Morning light spilled through the tall windows of the palace, catching the dust motes in slow, golden dances. The halls were wide, echoing the soft rhythm of footsteps, laughter, and the occasional shriek when someone tripped over an uneven floorboard.
In one room, the children were gathered, a wild mix of ages and temperaments, each peculiar in their own way. Some were quietly sketching patterns into thick leather-bound books, others whispering spells that made small objects float for a moment before dropping with a soft thunk. A few ran across the hall, chasing a rolling ball carved from polished wood, the sound echoing off the stone walls like distant bells.
The protagonist, small for his age but keenly observant, leaned against the doorway, watching. He didn't run or play just yet — he preferred watching. But even from the shadows, he felt it: the warmth of belonging. For the first time in his life, he was not the odd one out. He didn't have to explain himself. Here, in this palace, the rules were simple: be curious, be alive, and you belonged.
Miss Sora entered then, her presence immediately stilling the chaos without a single raised voice. She was tall and calm, the kind of person whose every step seemed to measure the room with care. A strictness lingered around her, but it was the kind of gentle authority that made even the most rambunctious child pause respectfully.
"Alaric," she said softly, her voice carrying through the hall like a quiet bell, "please mind the ball near the library shelves. They are not meant for flying, even if magic is tempting."
A few children giggled and ducked behind her skirts, and the ball rolled harmlessly into a corner. Miss Sora's gaze found the protagonist, lingering for a moment as if reading his thoughts. He blinked, caught in the warmth of recognition.
"You'll find your turn soon enough," she murmured. "Patience is a lesson as important as any spell."
He nodded, and the corners of his mouth lifted, the faintest smile. It was enough. Here, under her calm supervision, he was part of something bigger than himself — a tiny, imperfect world that held laughter and secrets, strange abilities, and safety.
The day stretched ahead in a soft, endless promise. The children ran through the corridors, chasing each other, practicing skills, whispering to the enchanted objects that populated the palace. They built forts from old tapestries, hid in the folds of shadows, and sometimes just lay on the polished floors staring at the ceiling, dreaming up worlds within worlds.
It was chaotic. It was unpredictable. But it was alive.
And for the protagonist, it was home.