In the forest, in a clearing where the trees grew sparse, the terrain opened up to reveal a rocky mountainside streaked with green moss. The ground was soft, wet with recent rain, and small puddles formed in shallow dips in the mud. Opposite the mossy slope lay scattered boulders, some half-buried in the earth, others looming like silent watchers.
Filip sat atop one of the larger boulders, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the boy in front of him. Jacob stood a short distance away, nervous but determined.
"Alright," Filip called out, voice calm. "Jacob, feel the core—just like I taught you. Then try to channel mana from it toward your right hand. Keep your hand raised in front of you, palm open. Don't try to channel it anywhere else."
Jacob nodded, closed his eyes, and slowly raised his right hand. His palm faced the sky, fingers relaxed. His breathing steadied as he focused inward.
He found it—his core. It pulsed faintly within him, warm and vibrant, a presence just beneath his awareness. Gritting his teeth slightly, Jacob concentrated, drawing the mana from deep within and trying to guide it toward his right arm.
It resisted. The flow was slow, unsteady. He strained, mentally shaping its path, pushing it through unseen channels. Then, at last, a faint tingling in his fingertips.
A tiny flicker.
Sparks.
They danced and crackled faintly above his palm—just a few at first, flickering like fireflies. Jacob opened his eyes and saw it—raw, unstable lightning crackling weakly in his hand. He didn't stop. The mana flow remained, growing slightly stronger.
The sparks intensified into a thin thread of lightning—a barely visible arc that snapped and hissed in his palm.
Filip smiled from the boulder. "Good… That's good."
It was nothing more than a measly Rank 1 lightning spell. All Jacob could manage now was enough to give someone a weak shock—harmless in a real fight.
But it was progress.
Eventually, Jacob released the spell with a sharp exhale. His head ached slightly from the effort, and sweat beaded on his brow.
Filip clapped once. "Not bad for your first time. You'll get better with practice."
Jacob lowered his hand, blinking at his tingling fingers. "What happens if I keep doing it?" he asked, curiosity replacing doubt.
"You'll strain your mind and burn through your mana," Filip replied simply. "Push too far, and you'll end up with mana exhaustion—dizzy, drained, and barely able to stand."
Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "So… how does the mana refill in the orb?"
Filip chuckled. "Jacob, the 'glass orb filled with liquid mana' is just a metaphor—something Anton Agrunour used to explain the core simply. It's not literally like that."
Jacob tilted his head. "Then how does it… recharge?"
Filip answered, "It replenishes over time—your body draws ambient mana from the air. The higher your affinity and the stronger your core, the faster it restores."
Jacob gave a small "Oh," then looked at his hand again.
It still tingled.
But this time—not from fear. From excitement.
....
The sun had risen, and the Ravengard Duchy was much more lively than before due to the opening of the mines. The goods sold from the mines had brought the people of the duchy more funds to lead their lives. Some were sold to Marquis Benedict, and others were distributed by Ravengard merchants to the outside world.
In the quiet halls of the manor, Anton was clad in a charcoal-blue coat, its tailored cut accentuating his lean build. The coat bore subtle sapphire-thread embroidery—minimal, like strokes of clawed ink at the cuffs and collar—just enough to mark nobility . Unlike the more grandiose attire often seen in court, Anton's ensemble was stripped of cloaks or ornamental flourishes, favoring clean utility befitting his role as both administrator and protector of the house. A high collar guarded his throat, and beneath the coat, a dark indigo silk tunic rested neatly tucked into reinforced black trousers, well-suited for both estate duties and quick action if required.
He stood by a polished side table, meticulously arranging stacks of parchment and documents, his gloved fingers working with quiet precision.
Moments later, Angelo and William approached Anton. The two were dressed in the formal management uniforms typical of Ravengard's estate staff—well-fitted dark vests layered over crisp linen shirts, topped with navy-blue coats that bore the quiet dignity of office. Each wore a modest silver brooch bearing the Ravengard crest, signifying their administrative roles within the duchy.
They offered respectful bows.Anton responded with a nod and passed the sorted documents to them, his expression calm .
"Do everything as I've instructed, and ensure all matters are managed properly. If anything urgent arises, contact me through the communication artifact," Anton said, his tone calm but firm.
He was referring to the standard artifact used among nobles for communication—simple to operate and independent of magical expertise
"Yes, Lord," they responded in unison, bowing respectfully.
In the quiet chamber of the Duke, Kaisel stood dressed in his formal attire—refined, yet purposefully restrained. The dark-blue shirt he wore was of fine weave, paired with a black high-collared coat adorned with subtle onyx-thread embroidery along the cuffs and lapels. It was noblewear designed not for spectacle, but for control—elegance sharpened into authority.
Before him rested a blue ornament box, its surface engraved with delicate, curling patterns—a personal item, often used to store accessories of importance. Kaisel opened it.
Inside lay a gold-rimmed spectacle, fine and minimalist in design. A slender golden chain was attached to its ends—not encrusted with jewels, but crafted to rest gently around the neck, a mark of understated nobility.
He walked over to the mirror and gently placed the spectacle on his face. Through the lenses, his ruby-red eyes gleamed—sharp, calculating—partially veiled by strands of jet-black hair that brushed just above his shoulders. The delicate gold chains draped from either side, linking behind his neck with effortless grace.
