumb across the edge. It felt normal. Completely normal.
His mind churned with half-formed theories — copying spells, absorbing other grimoires to become a complete grimoire itself or anything — but instinct cut through the noise. The mist blanketing the alley was thinning now that the caster lay unconscious. Any second now, someone could pass by.
He exhaled sharply. "Tch. Better move before someone finds them."
Lance stuffed his grimoire back into its holder, glanced once more at the three sprawled bodies, then bolted down the alley. His boots slapped against cobblestone, echoing softly as he ran. The narrow streets twisted like veins through the district — stone walls, shuttered windows, distant chatter muffled behind doors.
He cut corners fast, doubling back through side lanes and unlit passages, keeping his head low. The cold night air burned in his lungs.
After a few turns, when the streets grew emptier, Lance reached up and gripped his face. His fingers caught the edge of a thin, pliant layer — the human-skin mask. He peeled it away in one smooth motion. The disguise came off soundlessly, revealing the real Lance beneath.
He took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
'Good thing I wore this,' he thought. 'As paranoid as I was about that ceremony going wrong, there was no way I was showing my real face if something happened. Guess I was right… again.'
He folded the mask carefully, tucking it into his bag this thing is hard to make even if it's just changes tones and falsify facial structure but this thing was hard to make his father told. But before he could take another step, his chest tightened. His heartbeat stuttered — one, two, then heavy and uneven. The air in his lungs thickened. A sharp pulse of nausea rippled through his gut.
"What the…" He leaned against a wall, pressing a hand to his chest. His vision tilted, the stone underfoot swaying slightly. The lines of the buildings around him warped like reflections in rippling water.
His breathing quickened.
Blood roared in his ears.
He pushed off the wall, trying to steady himself, but his legs felt heavy — leaden and uncoordinated.
"Come on…" he hissed, forcing himself forward, step by step. Each turn blurred into the next. He didn't even know where he was running anymore, only that he needed to get somewhere—anywhere—out of sight.
But the world wouldn't stay still. The narrow paths opened suddenly into a busier street. People passed by — merchants, carriage drivers, students — their voices distant, muffled, like he was underwater.
Lance stumbled to the side and pressed his back against a cold brick wall. His head hung low, his breaths coming short and sharp.
"What's… happening to me…"
He fumbled with his bag, trying to find his water flask. His fingers slipped. The bag fell to the ground with a dull thud.
The dizziness worsened. The world around him dimmed at the edges.
Then—darkness crept in.
---
Across the street, two cloaked figures stood amid the moving crowd — watching him carefully.
"Roy… he's faltering" Cecil whispered, clutching the edge of her hood. "Why is he running like that? He looks—"
Roy's eyes stayed locked on their son. "Something's off… those brats from earlier, maybe they tried something. But he's still moving fine. That's our boy. He'll—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Lance turned the corner again, staggering, one hand pressed against the wall. His steps dragged. He was panting hard, sweat running down his temple despite the cold.
Cecil's voice trembled. "He's pale. Roy, that's not exhaustion — look at him! He never gets exhausted that easily!"
Roy's expression darkened. "…You're right." His gaze sharpened. "That's not mana strain… it could be—poison."
Cecil's heart lurched. "No, not—"
Before she could finish, Lance's legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, his hand slipping from the wall, then collapsed sideways onto the stone road. The sound was soft — too soft — swallowed by the noise of the crowd.
"LANCE!" Cecil's voice broke as she threw off her cloak and sprinted forward.
Roy was already moving, cutting through the startled onlookers. He reached Lance just as his body hit the ground, catching him before his head struck the cobblestone.
"His pulse—weak," Roy muttered quickly, pressing two fingers to his neck. His mind raced through antidotes, spells, techniques. "Mana flow's erratic. Not a curse or poison… Something's draining him from the inside."
"Lance! Lance, wake up!" Cecil knelt beside them, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Her voice trembled, panic bleeding through every word. "Please, open your eyes!"
For a moment, nothing. Then Lance stirred faintly. His eyelids fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. Through the blur, he saw her face.
"…Mom?" he breathed weakly, the word barely escaping his lips.
And then his eyes rolled shut again, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Cecil froze, her hand clapped over her mouth as tears welled up.
Roy's expression hardened. He lifted Lance into his arms with care, his voice low and sharp.
"Whoever did this…" he said, "…will pay."
The crowd parted silently as he carried his son toward the carriage. Cecil followed, her hand trembling as she reached to steady Lance's arm.
Unseen by anyone, the grimoire at Lance's side glowed faintly once more — a soft pulse of light that faded just as quickly as it appeared.
-----------------------
When Lance opened his eyes, he wasn't lying on cobblestones anymore. He stood barefoot on a white surface that stretched endlessly in every direction. There was no sky, no ground—just an expanse of pale, glowing mist where horizon and air blended into one.
"…A dream?" he muttered, his voice echoing faintly. "Did I pass out?"
He looked down. Beneath his feet, faint ripples spread outward—like he was standing on water that reflected nothing. Then, ahead of him, something shimmered into view: a tree.
It stood tall and motionless. Its was entirely made of transparent crystal, each branch splitting into many smaller branches that caught light like fractured glass. But it was lifeless—no leaves, no color, no movement.
Lance's brows furrowed. "This tree again…" he murmured. He had seen it before, multiple times, in strange dreams that never made sense. "Guess I'm still dreaming then."
He walked closer and reached out to touch the tree. It had no temperature, unnaturally so, like his hands have lost its sense of temperature . But then—something stirred.
A faint pulse throbbed beneath his fingertips. He jerked his hand back, startled, as light began to seep into the trunk's veins. It was slow at first, like water soaking into parched roots, then faster—spreading upward in brilliant streams.
"What… is this?" he breathed.
At the tip of one branch, a bud formed—small, trembling with light. He stared as it quivered once, then slowly began to bloom.
A flower unfurled—delicate petals of translucent pink, glowing softly as thin pink fumes drifted outward like mist in sunlight.
The sight rooted him to the spot. It was the first color he'd ever seen in this barren space. The air hummed faintly, alive with energy that resonated in his chest.
He felt it seep into him—warm, vibrant, pulsing with power. His heartbeat quickened.
"It looks exactly like Malfoy's magic…" he whispered. "So is that what I took from his grimoire…"
And then just like being force fed many fragmented information appeared in his mind stinging pain.