"Welcome, young men and women, to the awarding of grimoires!"
An old, rasped voice rolled through the ancient grimoire tower, coarse and commanding enough to cut through the restless chatter below. It swallowed the echoes of laughter, smothered the scrape of shoes against stone, and even drowned out the heavy doors as they shut with a dull, reverberating thud.
Xierra barely listened. Her attention drifted upward, drawn instead to the towering walls lined with books—countless grimoires stacked with reverent care and careless abandon alike.
Shelves climbed endlessly toward the ceiling, warped with age, their wooden frames entwined with creeping vines that softened the stone's severity. Dust lingered in the air, suspended like breath held too long. The grimoires came in every imaginable form. Some were thick and imposing, others slim and unassuming. Their covers ranged from muted earth tones to deep jewel hues, spines cracked with use or pristine with neglect. The sight stole the air from her lungs.
If this place were a library, she thought distantly, I'd never want to leave.
There were no libraries near Hage. None in the neighboring villages, either. Just this tower—reserved for a single day, a single moment in each person's life.
I wonder which one will be mine.
"I wish you faith, hope, and love," the tower master's voice croaked, the last words Xierra caught before her thoughts drifted again.
A collective movement rippled through the crowd as heads tilted upward. From behind a set of heavy curtains above, an elderly man stepped into view, framed by rugged stone and towering shelves.
His long, hoary beard and mustache flowed down his chest, and the pointed hat perched atop his head made his role unmistakable.
"I am the master of this grimoire tower," Drouot announced, punctuating his introduction with a wheezing chuckle. "We haven't had a Wizard King from this area, nor one who achieved greatness through the Magic Knights..."
Despite his measured cadence and surprising steadiness for someone of his age, Xierra felt her focus slipping. His words passed over her like wind through tall grass—present, but barely grasped.
She sighed quietly. Beside her, Yuno blinked, amber eyes shifting toward her at the sound. "Are you okay?" he asked under his breath.
Xierra didn't answer. Because before she could, other voices reached her ears—low, sharp, uninvited.
"Hey. Those orphans are from the church, right?"
"No wonder they look so dirty."
"Shabby fits better."
The words twisted together, sinking beneath her skin before she could stop them. They were spoken without care, without shame—louder than the tower master's speech, clearer than she wanted them to be.
"Do they even have to give them grimoires?"
"But one of those boys is kind of hot..."
"Please. The girl beside him looks way better."
"You can't even compare them."
Xierra's chest tightened. The remarks didn't feel like compliments. They weren't praises. They were knives dressed up as observations, dull and careless, yet cutting all the same. Heat crept up her neck as embarrassment tangled with something sharper—something angry.
Why am I reacting like this?
Just moments ago, she'd been light, almost giddy with anticipation. Now, even the thought of smiling felt exhausting. She knew better. She knew better than to let strangers' words get to her.
She shouldn't care. She shouldn't listen. She shouldn't—
"Pathetic, aren't they?"
Stop it.
"They think they'll join the Magic Knights?"
Shut up.
"Only nobles ever make it."
That's not true.
The voice inside her head didn't feel like her own. Yet it echoed everything she feared, everything she refused to admit out loud.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, knuckles paling as irritation simmered dangerously close to fury. The words kept coming—cold, empty, stripped of kindness. There was no warmth in them. No humanity.
She tugged at the hems of her sleeves instead, grounding herself in the familiar texture, forcing her patience to hold.
Yuno noticed. His gaze swept the crowd—faces dressed in finer cloth, eyes sharp with judgment—before returning to her. Worry settled plainly in his expression. She didn't look fine.
Before she could protest, his hand lifted and came to rest atop her head.
The touch was gentle. Familiar.
It was a small thing—something she could so easily overlook—but the warmth of his palm eased the tightness in her chest, slowed the frantic beat beneath her ribs. He didn't need to say anything. He never did.
Even now, he knew.
"...Yuno—"
"Ignore them," he said quietly, his attention split between the tower master above and the girl beside him.
How could he be so unaffected? So untouched by the noise, the cruelty? He stood there, calm and composed, as if the words slid off him without leaving a mark.
No—indifferent wasn't right. He looked peaceful. He simply didn't let others define him. Praise or scorn—it all passed by him the same way. What kind of confidence did it take to live like that?
Her frown deepened, and of course, he noticed. This time, his words shifted.
"What they say is just opinions," Yuno said, lifting his gaze toward the endless rows of grimoires above. "You are you. And I am me. Their words won't change what we want—or what we can become."
He looked back at her then, offering a smile meant for moments like this—quiet, rare, and meant only for her.
"Just like what you said yesterday."
Xierra froze.
Her eyes widened, thoughts scrambling over one another. He'd remembered. He'd listened. And now, he was repeating her words back to her.
