The bedroom was quiet in the way deep places are quiet, where sound feels too small to exist. A large black bed dominated the room, its sheets smooth and untouched. Black walls were carved with flowing patterns of nature, illuminated by the faint glow of white crystal lamps resting on the nightstands. Heavy black curtains sealed the windows, letting only a thin line of moonlight slip through.
Inside the bathroom, steam drifted lazily. Eiden leaned over the counter, palms braced against the cool stone. Water ran steadily from the faucet, pooling around his fingers before spiraling down the drain. His white hair hung wet and loose, strands clinging to his face and neck. His frame—broad shoulders, defined arms, the quiet strength of someone carved by centuries—glistened under the dim light, droplets sliding down his skin like beads of glass.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Not with vanity or confusion, but with distance, as if looking at someone he used to know.
Behind him, on a black ottoman, his belongings rested neatly: the folded robe, the cloak, his grimoire, the pair of metal gloves, and the three blades that had finally returned to him. Pieces of himself, restored.
Soft footsteps sounded at the door. He didn't turn, but he saw her reflection. Selyndra leaned against the doorframe, her golden hair cascading over the shoulder of a flowing white nightgown. Her eyes traced him slowly.
"Do you need something?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
As he shifted, a subtle, muted flap echoed in the quiet air—unmistakable. Selyndra's gaze flicked up, attentive but composed. "No," she said gently. "Just wanted to check on you."
Eiden pulled a towel from a drawer and began drying his hair with slow, steady motions. Selyndra waited, her voice lowering. "You haven't seen your people in fourteen decades. I thought you'd be downstairs with the clan members. Talking. Sharing." She hesitated. "And... we still need to visit Morvath."
Eiden wrapped the towel around his waist and exhaled a long sigh. "I know. But I still need to discuss many things with my parents. In this clan, when a child surpasses the Chief, they are chosen to lead. With the power I have now... they will likely offer me the position."
His eyes were half-lit. "If that happens, I will be the new leader. But I still have enemies to eliminate and a village to protect. I can't do all of that at once while I'm away. It feels impossible."
"Shouldn't you be happy?" Selyndra asked. "To be offered that position?"
"I am," Eiden said. "But the weight of it—"
The door flew open. "Eiden!" Vaelus burst in, breathless and wide-eyed. "Downstairs—living room. Hurry." He didn't wait for questions before sprinting back down the hall.
Selyndra's expression hardened. She tapped her nightgown; it shimmered, shifting into her white dress and boots as her blade materialized in her hand. "Whatever it is, I don't like it."
Downstairs, Eiden entered the living room to find his family and friends gathered around a small black table. On it lay a grimoire—white, still, and radiating a faint, unfamiliar pulse.
Eiden froze. "Why is his grimoire here?"
Yami spoke solemnly. "Something struck the ground from the sky while we were in the town. When the smoke cleared, we found this. Iris recognized it."
Iris swallowed hard. "That belongs to Seraphel. The Celestial of Creations."
Eiden picked up the book. It was cold—too cold. Inside, he found a single page and a folded letter. He unfolded the paper and read the final words of a dying Celestial aloud to the room.
The letter revealed the truth: The Celestials had been slaughtered by Civilar. Seraphel had sent his grimoire to Eiden, revealing that the book could create anything—life, worlds, timelines—but he had hidden this from Civilar to keep the power out of his hands. He urged Eiden to use the magic to avenge them and end Civilar's reign of terror.
The room fell into a heavy silence. "So they're all dead," Yami said softly.
"Why didn't he just erase Civilar from existence?" Vaelus asked.
"Mind-reading," Eiden explained. "Civilar would have sensed the intent and killed him before the spell could form. And besides, rewriting reality has consequences. We might never have been born. I won't take the easy way."
Vaelus groaned and stomped off to his room, a dramatic slam echoing through the castle. Selyndra and Iris soon followed, leaving Eiden with his parents.
"Eiden," Yami said, standing up. "I want to offer you my position as Chief of the Whitecrest Clan."
The white grimoire slipped from Eiden's hand, thudding against the floor. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." Yami raised his palm, and a black hair ribbon materialized, humming with immense mana. "This ribbon grants the wearer unlimited mana. You will never exhaust yourself again. Take it."
Eiden reached out with trembling hands. "I now form a bond with you," he whispered.
The ribbon ignited. A surge of brilliant white light wrapped around Eiden, sinking into his chest. He felt his mana core evolve, expanding until his very soul felt different. His three swords vibrated in unison, radiating a density of power that felt impossible.
Sienna stepped forward, beaming. She took the ribbon and tied it into his hair, securing it with a subtle, unbreakable magical barrier. "You look like a handsome warrior," she whispered, squishing his cheeks gently before joining Yami to head to bed.
Eiden remained alone in the quiet room. He picked up the white grimoire and set it beside his own. As he placed the white book onto the final page of his black grimoire, the white pages began to evaporate, absorbed into his own. A new section formed: Creation Magic.
A new awakening stirred deep within him. He leaned his head back, staring at the fire, grappling with the impossible riddle: How can I leave the village and still keep it protected?
Then, the answer struck him. His eyes snapped open, glowing with a sudden, brilliant clarity. He sat upright, staring at his hands as the idea took hold.
"Creation Magic—"