The room was quiet.
Not peaceful—just empty.
A storage room at the back of an old house, sealed away like something forgotten. No window. No warmth. The single bulb above had long since died, leaving only the pale breath of winter to fill the space.
Cold pressed through the concrete floor and into his bones.
He lay curled against it, his body thin beneath torn shorts and a faded T-shirt, useless against the season. The fabric hung loose on him, stiff with dirt, offering no protection from the frost creeping along the walls.
This was where they kept him.
Hunger no longer screamed.
That had ended days ago.
Now there was only a hollow, aching quiet inside him—his body conserving what little it had left.
Every breath scraped his throat raw. His lips were split, dry, unmoving.
Time meant nothing here.
Morning and night were the same when the lights never turned on and the door never opened.
He tried to move.
His arm trembled, lifted no more than an inch—then dropped back to the floor.
Still useless.
The thought came automatically, worn smooth from repetition. He did not fight it. Fighting required strength.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling. A single crack ran through it, crooked and thin. He had memorized its shape long ago. When there was nothing else, he traced it in his mind.
Once, he had dreamed of things bigger than this room.
Not power.
Not wealth.
Just to be remembered.
To prove that he had existed.
Books had been his escape. Numbers. Logic. Ideas that obeyed rules when people did not. Even when his body weakened, his mind had refused to dull.
If I just live long enough…
Footsteps passed outside the door.
They did not stop.
They never did.
Something heavy settled in his chest—not fear, not anger.
Certainty.
No one was coming.
The edges of his vision darkened. The ceiling blurred, the crack dissolving into shadow.
Then—
Warmth.
Not real warmth. A memory of it.
A voice reached him, gentle and clear, untouched by time.
"Don't give up on your dreams".
His mother's voice.
For a moment, the cold loosened its grip. He was younger—before the accident, before the funerals, before this house had become a cage. Her hand rested against his head, steady and sure.
His lips twitched.
"I tried," he thought
His chest rose once.
Then fell.
In a forgotten room, in the heart of winter, in a house where he had never truly belonged—
he died.
His final thought was not anger.
Not regret.
Only a quiet, unfinished wish:
"If there is another life… let me finish what I started."
The thought did not fade.
There was no darkness to swallow it.
No sleep.
No relief.
Something held it—suspended, stripped of weight and direction.
The idea of a body vanished.
The idea of here vanished.
And what remained was awareness, stretched thin—
There was no body.
No ground.
No sky.
And then—
It was there.
Not appearing.
Not descending.
Simply existing.
The space around it twisted, folding inward as if reality itself struggled to acknowledge its presence. Countless eyes opened at once—not staring, not blinking—knowing. Each one reflected a truth he had never spoken aloud.
There were wings.
Too many.
Layered, fractured, impossible.
They did not flap.
They did not move.
Yet the air trembled.
His thoughts collapsed under their gaze. Not fear. Fear was small. This was the certainty that nothing about him was hidden. Every lie, every weakness, every unfinished thought laid bare in an instant.
He could not scream.
He could not kneel.
There was nowhere to flee.
The being did not ask who he was.
It already knew.
A meaning struck his existence directly, heavier than sound.
"Unfinished."
The eyes did not blink.
Then
"Return."
The gaze withdrew.
Not by leaving, but by no longer observing.
Everything shattered.
Light exploded across his awareness—fractured, blinding. Sensations rushed in all at once, overwhelming and foreign. Sound without meaning. Pressure. Heat.
Then
Warmth.
Real warmth.
Not memory.
Not illusion.
Something solid held him, steady and close. He tried to understand it, but his thoughts slipped apart, drowning beneath sensation.
A sharp cry tore from his throat.
"Mine."
The world snapped into focus.
His vision cleared just enough to see a woman above him, her face pale and strained, yet filled with something he did not recognize at first.
Relief.
She was holding him tightly, her arms warm, trembling.
Beside her, two children leaned in—one older, one younger—watching him with wide, innocent eyes.
"Is he okay?" one of them asked, voice small and worried.
The woman laughed softly, breathless, tears spilling freely as she pulled him closer.
"Yes," she said. "He's okay."
Her heartbeat echoed against his ear.
And for the first time
the world did not feel cold.
Time moved forward.
Not in years that he understood, but in moments—voices, pages turning, footsteps echoing through long halls. The warmth remained. It followed him into quiet rooms lined with books, into lessons spoken patiently, into a life that no longer felt like a cage.
I've just finished my studies.
I'm already three years and eight months old now.
The tutors dismissed me for the day, though their expressions still carried that familiar mix of confusion and quiet disbelief. I came out of the study room, my small footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floors of the castle.
I couldn't help but wonder why nothing had changed.
Other children manifested their magic early some as young as two. A flicker of flame, a breeze responding to a cry, water trembling at their fingertips. By now, most had at least something.