She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or stare in disbelief. Instead, she coughed lightly and laughed, soft and breathless, earning him a confused look.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh—nothing."
Her smile lingered, genuine this time, as she stifled another quiet giggle. The end of the world might not be near, but Yuno speaking this much certainly felt historic.
She turned her attention back to the tower master, posture steady once more. Beside her, Yuno did the same. Yet the familiar flutter in his chest returned all the same, sparked by words he'd heard countless times before—now carrying new weight.
"...Thank you, Yuno."
The words lingered between them longer than expected.
Xierra let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders loosening as the tight coil in her chest finally eased.
The noise of the tower crept back into focus—the low murmur of the crowd, the faint scrape of shoes against ancient stone—but it all felt distant, muted by the quiet space Yuno had carved out for her with nothing more than a few words.
She glanced up at him. Yuno had already returned his attention forward, posture straight, expression composed as ever. Yet the warmth from his hand still lingered, an invisible reassurance pressed gently into her thoughts. It steadied her more than she wanted to admit.
Her fingers curled around the fabric of her sleeves, grounding herself.
It was enough. For now.
Above them, the tower master's voice rose once more, echoing through the vast chamber as the moment finally arrived.
"Let us begin the rite you have all gathered here for," Drouot declared, his tone carrying an aged gravity that silenced the remaining chatter.
The air shifted.
Grimoires of diverse shapes and sizes descended from the highest reaches of the tower, slipping free from their resting places along the towering shelves.
One by one, they floated downward, bathed in the sunlight pouring through the open ceiling. Colors bled into one another—emerald, sapphire, crimson, gold—casting fractured rainbows across the stone floor and the wide-eyed faces below.
Xierra's breath caught.
She hadn't expected it to be like this.
Each grimoire moved with purpose, guided by unseen threads of mana, drifting toward the hands they were meant to find. The moment leather met skin, something unseen sparked—a quiet beginning to a path still unwritten. Among the spectacle, their covers marked with three-leaf clovers drew murmurs from the crowd, their presence impossible to ignore.
Her gaze followed the faint trails of magic left in the grimoires' wake. Each glow carried a different rhythm, a different temperament. Some pulsed softly, others flared with confidence, and a few shimmered with restraint.
She noticed the details then—the curling vines etched into worn covers, the elaborate sigils carved with reverent care, the plain bindings that held their power close and hidden.
To call it anything less than beautiful would have been dishonest.
The children from the church stood frozen, their awe written plainly across their faces as color streaked past them like falling stars. Laughter and gasps blended, voices rising in disbelief and delight.
Even the adults—those who had stood in this very tower years ago—watched with nostalgia, eyes reflecting the same wonder they once carried. No matter how much time passed, the ceremony never lost its weight. It glowed with a warmth that rivaled sunlight itself, imprinting the moment deep into memory.
"This—this is my grimoire!"
"Hey, look! Mine's bigger!"
"Don't get cocky—mine's thicker!"
The shouts rang out as a few bumped shoulders and laughed, holding up their books for comparison. Each grimoire differed from the next, and they reveled in that fact, pride shining through their grins.
"Yes! Now I can finally leave this town and head to the city!" a girl cheered, raising her grimoire high.
Nearby, someone else punched the air triumphantly. "Hell, yeah! I can take over the family business now!"
Hope spilled freely through the room, plans spoken aloud without fear. Yet not everyone shared the same certainty.
"I'll... think about my future once my grimoire has more pages filled," another admitted quietly.
Xierra listened to it all, her heart swelling and aching all at once, eyes drifting back to the floating lights above—wondering which one, somewhere among them, was waiting for her.
Around her, voices overlapped in excited layers.
Dreams spilled freely into the air as easily as breath, plans spoken without restraint, futures sketched with unshaking confidence. They talked about how far their magic would carry them, about cities they would leave for, names they would make for themselves once ink met parchment within their grimoires.
And somehow, all of it wrapped around Xierra like the joy of finding new things.
It settled beneath her ribs, unfamiliar yet gentle, bubbling with something close to excitement. Not the fleeting kind she felt when chasing Asta through fields or laughing at the church steps—but something deeper. Quieter. It made her chest feel too full.
What was this, she wondered.
She didn't dislike it. Not at all. But it refused to fit neatly into anything she already knew. It lingered in between happiness and longing, an unnamed sensation she wished she understood.
"Heh, we're taking the test in six months—to join the Magic Knights!"
The declaration rang out from two loud boys nearby, their voices carrying without effort. It sparked an immediate reaction—cheers rising, hands clapping, heads turning toward them with shared excitement.
The Magic Knights.
The words alone carried weight. Honor. Danger. Glory. To fight for Clover, to stand among squads whose names were etched into history—it was a dream many were willing to bleed for.
