Now Silia Castagir led the way with her two hands down, each firmly held by her children.
Arthur on the left and Alistair on the right—both deep in thought, their steps in rhythm with their mother's. The silence among them was almost unnerving, broken only by the faint shuffling of their feet along the long, echoing corridor.
Arthur had his mind on his sister this time, instead of thinking about the awakening to occur that day. His chest was heavy with questions he couldn't share.
During their time together in the room earlier, he had started to notice extraordinary behaviors in Alistair that shocked him. At first, he brushed them off as childish oddities, but the more time he spent with her, the less ordinary she appeared.
The two of them had been assigned private tutors—gifted scholars of reputation, brought into the mansion for the sole purpose of teaching them the general languages of the world. These were courses that supposedly took five long years, sometimes more, to properly master. They were the type of studies that broke students before shaping them.
But both children, still in their infancy compared to the world outside, had managed to not only learn but speak fluently in three languages within the span of a year and a few months. Their voices carried accents as though they had grown up in foreign lands, yet their tongues moved with precision and clarity that embarrassed their teachers.
It was not long before this news spread. Not only within the mansion but far beyond its cold, high walls. The Castagir name, already formidable, gained new weight when word of such prodigies escaped. Whispering voices followed them in the halls now. Servants paused to glance longer than they should. Even seasoned guards found themselves lowering their gazes with a strange mixture of awe and unease.
Arthur, however, was not bothered by this. Honestly, what would one expect from an author who spent his entire life drowning in vocabulary? Words were his domain. Yet his mind was not on his own gift—it was on Alistair.
She had scaled through just as fast as he did, and yet she didn't seem like she was from another life. There was nothing foreign in her presence—she was wholly here, wholly herself. She was just as smart as he was, almost identical in wit and bearing, with the only difference being the length of their hair. And still, something about her pressed on him like an invisible weight.
'She's somewhat different from the average human at this rate,' Arthur thought grimly. 'I'll keep a close eye on—'
"Arthur, look! A flying man!"
At Alistair's sudden words, young Arthur whipped his head eagerly, his heart skipping a beat at the possibility. His eyes darted through the vaulted corridor, searching the high ceiling, the edges of the hallway.
And then—
A sharp slap landed on the hind of his neck. The sting bit deeper because it was accompanied by the realization that he had been tricked by his twin sister.
"Hey, what was that for!" Arthur snapped, craning his neck back at her with a deep frown.
'This girl is a bother,' he thought sourly. 'If I was able to write her character, I would have dialed down the annoyance a lot.'
Alistair blew a raspberry in reply, her cheeks puffing as she smirked with triumph. For all her sharpness and mystery, in this moment she reminded Arthur that she was still a mere child—unlike him. Unlike the one who carried the mind of an author older than his years.
Finally, after what felt like an endless trek with their mother, they reached a large metal gate with intricate ancient markings sprawling across its surface. The air around it seemed to hum with a faint, vibrating energy, as though the markings themselves were alive.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his scholar's instinct urging him to decipher the image carved into the gate. He traced the strokes with his mind, recalling the three languages he had mastered, each glyph flashing across his memory like the pages of a book. But no matter how hard he tried, the symbols eluded him. Even with all his knowledge, this was something entirely beyond him.
Their mother drew closer to the gate, her expression unreadable. She released the grip on their hands, stepped forward, and pushed the massive doors open with an ease that defied their weight.
What awaited behind it was breathtaking.
The arched room was truly a glory to behold, a masterpiece of another era. It was made entirely of pure gold and silver—the flooring polished so finely it reflected the faces of those who stepped upon it, the pillars stretching high and wide like divine guardians, and even the ceiling, crafted from some glistening material that shimmered faintly with hues of crimson and violet when the torchlight caught it. It had been shaped into an ancient context Arthur could almost, almost transcribe.
It was... "Castagir," he whispered.
The word was carved into the heart of the room itself, not merely etched but born into the very materials of the hall. Their bloodline engraved in eternity.
Arthur's gaze wandered from the glowing letters to the other things present. At the center was a vast round table, and gathered around it were a few men—some whispering, some still, their eyes like daggers concealed behind courtesy. Yet one man sat apart, above all others, perched upon a golden throne at the top of an ascended staircase.
That was where Lord Castagir sat.
Arthur and Alistair's father.
The men at the round table were most likely his siblings and a scattering of important figures who had clawed their way into the King's presence. In the room as well, guards lined the edges like shadows cast in steel, while several influential people had gathered for the glorious event. Their eyes burned with anticipation, waiting to see the outcome of the test.