I had nothing.
No element. No resonance. No response.
The wizards called it delayed awakening.
The tutors called it unusual.
The priests… avoided answers.
Silence was their safest conclusion.
I understood letters before I could properly pronounce them. By the time my siblings had first learned to read at seven, I was already correcting my tutors at three. Magic theory, elemental ratios, mana flow diagrams, I didn't memorize them.
I understood them.
Logic. Structure.
Cause and effect.
Magic obeyed rules.
People rarely did.
Sword forms fascinated me even more.
"Oh i reached to the indoor training ground"
From the side of training ground, I watched the knights train my elder brother. Their footwork, measured, precise. The way weight shifted before a strike. How breath aligned with movement.
I tried to copy them.
My body lagged behind my mind. My legs tangled. Balance slipped. I fell hard on the ground.
It hurt, but not enough to cry.
What surprised me was the sound of hurried footsteps.
"Llian!"
I looked up.
My eldest sister was already running toward me, her expression sharp with fear. The maids followed close behind, skirts lifted, voices calling out all at once.
"Are you hurt?" "Did you fall?" "Becareful!"
Hands checked my arms, my legs, my head. Too many hands. Too much concern.
I blinked.
Something tight pressed against my chest.
Warmth.
It felt… strange.
Unfamiliar.
My vision blurred, and only then did I realize my eyes were wet.
This was normal, I knew that. Children fell. Families worried. It was nothing special.
And yet
Why did it feel like something I had lost long ago?
Then my sister asked, "Is it hurting that much?" She thought I was tearing up because of the fall.
But these were tears of joy.
"No, big sis. It's nothing," I replied. "I'm a lot stronger than you and big brother."
I "giggled".
Sometimes, I felt it clearly, that quiet certainty that I had lived once before. Not here. Not in this body. Somewhere colder. Somewhere darker.
A life that had ended unfinished.
A life where no one had come running.
"Llian," my maid called gently. "It's time for lunch."
I let them help me up.
After the maid called me and my sister for lunch, we headed toward the dining hall.
Today was different.
Father would be joining us.
The corridors of House Nocturne were wide and alive with movement, built more for grand processions than comfort. Maids and servants passed us in orderly lines, each step measured and practiced. Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, painting the stone floors in hues of gold and blue as we walked.
When we reached the dining hall, the doors opened with a soft echo.
Father and Mother were already there, waiting.
I greeted Father with proper respect, bowing my head. His gaze shifted toward me at once.
"Why are you late?" he asked.
"I was finishing my tutoring," I answered.
"...Well honestly, I was wondering around near the training hall"!!
He studied me for a brief moment, then nodded.
"Very well. Sit."
The hall was filled with familiar sounds, the clinking of cutlery, quiet conversation, and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread and seasoned meat. The long table at the center of the room was already occupied.
My siblings were there.
At one end sat my eldest sister, Lunaphelle Veritis Nocturne, her posture graceful and composed. She carried herself with a natural elegance, watching the room with calm, observant eyes.
Beside her was my elder brother, Arcture Veritis Nocturne, the second son of House Nocturne. He sat upright even while seated, speaking quietly with one of the knights standing behind him. His presence was firm and confident, fitting for someone exceptional in combat, renowned for mastering the fusion of his elemental abilities.
And then there was me.
The youngest—and last—child of House Nocturne.
Aurelion Veritis Nocturne.
Laughter rose briefly from the table as my siblings spoke about something trivial, their voices light and unburdened.
At the head of the table sat my father.
Aurelius Valerinzovax Nocturne.
Even seated, his presence filled the hall. Broad shoulders framed by a silver-trimmed black uniform, his sharp eyes carried the weight of command. The sigil of House Nocturne, "the Azure Flame" rested proudly upon his chest.
The meal began.
Conversation resumed, light at first. Reports from the border. A brief mention of patrol rotations. Trade caravans that had arrived safely this season.
I listened quietly, while my father spoke with his councellor
House Nocturne guarded the eastern approach to Elynder Varon.
House Verdan held the southern routes, their knights renowned for discipline and unity.
And House Caethorn
The Southern East hield.
Three great houses.
Three walls.
Together, they protected the capital from threats that never reached its streets.
That was why the appraisal ceremony would be held here.
Eryndralis was not just a duchy.
It is a fortress.
Father set his cup down, his voice steady.
"The other two houses will be present at the ceremony," he said. "I will attend personally. I believe you and the heir of House Verdan will be appraised on the same day. Prepare yourself."
His tone was neither gentle nor commanding, it was expectation.
"Yes, Father," I replied.
As servants refilled the cups, my sister leaned closer to me.
"You'll do fine," big sis Luna whispered softly. "No matter what the ceremony says."
I looked down at my hands.
Three months.
Three months until the world decided what I was allowed to be.
If magic truly reflected the soul
Then why did mine remain silent?