He studied his reflection in silence.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint, knowing smile.
Outside the manor, the knights stood at attention beside their horses, a silent wall of steel and discipline. Each wore a suit of platinum-colored armor, polished to a mirror sheen. Swords hung at their hips, and their presence was formidable—composed, elite, and prepared.
Among them stood Ezra, clad in full armor like the rest, but marked by a dark cape that fell over one shoulder—a symbol of his rank and command.
The Crest of Ravengard was engraved on their shoulder plates—a raven with piercing eyes, wings partially spread above crossed swords. The emblem needed no words; it was a silent vow of loyalty, discipline, and shadow-bound steel.
Inside the manor, the air was still. Servants stood in two lines along the marbled hall, from the grand staircase to the main doors, their hands folded neatly before them. Their expressions were neutral, trained, and alert—accustomed to formality.
At the entrance, just a few steps ahead of the final row, two male attendants waited at either side of the great doors, hands resting on the bronze handles, ready to open them at a single command.
Then, from the staircase, Kaisel descended in his full formal attire. His gold-rimmed spectacle rested neatly on his face, the slender chain glinting faintly as it traced behind his neck. Draped across his shoulders was a black fur mantle, thick and imposing, from which flowed a deep crimson cape seamlessly integrated into the collar. The fabric trailed behind him with dignified weight, etched with faint patterns that shimmered briefly under the light. The high-collared black coat, trimmed in subtle onyx embroidery, sat over a dark-blue shirt of fine weave—each layer tailored with precision rather than opulence. Kaisel's very presence was silent authority made flesh.
Following him was Anton, clad in attire similar in structure, yet purposefully distinct. His charcoal-blue coat was shorter and cleaner in design, embroidered with geometric motifs in sapphire thread—a pattern of discipline rather than decoration. A modest silver cravat lay at his neck, and his bearing spoke not of a man who ruled, but of one honed beside a throne, molded by proximity to power. His cape, unlike Kaisel's, was absent—his silhouette narrower, sharper.
Behind them, Nerrisa descended with quiet grace. She wore a dark blue noble gown, refined but age-appropriate, with slender embroidery dancing along the hem and sleeves. A ribbon tied back her silver white hair, and her gaze was calm—poised with the practiced composure expected of a noble-born girl, yet softened by her youth.
Along the marble floor of the grand hall, servants and maids stood aligned in two perfect rows from the base of the staircase to the great doors. As the trio approached, they bowed their heads in silence—a formal gesture steeped in tradition. Among noble houses, it was custom: the household's silent farewell, acknowledging their lord's departure not with words, but stillness.
They walked the path toward the main entrance, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. As they neared the doors, the two male attendants stepped forward in unison, pulling the heavy panels open with smooth precision.
They were headed toward the Imperial Capital, summoned to witness the Crown Prince's Announcement Ceremony. Though the road ahead was long, each step carried quiet weight and intent.
The doors opened wide, and the morning light spilled into the hall as they crossed the threshold.
Outside, beneath the pale morning sky, stood a grand carriage befitting a high-ranking noble. Its body was a deep sapphire blue, with edges trimmed in polished silver that caught the light in elegant lines. The doors bore the engraved Crest of Ravengard, proud and unyielding, a raven poised above crossed blades. Dark velvet curtains framed the windows from within, and reinforced wheels with black iron rims lent the vehicle a weight that was as much symbolic as it was functional—regal and imposing, crafted for presence as much as travel.
Behind it, two smaller carriages stood ready, reserved for the accompanying attendants and supplies—efficient, understated, and arranged with noble precision.
The knights were already assembled. They stood mounted and steady, their platinum armor catching the early light, crests on their shoulders gleaming as their horses snorted softly in the cool air. Not a single movement broke their discipline—they were waiting.
Ezra stepped forward from the formation, his dark cape trailing faintly behind him as he approached the Duke.
"Shall we depart, my lord?" he asked, his voice steady.
Kaisel gave a single nod, calm and resolute.
A male servant stepped forward, bowing slightly as he pulled open the carriage door. Without a word, Kaisel entered, his movements smooth and unhurried. Anton followed closely behind, and Nerrisa stepped in last, her gloved hand briefly touching the edge of the frame before she disappeared into the velvet-draped interior. The door closed with a firm, final sound.
At the front, the coachman took the reins, giving them a subtle flick. The horses stirred to life, and the carriage rolled forward, its reinforced wheels gliding smoothly over the cobbled path. The knights on horseback moved in unison—two at the front, four flanking the sides, and two bringing up the rear, their formation a silent testament to the order of House Ravengard.
As the procession moved through the streets of the Duchy, the air filled with the steady rhythm of hooves striking stone and the low creak of harness and wheel. Citizens paused in their work, standing at the edges of road and behind market stalls to watch. Some bowed, others simply stared in reverent silence. The glint of armor, the imposing figure of the lead carriage, and the sight of the Ravengard crest etched on silver spoke louder than any herald could.
Inside the carriage, a hush hung between velvet curtains and polished wood. Kaisel sat with his back straight, gaze fixed on the passing sky beyond the window—its blue pale and unbothered, stretched endlessly above the mortal schemes below.
In a voice just above a whisper, he spoke:
"Empire..."
A faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
"The Duke of Ravengard is coming to visit."
To be continued.