Xierra's smile faltered, just a little.
The idea had never sat right with her, not in the way it did with others. Even now, as the tower buzzed with admiration, something in her hesitated. Yet a promise—quiet and binding—kept her tethered to the path before her. A promise she couldn't turn away from.
And beneath that promise lay questions she hadn't known existed until recently.
The dream of becoming the Wizard King—no, Wizard Queen—dimmed in her thoughts, gently pushed aside by another vision she rarely allowed herself to face head-on. One she kept folded carefully in the back of her mind.
A dream of roads without end. Of crossing borders unseen, of standing before ruins swallowed by time. Of listening to legends whispered in foreign tongues, of unraveling truths hidden beyond maps and teachings.
What lay beyond what she could see?
What lay beyond the world she had grown up in?
Xierra exhaled, the sound barely audible. "I have to join the Magic Knights first," she murmured to herself, the words tasting like compromise. "Before aiming any higher."
Before anything else.
"Umm..."
The voice cut through the noise.
It was so familiar that the cheering around them slowly dissolved into confusion, heads turning one by one. Xierra followed the sound, her breath hitching as she spotted Asta a short distance away.
He was glued to the floor, one knee pressed firmly to the stone floor, arms stretched wide, chest lifted as if he were ready to catch something falling from the sky. His expression—hopeful, baffled, maybe even utterly earnest—made her heart lurch.
"My grimoire is not coming."
The words landed heavily in the sudden silence.
It was at that moment that Xierra noticed it, too. Her hands were empty.
She stared down at her palms, half-expecting a grimoire to land there, inked pages to settle against her skin—but there was nothing. No weight. No glow. Just air, slipping through her fingers like a quiet betrayal.
The tower fell into stillness. After Asta's blunt confession, no one spoke. Even the murmurs seemed to hold their breath, as if the grimoires themselves had recoiled from the revelation.
"Uhhh..."
Drouot's voice dragged the sound out, thin and dry, before he released a tired breath through his nose. The tower master lingered in silence, eyes narrowed as though searching for words that simply did not exist.
"...Try again next year."
That was all.
No explanation. No comfort. Just a dismissal, hollow and bare.
Something sharp twisted in Xierra's chest.
One part of her burned to protest—to demand an answer, to shout that this wasn't right. Another part faltered, uncertain. Drouot might not know why the grimoires hadn't appeared. He might truly be as baffled as the rest of them.
Or worse—he might not care at all.
Her memories of his cluttered, dust-choked office surfaced uninvited. Papers piled without order. Neglect disguised as age. If indifference was truly the reason, then—just briefly—she entertained the vivid image of the tower engulfed in flames. No tower. No next year.
"What?!?" Asta's voice shattered the tension like glass.
His green eyes stretched wide, jaw hanging open as the shout tore from his lungs, loud enough to rattle the shelves themselves. Xierra winced despite herself. She had expected the reaction—just not the volume. One day, she was convinced, his yelling would shorten her lifespan.
Laughter then followed. One voice became two, then many, the sound rolling through the tower in ugly waves, bouncing off stone and wood alike. Mockery echoed between the shelves, sharp and relentless.
Xierra felt their gazes before she fully processed their words—cold, scrutinizing, cruel.
"What the heck?!" someone laughed. "That's amazing...!!"
"Hey, look! That girl hasn't gotten hers either!"
"That's too bad—wow, this is hilarious."
"The other kid doesn't have one, either!"
Each sentence struck like a thrown stone.
Sister Lily and Father Orsi stood frozen, faces drained of color, mouths parted in disbelief. The reality refused to settle in. Two children without grimoires—no, three. Yuno's hands were empty too.
Something that hadn't happened in recorded history.
"No... way..." Nash's voice wavered, small and broken, eyes trembling as the words slipped out. He looked like the ground had vanished beneath his feet.
Around them, the children stiffened under the onslaught. Sneers came easily to the crowd, insults tossed without hesitation, as if cruelty required no effort at all. Horo and Arlu strained forward, tears shining in their eyes, desperate to reach them—only to be held back by Rekka, whose hands shook as badly as theirs.
Another laugh rang out, louder than the rest.
"I guess that's what you expect from the slums," the boy from earlier sneered. "Didn't think they'd be this pathetic."
The sound cut off mid-breath.
Light flooded the tower.
Gold—brilliant, radiant, overwhelming—washed over every corner of the room, swallowing the mockery whole. Gasps replaced laughter as the glow outshone every grimoire that had descended before it. Eyes strained, hands rose to shield faces as the source revealed itself.
Yuno.
The light settled gently into his grasp, as if the magic itself had chosen him with certainty. A four-leaf clover gleamed upon the cover of his grimoire.