How typical.
Their mother, Lady Castagir, moved away from her children at this time. Her steps were steady, unhesitant, as though she had rehearsed them for years. She ascended the flight of stairs, stopping before her husband, giving the required courtesy, then stood by his side as though she had always belonged there.
'Whatever test we are going to go through, it seems really serious,' Arthur thought, agitation curling inside him.
He turned his gaze toward Alistair. She was calm. Too calm. Her face was serene, her back straight, her presence chilling. She didn't look like a child about to face the unknown. She looked like someone waiting for a destiny she already believed belonged to her.
Was she menacing? Perhaps. But undeniably, she was ready.
Finally, the King spoke, silencing Arthur's thoughts and the murmurs around the entire room. His voice was iron, cold, measured.
"Today is the day. We will grade the mana level of Alistair Castagir and Arthur Castagir."
A short clap followed from those around the table, though the sound felt hollow, more ritual than joy.
Arthur frowned. 'He can't even call us son and daughter... Why is he being so formal?'
But there was no answer, only silence as the King's words weighed down the room.
"Please bring forth the testing orb."
At once, the great doors of the hall burst open again, slamming against the gilded walls with thunderous force. A procession stormed in: a few slaves dressed in red satin robes, their faces bowed low, their feet dragging slightly as though the robes themselves weighed them down. Behind them followed a priest, tall, skeletal, with robes as pale as bone. The slaves pushed forward a wheeled table, and upon it rested a large circular milky orb, its surface dull yet ominous, like a moon waiting to awaken.
Arthur and Alistair instinctively gave way as the table was rolled toward them, unwilling to be crushed by the weight of the sacred object. The wheels screeched slightly as they reached the middle of the room, before halting at the priest's signal.
"Thank you," the tall, old, skinny man said—his voice gravelly, his frame bending with age as he dismissed the slaves with a flick of his wrist. They scurried away like shadows fleeing the light, leaving only him and the children before the orb.
He knelt slightly, his hollow eyes narrowing as he addressed them.
"You will place your hand on the ball. If it turns gold, you have a good mana reserve. Blue and white is still acceptable. However, whatever you do, make sure it doesn't stay the same."
Arthur tilted his head, confused. "I don't understand you. How do we even channel mana?"
The skinny priest smiled, almost too kindly, and patted Arthur on the head. "A cheeky one, I presume. Just place your hand on the orb, and it will do the rest."
Arthur smiled inwardly. 'Then why did he make it sound like we are the ones in control of how the orb changes color?'
The entire prep talk felt unnecessary. Suspicious.
And then—without waiting for orders—Alistair moved.
Her small frame walked forward, each step steady, each breath measured. She ignored the murmurs rising in the hall, the confusion at her disobedience. She didn't need permission. She didn't need approval. She was going to claim her place.
Arthur was stunned. The room was stunned. But Alistair kept moving, her presence shifting entirely.
It was as though a 360 switch had occurred at that moment. Arthur could not help but stare at her, every nerve in his body aware of how unlike herself she appeared.
'How is she so confident?' Arthur thought, unable to tear his gaze from her.
She reached the orb and placed her hand upon it.
At once, the circular orb throbbed violently. A blinding golden light burst forth, filling the entire chamber. It poured out like a storm of radiance, washing over the pillars, burning into the eyes of every witness. The brightness was unbearable for a brief moment, then it began to dissipate, leaving silence in its wake.
Alistair jolted slightly as she removed her hand, the aftershock rippling through her small frame. She raised her gaze to her father and froze. His face was no longer composed—it was struck with shock. The same shock reflected in every man, guard, and figure in the room.
They were dazed, not only by the golden light but by how impossibly bright it had shone.
"Truly a marvelous deed. You show much promise," the priest said, his voice reverent now, almost trembling.
Meanwhile, Lord Castagir's stern expression twisted into a grin. He gestured for Alistair to climb the flight of stairs toward him.
A smile bloomed across her face as pride washed over her. She climbed quickly, eager to bask in the recognition. Lord Castagir reached down and patted her head—an action so rare it was almost a crown in itself.
Arthur, however, stood frozen in place.
He felt it—the dagger-like gaze of every person in the room, stabbing into him with expectations sharp enough to bleed. The air grew colder, the silence heavier. He knew they wanted him to match her brilliance, to shine equally, to prove himself.
But none of that was what made his chest tighten. What unsettled him was the feeling that lingered deep inside.
A whisper in his bones, one he could not shake; Deep down, Arthur knew.
He would fail the test.