The kitchen was unusually quiet. Normally, around this time, Paul would be chewing something while rambling about nonsense, Lilia would be cooking with quiet focus, and Zenith would be rolling her eyes at his antics. But today was different.
Rudeus was asleep.
For the first time in three days, they could actually talk.
Zenith sat at the table, turning a mug in her hands. Paul stood by the window, arms crossed, staring into the void. Lilia silently poured the tea, her movements more measured than usual. She had heard everything—and was thinking it through.
"He'll wake up and act like nothing happened," Zenith said quietly, not lifting her eyes. "Or he'll remember… and pretend he doesn't."
"You're sure?" Paul looked at her.
"I know that look. He's not afraid of us—he's afraid of himself."
Lilia sat down across from her, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression remained calm, but her posture said she was processing everything.
"He's not an ordinary child," she said evenly. "Even before this... he was different."
Paul sighed and finally took a seat.
"We can't just leave it. Sooner or later, he's going to try again."
"This isn't just magic anymore," Zenith's voice grew quieter. "It's his nature."
Paul tapped the table with his fingers, watching his wife. His thoughts jumped from one idea to the next, none of them solid enough to hold.
"It's strange, isn't it? He talks like an adult, acts older than he is, but still seems natural. He reads like he's seen it all already, understands the world like a grown man… but he's still a child."
"So what?" Paul shrugged. "He's always been ahead of the others."
Zenith shook her head.
"It's not just talent. He sees and feels things differently than other children."
Paul rubbed his temples, weary.
"Maybe we're just overreacting? He's smart, sure, but that doesn't make him supernatural."
"Paul, how many five-year-olds do you know who can read grimoires?" Zenith raised an eyebrow. "Or adult mages who discover combat magic on their own?"
Paul froze.
"You're saying…"
"He's blessed," Zenith finally said.
Paul choked on his breath.
"Blessed? Are you sure?"
"Yes. And it's not a gift. It's a curse."
Silence fell over the kitchen.
"He was supposed to die at birth, but he survived," Zenith continued. "You remember that day, Paul. But he lived."
Paul swallowed hard.
"And you think that…"
"It wasn't a miracle." Zenith exhaled. "It was his mark."
Lilia remained silent, though her expression showed she was listening intently.
"A blessing… of a dead god," Paul muttered, as if hoping the words themselves would prove false.
Zenith looked at him.
"Laplace."
Paul slowly raised his eyes.
"What?"
"Laplace," she repeated. "The Immortal Emperor. The one fated to destroy the world."
Paul shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"That's insane. Laplace is dead. He's been gone for four hundred years!"
"Right after his death, children began to be born with his mark," Zenith said, her voice calm. "Fragments of his power."
"So what?" Paul waved a hand, irritated. "That doesn't mean my son has anything to do with that monster!"
"No, he doesn't." She shook her head. "None of them do. It's just… a trace. Like a footprint in sand. But people don't care. They fear them. They kill them."
Paul was silent.
"You understand what this means, Paul? No one can know. No one."
"If they find out…" Paul buried his face in his hands.
"They'll destroy him," Zenith finished.
At last, Lilia spoke.
"I'll watch over him," her voice firm. "He mustn't fall into the hands of those who would use him. And if it comes to it…" She looked directly at Paul. "I'll kill anyone who tries."
A pause hung in the air—heavy, like lead. Paul said nothing. Just kept moving his fingers, like he didn't know what to do with them.
"…Lilia?"
Zenith. Her voice shook, but not from fear—something else. She didn't look up, as if afraid there'd be no answer.
"I…" She faltered, exhaled. "Back then… I was harsh. I'm sorry."
"It's alright."
"No," Zenith shook her head. "It's not."
"I understand," Lilia replied calmly. "You have nothing to apologize for."
Silence stretched between them.
Paul let out a long breath and dropped his hands.
"We need a teacher," he said. "He has to learn to control this."
The words were simple, but in the room they landed with a dull thud—like a door slamming shut.
"Yeah… We can't send him to the academy. They'll figure out he's not an ordinary child in no time," Zenith added.
"Then there's only one option." Paul frowned. "We'll go to Sauros."
Lilia raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Duke Boreas?" Zenith asked.
"Yes. He might help us find someone to train Rudy. We can't risk a public place, but if we get a private tutor…" Paul clenched his fist. "It's our only chance."
"When are you going?" Lilia asked.
"Now. But first, I need to stop by Rowls. Let him know I'll be gone."
Zenith gave a quiet nod. Silence once again filled the kitchen.
