The room was too quiet.
Aria sat on a velvet-backed chair, the kind that looked soft but felt like it judged you. The hall stretched long before her, all cold marble and stained glass, casting slivers of red and blue across the floor like a battlefield frozen in light.
On either side of her, noble lords whispered like hissing snakes. She didn't need to hear the words to know the tone. Panic. Suspicion. Fear wrapped in silk.
Across the room, her father—Lord Darien Valemir—stood at the dais beside High Magister Elric. The old man's beard looked like it belonged in a library, not a courtroom. He stared at her like he was reading a puzzle someone slipped between the pages of a forbidden tome.
"Your daughter," the Magister began, voice thick with disbelief, "holds more latent mana than any recorded noble in the past two centuries."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Aria tilted her head. Two centuries? That's not ominous at all.
She remained silent. Dignified. Passive. Inside, her thoughts whirled like a storm caught behind glass. She hadn't meant to release her magic. It just happened. Again. Her second outburst in under a week.
They were going to lock her away. She could see it in their eyes—the math of power and risk scribbled behind every gaze.
"She is… unstable," said one woman, wearing more jewelry than sense. "This is how calamities are born."
"She's a child," another retorted. "Barely thirteen. Her power needs to be guided."
"She needs to be bound."
Lord Darien raised a hand. Silence returned like a spell had been cast. "Enough. She is my blood. She will be trained, not caged."
Aria's nails dug into her palm. The worst part? He thought he was being merciful.
Magister Elric's eyes flicked to her again. "My lord, she will need a private tutor. One who can handle mana of this magnitude. There is only one candidate."
A beat.
"Riven."
That name dropped like a blade onto stone.
She felt it. A reaction in the air. Her father's mouth tightened. A few nobles even made the sign against misfortune.
"He's… unorthodox," her father said carefully. "His methods—"
"—Are effective," Elric cut in.
Riven. The name churned in her stomach. It wasn't the first time she'd heard it, but it carried the weight of an unspoken danger. Whispers told of a reclusive mage who lived on the edge of society—rumored to wield dangerous magic, feared by even the most powerful houses.
Her father didn't meet her eyes.
Then, Lord Malek stepped forward, his cloak sweeping the stone floor, a sharp contrast to the tense atmosphere. He was tall, with dark eyes that missed nothing. His presence in the room was unmistakable. Even his casual stance radiated authority.
"Perhaps a more… diplomatic approach could be taken," Malek suggested, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. His eyes met Aria's with that familiar, almost predatory glint. He always had a way of making everything feel like a test.
Lord Darien did not look at him. "This isn't about diplomacy, Malek. This is about survival."
"I was merely suggesting," Malek said with a slight bow, "that perhaps we could have a second opinion on this matter. Before sending her off to someone like Riven."
"Enough," her father said, a rare flash of irritation in his voice. "The decision is final."
Malek paused, then smiled, his expression unreadable. "As you wish, my lord."
That night, Aria stood in the gardens again. Same place. Different girl. She wasn't crying this time.
Just… thinking.
Stars glinted above like curious eyes. A faint wind stirred the petals of moon-roses. She clenched her fists.
I don't belong here.
She had known it before. Felt it every time someone bowed too deeply or avoided her gaze. But now—now—it was carved into stone.
She wasn't meant to be a puppet. A daughter to be trained, leashed, or offered like tribute to strange tutors with dark reputations.
She was more than this.
Behind her, the tall iron gates creaked open.
Footsteps. Calm. Heavy. Deliberate.
She turned.
A man approached. Cloaked in black, with eyes like still water—deep and unreadable.
"You're her," he said. "The girl who shouldn't exist."
She raised her chin. "And you're the tutor they scraped out of a nightmare?"
He smirked, but there was no warmth in it. "I'll make you strong enough to survive what's coming. But you won't like me."
"I already don't."
"Good," he said. "You'll live longer that way."