The hot rays of the sun fell on the small house on the outskirts of Buena village. The air inside was heavy and sticky, carrying the stale tang of the night and lingering wine.
Zenith woke with a sharp exhale. Her body ached, a dull pain clamped down on her temples. Fragments of dreams still tangled in her mind: a dead child, a hollow void, Paul walking into the darkness, dissolving into it without a glance back.
She sat up, rubbing her temples. Empty bottles and glasses cluttered the nightstand in the corner. She'd drunk too much last night. Again.
It took her a few minutes to pull herself together.
The sunlight through the window told her morning had passed—it was already day.
"My head's full of cotton in this heat," she thought, rising and heading to the dresser.
She slipped on a light everyday dress and looked at her reflection in the mirror: dark circles under her eyes, swollen cheeks, greasy hair, pale skin.
"Just perfect. Like a wet hen," she sighed and poured water into a basin.
The cool splash on her face brought some relief, but the headache only worsened. She just wanted it to stop. The hangover reminded her of another evening spent with a glass of wine, when nothing else seemed to matter anymore.
She went downstairs and found the hall empty. Grabbing some bread and dried meat, she stepped outside onto the porch.
Outside, the air smelled of dry grass. Trees rustled lazily in the hot wind, and Lilia was sweeping the path to the road with quiet determination. Her brow was dotted with sweat.
"Good day, my lady," she said dryly, sparing her a brief glance.
The hangover hadn't let go, but at least her head had cleared a bit. Better to do something useful than lie around and drink more. Then again…
"Lili, I need something fresh. Something… bracing."
"Of course, my lady."
Lilia nodded and left. She returned with a tray: cheese, bread, and a bottle of wine.
Zenith squinted.
"You decided that by 'bracing' I meant wine?"
Lilia calmly uncorked the bottle with a smooth flick of her fingers.
"You have very predictable preferences, my lady."
"You've got strong fingers..."
Lilia raised an eyebrow. "Thank you?"
Zenith smirked. "Remind me never to let you give me a massage. I'll be rolling across the floor for a week after."
A faint smile touched the corner of Lilia's lips. "As you wish, my lady. Unless, of course, rolling is something you enjoy."
Zenith took the glass but didn't drink yet, instead watching Lilia more intently.
"You know this doesn't help me, right?"
"I know you'll do as you please anyway."
Zenith smirked, twirling the glass in her hands.
"You're so caring."
"Caring is part of my duties," Lilia replied, bowing her head.
Zenith took a sip. Then another. The wine coated her tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. She set down the empty glass and absently gazed out at the green lawn stretching before her. It wasn't perfect—there were weeds poking through at the edges—but the massive garden was in full bloom.
"Oh, Lili. How's Rudy?"
"This morning the young master was on the hill near the village."
Zenith waved a hand dismissively.
"Of course he was. Staring into the void again… Maybe he needs some friends? Should we send him to school or something?"
"It would be good if the young master started socializing with children his age," Lilia said quietly.
"No one's arguing," Zenith said, leaning back in her chair. "But knowing Paul, he'll think it calls for a plan, a strategy, and a sword…"
Zenith lingered a little longer, savoring the wine's aftertaste and the drifting moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a tall figure peeking carefully around the corner. A mop of messy hair, a muscular build. Her husband, Paul.
He flashed her a wide smile and waved like he was greeting a dignitary, then settled comfortably into a chair.
"You're home early," Zenith noted. "What, did Rowls kick you out?"
"Well, it's scorching out there," Paul said. "Figured I'd skip the roasting and head back early. We'll finish the job tomorrow anyway."
Zenith raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Paul grabbed a jug and drank deeply, washing it down with a bite of cheese.
"So, where's our little genius?"
"On the hill," Zenith said with a squint. "I think he's bored. We should probably send him to school."
"School?" Paul snorted. "You mean one of those noble boarding places? We already talked about it. He's not thrilled."
"Maybe he needs friends, Paul. Not just books and training."
"I'm not against friends. Just not in places where he has to wear a mask every day. I'll find somewhere myself — or I'll handle it personally. Right, Lilia?" He turned to her.
"Of course, sir," she replied. Her voice was even, but there was a faint note of doubt in it.
Zenith gave a dry chuckle.
"See? Even Lili agrees with me. No need for schools."
"It would be good if the young master spent time with children his age," Lilia said coolly, her tone still formal.
Zenith just smirked.
Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"I'd be glad to," he muttered, "but he doesn't want to. Says kids are stupid and boring."
"Smart boy," Zenith muttered, taking a sip from her glass. "Just like you."
Paul narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
BOOM!
The house shook with a deafening blast.
"WHAT THE—?!" Paul jumped to his feet, hand on his sword.
They exchanged a look and bolted inside.
***
Flipping through the pages, I sank into the book again. With every word, it seemed to open up more—its meaning shifting, becoming clearer, and yet always slipping just out of reach.
A grimoire.
The book was strange. No story, no characters—only unfamiliar symbols strung into words. I didn't even know its title. Not because I didn't want to—but because I couldn't. The language was foreign. Alien.
