Morning light filtered through the translucent curtains of Germaine's room, tinting everything with a faint gold. She barely noticed. Her desk was a battlefield of notes—scribbled observations, copied glyphs, drawn diagrams of the seal she had broken the night before. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and the back of her mind hummed with the same question she had been asking since dawn: What exactly had she awakened?
The heirloom book lay open at the center of the desk, looking far too innocent for something that pulsed with a quiet, unsettling power. Its pages no longer moved on their own. The eerie glow that once flickered beneath the inscriptions had faded, replaced with a still, dormant silence. If she hadn't lived through the night herself, she might have doubted anything had happened at all.
But she felt it.
Deep inside her chest, behind her ribs, something new stirred. Something warm… but heavy, like a caged flame struggling to breathe.
Germaine pressed a hand against her sternum, half-expecting to feel heat through her skin. "It's real," she whispered, though the whisper did nothing to calm her pounding heart. "I actually awakened something."
It still felt unreal to say. After seven years of being powerless, seven years of being the girl everyone whispered about—Germaine Blade, the heiress with no spark, the disgrace of a powerful lineage—those words felt like trespassing in a world she had been denied for so long.
She took a slow breath, her hands trembling. "Okay… think. What did the book do?"
Her eyes drifted back to the page. The symbols were in a language she didn't recognize, yet she could make out the structure—old, refined, layered with meaning. Each glyph looked like it was carved into the paper rather than inked, as though the book had been etched into existence rather than written.
As she leaned closer, a faint warmth drifted up from the surface, brushing her cheeks like a living breath.
She froze.
"...Hello?" She knew how ridiculous that sounded, but after everything she had seen last night, she wasn't entirely convinced the book couldn't answer.
It didn't—but the warmth intensified.
Germaine's heart skipped. "Fine, don't talk. But I need answers."
She reached out to touch the page.
The instant her fingers brushed the ink, a ripple of mana pulsed outward—subtle yet undeniable. Her breath hitched. The mana didn't flare like normal spell formations. It didn't spark or burn or vibrate. Instead, it slid into her fingertips like water, flowed up her arm, and seeped into her chest.
Her mana core—whatever state it was currently in—responded.
A quiet thrum echoed inside her body. Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just… awakening.
But another feeling followed: a faint echo, as if something—or someone—had briefly touched her mind. A whisper with no voice. A message without sound.
She jerked back from the book with a startled gasp. "What—what was that?!"
The book snapped shut on its own.
Germaine stared at it, stunned into silence. Her heartbeat hammered like a drum. Nothing moved. Nothing else happened. But she could sense something now—like an eye had opened somewhere deep within her. As though the book had judged her, scanned her, and then… accepted her.
A shiver, cold and sharp, ran down her spine.
"Okay," she breathed shakily. "So the book is alive. Or cursed. Or both."
This was far beyond the mana theory she had studied growing up. Books weren't supposed to bind to their readers. They weren't supposed to connect.
That was relic behavior.
Ancient relic behavior.
Germaine's fingers twitched as she reached for her notebook, quickly jotting down everything she felt. The moment she began writing, she noticed erratic fluctuations in her mana—small at first, barely noticeable, but undeniably present.
Her core was changing.
Transforming.
The thought made her stomach twist with both fear and a strange, reckless excitement. She didn't know the stages of mana awakening firsthand, but even she understood that mana didn't simply alter itself overnight. It required stimuli—training, cultivation techniques, exposure to natural mana fields. Not a single interaction with an heirloom book.
Something about this wasn't normal. And if she wasn't careful…
A sharp knock on the door tore her from her thoughts. "Germaine? Breakfast is ready."
Her sister's voice—Aurelia, polite and sweet on the surface but always watching her with that tinge of pity. Germaine flinched. She wasn't ready to face anyone, not with her mana still flickering like an unstable flame inside her.
"Coming!" she called back, forcing her voice not to shake.
She shoved the book into her drawer and hid her notes under a fabric cover. The moment she stepped into the hallway, the familiar weight of the Blade estate pressed onto her. High ceilings, ornate murals, shimmering mana crystals embedded in the walls—everything screamed power, lineage, and expectations she had never met.
Germaine descended the staircase quietly, keeping her posture straight despite the unease swirling in her chest.
Her parents were already seated, elegantly dressed, sipping tea as though their lives weren't dripping with importance. Her father's mana radiated calmly, almost lazily, as though he struggled to suppress his immense strength. Her mother's aura was sharper, like ice hidden under silk.
They both looked up at her.
"Morning," she murmured, sliding into her seat.
Her mother's lips curved in a polite smile. "You're awake early today."
Germaine held back a grimace. 'If you knew I didn't sleep at all…'
Her father nodded, but his eyes sharpened. "Your mana is… fluctuating."
Germaine stiffened.
She fought to keep her expression neutral. "Probably because I didn't sleep well."
Her father hummed thoughtfully, as though evaluating her lie. "If there is anything you wish to tell us, now would be a good time."
"No," she answered too quickly. "Everything is normal."
A pause.
Her mother exchanged a look with her father—one that always made Germaine feel like a puzzle they couldn't solve. "Very well," her mother said softly. "But keep us informed if anything changes."
Germaine forced a nod.
As breakfast continued, she found herself staring into her cup, unable to forget the book's whisper or the way her mana now hummed like a living creature. She felt it even now, pulsing quietly beneath her skin—not painful, not alarming, but undeniably alive.
Something had begun.
Something irreversible.
And the world—her family—everyone around her had no idea.
By the time she returned to her room, her nerves were frayed, her mind racing. She locked the door behind her and immediately reached for the drawer.
Before she could touch the handle, the book moved.
Just slightly.
As though acknowledging her presence.
Germaine's breath caught in her throat. "You're awake again."
The book didn't glow, didn't shake, didn't open. But the air around it shifted, thick with mana so dense it felt ancient.
Germaine stepped closer, her fingers trembling as she lifted the cover.
The book's surface was warm—warmer than before.
A single line of new text had appeared on the cover, carved in mana itself:
"Chosen Vessel."
Her pulse stopped.
"What… what does that mean?"
The ink shimmered faintly, and for a second, she felt that same wordless whisper brush against her consciousness.
The book wasn't done with her.
It hadn't even begun.