***
Paul walked through the village, but his thoughts kept tangling up his focus. Everything seemed normal—people fixing fences, carrying water, chatting idly—but there was a weight in the air. Or maybe it was just in his head.
Too many questions. How soon would the villagers start whispering that his son wasn't just smart, but a budding mage? What if the rumors reached the wrong ears? In a place like this, an open mage was like a lit torch in a dark room—nobody liked it when someone held fire.
He stopped abruptly. Nonsense. This was a village, not a noble court. Sure, rumors would spread, but who'd take them seriously? As long as people didn't get scared. Fear made people stupid.
Paul sighed. Finding a tutor wouldn't be easy. Good mages were rare, and no one wanted to live in some backwater. Duke Boreas might help—if he wanted to. Sending a request to Sharia would raise too many questions. He needed someone who didn't ask a lot of them.
Lost in thought, he realized he'd already reached Rowls house. Village guards lived on opposite ends for quick response—standard practice. Paul stopped at the gate and spotted a familiar figure.
Sylphiette.
She sat barefoot on the ground, dressed in baggy trousers tied with string and a black shirt far too large for her. In her hands was a fish. She studied it closely, occasionally poking its side with a finger.
"Hey, Sylphy."
"Mmm?... Oh. Hi, Paul."
"You hypnotizing that fish?" Paul asked, tilting his head.
"Waiting," the girl replied calmly, not looking up.
"For what?"
"For it to let go."
Paul blinked.
"Let go of what?"
"Its soul." She glanced at him like he was an idiot.
Paul scratched the back of his head, puzzled.
"Uh… you sure fish have souls?"
"People aren't sure either." Sylphy shrugged. "But they believe."
"At least people talk."
"They do." She poked the fish again. "Just not to you."
"Figures. They're waiting for someone smarter." Paul chuckled. "So, do fish talk to you a lot?"
"No. Mostly they stay quiet."
"Convenient."
Sylphy considered that, still poking at the fish.
"Fishfolk live in the east. They're fish. And they talk."
Paul furrowed his brow.
"Right... I guess. Your dad home?"
"Yeah. I'll show you."
Paul watched as Sylphy gripped the fish's head. Her fingers twitched—and bone cracked. She tossed the carcass into a nearby bucket like it meant nothing.
"…Thought that fish was your friend."
"Hm? But it's dead. Dead things don't need friends."
Paul frowned, watching her wipe her hands on her oversized pants.
"You treat all your friends like that?"
Sylphy tilted her head, thinking.
"No... Usually they leave on their own."
"Huh. So when a friend dies, you just throw them in a bucket?"
She shrugged, as if the question barely mattered.
"If they're dead, it doesn't matter to them."
"And if they're not?"
Sylphy met his eyes—calm, unnervingly steady.
"Then they can still say something."
***
Paul stepped inside and felt the difference immediately. The house was warm, filled with the scents of herbs and woodsmoke. Bundles of dried plants hung in the corner, books lined the shelves, and a faint aroma of stew lingered in the air. Rowls home had always been like this—simple, but comforting.
At the heavy table sat the man himself, sharpening a knife with slow, precise strokes. Lia was nearby, sorting vegetables from a wicker basket.
"You're late," Rowls said without looking up.
"You expect people too early," Paul replied, dropping into a chair and throwing one leg over the other. "I was just heading to the tavern when you ambushed me with your expectations."
Rowls raised an eyebrow. "You haven't been to the tavern in a week."
"See? Tremendous sacrifice on my part." Paul smirked.
Lia stifled a smile and turned toward him.
"Tea?"
"Of course. I'm not a savage like some people," Paul said, glancing at Rowls, who didn't even pause his work.
"Bold words from a man who once ate fried bugs in a brothel because he couldn't afford dinner," Rowls said flatly.
"First of all, grasshoppers. Second, it was a tavern, not a brothel." Paul huffed. "Third, don't you think you remember a little too much about my youth? Bit unhealthy, friend."
"No. I just enjoy reminding you who you were whenever you get too full of yourself."
Paul crossed his arms.
"So when I say my son's a genius, that's getting full of myself?"
"No. Saying it five times a night is," Lia muttered as she set a cup in front of him.
"But it's true!" Paul took the tea, blew on it, and sipped. "Did you know Rudy could read at three?"
"Yes, Paul!" Rowls and Lia snapped in unison.
"Killjoys…"
Lia shook her head but still smiled.
"How's your son?" Rowls asked, setting the knife aside.
Paul shifted in his seat.
"Alive. Sleeping. Still wrapped in bandages, but he's not screaming in pain anymore, so… improving."
Rowls nodded slowly.
"If I didn't know you, I'd say you feel guilty."