I couldn't read it, not really…
But if I focused—if I really stared—I could make out short phrases. I could feel the meaning pressing through the letters. If I closed my eyes, I could picture the actions they described. But it was hard. Like the meaning kept shifting depending on which part of the page I looked at.
When I first picked it up, Zenith had snatched the book from my hands immediately.
"No. You don't need this."
"Why not?"
"It's a magic grimoire. Not something for children."
Magical grimoires held spells, written in a special language incomprehensible to most. They were rare, nearly impossible to find in any shop. That's what Zenith told me.
Still, I didn't let it go.
"But you use magic yourself, don't you?"
She looked away.
"Yes. But the magic I use isn't something you can just hand off to someone else."
"Why?"
She hesitated.
"Because there are people who decide who's allowed to use it."
"The Church?" I narrowed my eyes. She nodded in silence.
She paused again, as if weighing something.
"I can't teach you the Church's language," she said at last. "And as for the magical one… I only know part of it."
At the time, that was enough of an answer for me.
But it didn't mean I was giving up.
Luckily for me, there was a cabinet in my parents' bedroom filled with children's stories. I hid the grimoire among them, swapping it out as needed. If Zenith ever found out... best not to think about it.
Carefully turning the yellowed pages again, I studied the strange symbols. The words felt alien, unreadable—but the longer I stared, the stronger a certain feeling crept in. As if I hadn't learned this language, but had once known it.
Slowly, with effort, the meaning began to surface. The phrases started to form something coherent—like recalling something long forgotten. Like the words had always been inside me, buried under layers of fog.
They were mesmerizing—like they held power just beneath the surface.
Still, I couldn't quite understand why Zenith wouldn't let me have the book. Magic spells weren't dangerous, right?
Then I read aloud:
"Air. Become a blade."
As I read the unfamiliar symbols, the words seemed to form on my lips on their own.
The spell was long. Too long for me to fully grasp, so I just repeated whatever came to mind—as if someone were whispering the words to me in a language I shouldn't have known.
"Cut. Air. Flesh."
A chill ran through me. That didn't sound… friendly. What if this really was dangerous? I swallowed hard. Maybe I should stop?
"Wind Scythe!"
Something clicked inside me. In my chest, in my gut—it was like a key had been turned. Then, a sudden lightness, as though something had been drawn out of me. The air around me began to hum. I felt the wind strike my palm, lifting strands of my hair. Thin ribbons of wind spun around my hand, coiling and tightening.
But that was it.
I'd expected more. Thunder, lightning, something. But the world didn't end. No one died. Not even the nearby candle so much as flickered.
I exhaled. The fear turned into disappointment. So it wasn't dangerous after all.
"Come on. I can do this."
I closed my eyes again, focused, stretched out my hand—
And then pain. Sharp. Immediate. Like a thousand tiny blades slicing into my skin. I cried out, the book slipping from my hands.
A cut across my palm. Drops of red splattered onto the parchment. The gusts of wind I'd been holding suddenly broke loose. They grew wild, erratic—like a swarm of furious wasps.
"Stop… Damn it, stop!"
But the wind wouldn't listen.
In that final second, I remembered Zenith's words.
"Rudy, magic is dangerous. It takes real knowledge and training. Don't try anything on your own."
That thought was still hanging in my head when I heard a deafening crash, loud enough to drown everything out. Then everything faded into fog. Sounds blurred together, growing distant. Somewhere far off, I heard faint shouts—muffled voices calling out.
***
I came to with a sharp ringing in my ears. The room was spinning, shadows swimming across my vision. My mouth tasted of metal—like I'd been swallowing blood. I inhaled deeply, and the stench of iron and dust stabbed into my nose.
The attic was in ruins. Slashes covered the walls, the floor, the furniture—jagged, chaotic lines everywhere, like some invisible blade had torn through the very air.
"Magic really is dangerous. I'll need to be more careful next time..." The thought flickered through my mind—then vanished the moment I looked at my hand.
Flesh. Bone. Muscle.
The skin was shredded. Tendons twisted, tangled—as if someone had tried to take my hand apart, piece by piece. In some places, white shards of bone poked through the gore.
"Is this... my hand?" The question rang out in my head, absurd and traitorous.
Everything around me was soaked in blood.
The sight was too much. My throat seized with fear. The smell of blood made my head spin. Pain flooded my mind, leaving no room for thought.
And I screamed.
Loud. Piercing.
"N-no…!" My voice trembled, words breaking apart. "This… can't be…"
Tears clouded my eyes, turning everything into a blurred, unbearable nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to look. But it didn't help. The image was burned into my brain. This nightmare wouldn't fade.
I knew that.
"I'm going to die…"
The thought flared up like fire, clutching at me with icy claws.
The room tilted. The walls closed in. The world lost all sense. It felt like I was being dragged into a void, the pounding of my heart thundering in my ears, blending with ragged, broken breaths.
"RUDY!? WHAT THE—"
A voice. A shout.
The last thing I heard.
Then the world collapsed into darkness.