"Are you sure we can leave the brats with that old crook?" Mr. FluGer asked.
Ms. Silvermine sighed. "We have no choice. He's the Dawn's head butler, after all. He intended to keep those brats under watch. Protesting would only invite conflict—something we lack the authority to instigate."
And just like that, Jareth took Alan, Emma, Gerral, Nora, Sylas, and Milla under his watch, serving as both a mentor and a sparring partner.
"I understand why Emma and Milla are here, but why is he here?" Sylas questioned, directing everyone's attention toward Gerral with a chin jab.
"You think you deserve to be here more than I do?" Gerral retorted.
Sylas straightened, chest puffed like a preening rooster. "I happened to be picked by Alan."
"Ahem," Jareth cleared his throat and silenced the group. He adjusted his cuffs, the fabric crisp against his wrists. "It was the young lady's idea. Now that everyone's here,"—his gaze swept over the group—"let us begin."
He paced before them like a lion. "Mana," he started. "Some think it's just for fueling spells. More power demands more reserves. Growing your mana pool equals growing your strength. True, but incomplete." A deliberate pause. "Infusion."
He let the word hang in the air.
"Channel your mana," he continued. "Into blade. Into bone. Sharpen steel. Harden flesh. Precision. Control. These are your weapons." He stopped, locking eyes with each student in turn.
"Master this, and victory is yours."
Jareth unsheathed his sword. "Watch closely," he instructed.
Blue light seeped into the steel, spreading until it glowed brighter than the sunlight.
"Grip your weapons. Feel the flow of your mana beneath flesh and bone—that river coursing through every mage's veins. Now, direct it into your blade."
The children obeyed. Alan and Sylas' blades bloomed on the first try. Nora's sword flickered to life seconds later, followed by Gerral's trembling trident. Emma's lips bled where she bit them, while Milla's arms shook, but finally, faint glows wavered on their weapons.
"Steady the flow," Jareth barked as weapons began rattling in unsteady grips. "Alan, strike your sword."
Alan swung. His sword collided with Jareth's. Sparks erupted. The children stood in awe—faces lit by the flash. Jareth stood still. Alan gritted his teeth.
"Good," Jareth said. "Strike only when your blade is ready." He shoved Alan back, followed by a swift strike that sent the boy stumbling backward.
"Partner up. Infuse your blade before striking."
While Sylas and Alan had grasped mana infusion rather quickly, the others proved far more challenging. The moment they diverted focus to swinging their weapons, their concentration fractured—the glowing mana flickering out like snuffed candles.
"Great power demands great will." Jareth's voice cut through their struggles. "The will to act. The will to control. The will to be. Those without a will are slaves to their own inadequacy. Pour your resolve into your mana. Command it. Own it."
Days passed swiftly. Soon, Jareth's presence slowly became a part of the children's academic life, and they became part of his daily routine.
Jareth's words echoed into their mind like a hero's calling. "Your existence—your curse, your gift, your name—is yours. The unchangeable deserves no hate. The unreachable no envy. The path of magic is endless. Its peak belongs to none. Shape your own fate; do not walk after shadows."
His gaze cut into each child. "Nora—does light magic bind you to the Dawn? Emma—does spellcraft define your worth? Gerral—does nobility justify your magic? Magic cares nothing for privileges. It elevates those who persist and devours those who falter."
His words left no room for comfort. No room for excuses. Only truth.
And truth was never just about facts or bloodlines; it was about perspective—a simple change in thought.
—
None of the students captured Jareth's attention more than Emma. Her curse intrigued him. Not just from the duty of a mentor but from a curiosity he hid well. Where others saw limitation, he saw possibility. Its dark essence hinted at a power that defied magical norms. He must unravel its secrets.
Beyond regular training, Jareth pushed Emma to bind her mana threads with the servants. He wanted to test the strength of her magic, how long the threads would hold, and the distance she had to be from the target. He observed and adjusted her training accordingly.
To Emma, Jareth was both a guide and a shield. A mentor she grew to trust because her curse was not a burden to him; it was a mystery he was determined to unravel. Her touch didn't frighten him, and her blood didn't shun him away. Instead, it drew him closer.
Jareth believed that the secret to her magic lay in her blood, though the exact nature of that secret remained a mystery to both of them. He took her blood and promised to reveal a surprise.
One particularly cold day, Jareth led Emma to a secluded area outside the academy's wall. A group of mages awaited them. Their clothes did little against the cold. Their faces bore the red marks of the biting chill, but it seemed to be the least of their problems. They were all volunteers, eager to help Emma train—or so Jareth had told her.
"Today, we're going to push your limits, Emma," Jareth announced. "Each of them possesses a different attribute. Your task is to link with them in quick succession. Are you ready?"
Emma nodded quietly.
The first mage, a tall, imposing figure with a fierce grin, stepped forward. "I'm a fire mage," he declared confidently. "My mana sphere is infused with flames. Let's see if you can handle the heat."
Emma focused. Heat flared in her veins as she linked to his mana. It surged like molten lava.
"Good. Now, let's see if you can control it. Cast a fireball, Emma."
Emma raised her hand. Flames burst forth, and the fireball struck the trees. A flicker of pride crossed her face. This must be how Alan felt, she thought.
One by one, Emma linked to each mage. Fire to Wind. Wind to Water. Water to Earth. Jareth watched closely, noting down everything he observed.
"Very good. You're improving. But let's take it further. Link with the healer next. Then try casting a healing spell."
The healer stepped forward. Emma linked with her soothing flow. It was gentle and warm. Emma tried to harness it, but she strained. A glob of light erupted, bright but hollow.
Jareth frowned. "Interesting," he muttered. "It seems you can control the target's attribute but not her skills."
"What does that mean?" Emma asked with disappointment.
Jareth crossed his arms, thinking. "You can cast fireballs or wind gusts because they're basic spells. But healing magic requires more knowledge and practice. It's not just mana."
Emma's face fell. "So, can I learn to heal?"
"That is a good question—one we'll have to find out. Healing belongs to life elements like water, wood, or light. Dark, fire, earth, and wind are destructive elements. With your dark attribute, if you manage to learn healing magic, it would be…remarkable."
Emma nodded, casting no doubt at Jareth's words.
"Now, how about linking to all of them at once?" Jareth suggested.
Emma's eyes widened. "But I can only maintain one link."
Jareth smiled and took out a crimson vial. He shook it. Emma could instinctively feel it—it was her own blood.
"This vial was taken three weeks ago and left in the open. It should've coagulated within hours and decomposed long ago. Yet, for three weeks, it remains perfectly preserved."
Jareth opened the vial and sprayed the blood onto the volunteers. "Try to link to them, but focus on the blood instead."
Emma nodded. She closed her eyes, and her fingers tickled. She can feel it. She can see it in the back of her mind. Her blood smeared onto the volunteers, reaching out, gasping, yearning for her. She released her threat; it split and snapped onto the volunteers, locking hands with her, yarning, blood smeared on their bodies.
An overwhelmingly warm rush surged into her body—too sudden, too much. Her body convulsed, unable to handle the rush—GLURSH-SPLASH! Drip-drip-drip…
Sweat, bile, and something else came rushing out uncontrollably. Emma fell to her knees; every bit of her flesh screamed and trembled. The links disconnected. Yet, there was no pain. It was something else that she felt—something indescribable and overwhelmingly pleasing. She giggled.
Jareth took notes, saying nothing. Emma's gaze said everything—he'd become more than just a part of her academic life.
That night, Jareth handed a report to a servant who quickly left the city despite the biting wind and swirling snow.
In that report, one question was left unanswered: What if the blood was to be ingested?