Paul grimaced.
"And you don't think any of this might be your fault?"
"Oh, here we go…" Paul leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not one of those parents who locks their kid in a box. Yeah, he pushed too far, but now he understands—magic isn't a toy."
"Or he's figured out it's just one more thing that makes him broken," Rowls said quietly.
Paul tensed, but Lia stepped in, gently defusing the brewing argument.
"You came for something, Paul?"
He looked at her, then finally exhaled.
"Yeah. I'll be gone for a while. I'm heading to Sauros."
Lia's ears perked in surprise.
"The duke?"
"I want him to help find a teacher for Rudy. Someone who can help him control his talent."
Lia tilted her head thoughtfully but said nothing. Rowls frowned deeper.
"That's why I came to warn you. If anything happens while I'm gone, you'll be the one handling it."
"And if you don't come back?"
Paul hesitated for a second, then smirked.
"Then pour one out for me at the tavern and say something nice."
Lia sighed softly.
"Sylphie, bring us some tea."
"Okay."
As the girl left, Paul noticed Rowls relax slightly. He didn't want to talk while she was in the room.
"You know…" The elf ran a hand down his face, clearly choosing his words. "The village avoids her."
"I know," Paul muttered.
"No, you don't. They're not just avoiding her. They're scared of her."
Paul recalled the strange conversation he'd just had with Sylphiette and involuntarily raised an eyebrow.
"Scared? She's a sweet kid…"
"She doesn't act like one. Even at her age. Other kids can sense it."
Paul scratched his chin.
"I saw her snap a fish's neck. With her bare hands. Not something you expect from a five-year-old."
Rowls nodded.
"She's… different. Toys, games, childish things don't hold her interest. She tried. Lost interest fast. Never found anyone who really got her. Now she doesn't even try."
Paul studied him more closely.
"That worries you?"
Rowls frowned.
"What parent wouldn't be worried their daughter's being shunned?" Lia answered before he could.
"Yeah… Fair enough. You know, my son's dealing with similar things."
"I'm not surprised, from what I've heard…"
Paul smirked, crossing his arms.
"My son's a genius. Didn't even have to push him. Did you know he learned to read at three?"
"Really? First I've heard…"
"Well, let me just—"
"No, you don't need to—!" Rowls cut him off. "She's joking, don't start again…"
Lia gently placed the cups on the table, her gaze dropping.
"Maybe it's for the best," she murmured. "They're both different. Maybe that's safer, in the end."
Paul snorted, but something stirred in the back of his mind. A memory he hadn't wanted to examine too closely.
Sylphiette.
Her hair.
An unusual, vivid green. In his life, Paul had seen plenty of strange things—mutants, half-human hybrids, even creatures that shouldn't exist at all. But hair like that…
Only two things came to mind.
A dead god.
And the cursed berserkers of the Supard.
The thought scorched his mind, made him flinch inside.
He looked over at Rowls, who seemed to catch the shift.
"Listen…" Paul began, not even sure he should bring it up. "Sylphiette's hair… it's strange."
Silence fell over the room.
Lia froze, her hand halfway to the table with a cup. Rowls slowly raised his head, his eyes suddenly sharp.
"Don't start," he said flatly. "I told you before. It's a rare mutation. Happens with elves."
"Yeah. That's what you told me last time."
"Then maybe check your memory if you're bringing it up again," Rowls replied, voice tinged with steel.
Paul raised his hands, placating.
"Hey, I'm just…" He paused. "Just trying to understand."
"Then choose your words," Rowls didn't bother hiding his irritation.
"Dear, Paul didn't mean anything by it," Lia interjected softly, placing a hand over her husband's. "He's just… worried."
"Hell of a way to show it," Rowls muttered, looking away.
At that moment, the door opened, and Sylphiette stepped in with a small teapot.
"Tea," she said calmly, setting it down.
Paul watched in silence as Lia smiled warmly and stroked the girl's hair like nothing had happened.
He'd wanted to mention that maybe Rudy had the same kind of problem. But… not now.
Rowls clearly wasn't in the mood. Probably hadn't been for a long time.
The elf looked at Paul, measured, then gave a slow nod.
"Your trip to Sauros… What if he says no?"
Paul grimaced.
"Then we'll look for someone else. But I'm not going to just sit and wait. If there's even a chance of finding a teacher for Rudy, I'll take it."
Rowls nodded again, brief and firm.
"Be careful."
Paul gave a crooked grin.
"Don't worry. I've got this."
Lia looked up.
"When are you leaving?"
"Today. The sooner I go, the sooner I'm back."
Rowls exhaled through his nose, long and tired.
"Good luck."