A legend. The mark once borne by the first Wizard King.
The whispers erupted again, but Yuno did not falter. He stepped forward, steady and composed, the golden glow casting sharp shadows behind him. He did not look back. He did not acknowledge the stunned silence or the frantic murmuring.
He simply spoke.
"I'll become the Wizard King."
The words rang through the tower—clear, unwavering, and impossibly heavy.
Even after all the mockery, he stood straight.
Proud, yet unreadable. Burning with intent, yet carefully contained. That had always been Yuno—unmoved by the noise, unbent by the weight of eyes upon him.
The boy had long since shed his childish need for reassurance. The boy who faced the world head-on. The boy who had quietly stayed at her side through scraped knees, whispered fears, and sleepless nights.
The dream he shared with her—reaching the summit of Clover—had never been a hollow declaration. It was something rooted deep, something he carried with him like a promise carved into bone. Watching him now, Xierra felt it press against her chest, heavy and warm all at once.
His resolve steadied her.
It reminded her that their path was not shaped by careless laughter or poisoned words, but by the quiet endurance they had built together.
Standing amid murmurs and lingering scorn, Yuno's presence anchored her, a silent assurance that they were more than what others decided to see.
His expression barely shifted.
Yet the moment his declaration settled into the air, the tower erupted.
Excited voices surged like a tide crashing against stone, disbelief and awe colliding into a restless storm. It was overwhelming—too loud, too sudden—and Xierra found herself caught between pride and unease, her emotions knotting tightly beneath her ribs.
Nearby, Asta's shoulders sagged, his earlier fire dimmed beneath the weight of reality. Xierra noticed, but she kept her silence. There were moments when words would only bruise further, and this was one of them.
"You're so cool, Yuno!" Arlu's voice rang out, bright and unfiltered, her smile wide enough to eclipse the tension for a fleeting second.
Beyond her, the children of the church cheered with everything they had, their faith unwavering.
Father Orsi fumbled clumsily for a handkerchief, sniffing loudly as he pressed it to his face.
"Yuno's the shining star of Hage!" he cried, voice cracking as tears streamed freely down his cheeks. He threw his arms into the air, uncaring as the cloth slipped from his grasp and his nose continued to run unchecked.
He didn't mind. Not in the slightest. He moved to pull Rekka into an emotional embrace—only to earn a sharp smack for his trouble.
"He's our hope!" someone shouted. "You're incredible!"
Praise poured in, but it was not unanimous. Doubt also crept through the cracks.
"B-But he's just an orphan!" a boy protested, panic edging his voice. "This has to be a mistake!"
"Why does he get a four-leaf grimoire and I don't?!"
"Tower Master—explain this!"
The clamor died down once more, swallowed by uncertainty. Then—another light bloomed.
Not gold, but silver—cool and radiant, spilling through the tower like moonlight against stone. It gleamed with a clarity so sharp it forced gasps from every corner, eyes squeezed shut against its brilliance.
Xierra barely breathed.
A grimoire—pale as fresh snow, luminous as polished silver—drifted toward her. No clover marked its cover. No emblem declared its legend. And yet, it moved with certainty, untouched by the whispers curling through the air.
It stopped before her.
When her fingers met its surface, a quiet hum traveled through her bones.
The cover was etched with intricate patterns and unfamiliar sigils, each line deliberate, ancient, alive. Her breath caught. Awe swelled until her chest ached, her hand trembling as curiosity urged her closer, desperate to understand the weight now resting in her grasp.
Unnoticed by the crowd, Yuno watched her.
The faintest smile curved his lips.
That familiar warmth—one he had known for as long as he could remember—bloomed within him again. It filled his chest more completely than any fire, unfolding like a thousand unseen flowers, softer than spring yet stronger than steel. He guarded the feeling carefully, tucked away deeper than any secret he carried.
His free hand lifted, palm open.
He stared at it, then closed his eyes.
Maybe.
Just maybe—
The walls he had built over the years could finally crack. Maybe one day, he would understand why his heart felt so full whenever she stood beside him. Why the world seemed quieter—brighter—when Xierra smiled.
His smile widened, barely there but real.
His hand curled into a fist, steady and sure.
Xierra offered no immediate response to the belated arrival of her grimoire. Late it may have been—but it arrived as though it had never intended to be subtle.
Instead of the familiar clover etched into countless tomes across Clover, her grimoire bore a crescent moon, its curved body cradling an upward-facing crater. Sharp tips framed its ends, the shape both elegant and unsettling in its quiet confidence.
For a fleeting moment, Xierra wondered if she had truly been born under Clover's sky at all. Each kingdom carried its own traditions, its own magic, its own grimoires—and this one felt... foreign.
But foreign to where?
She couldn't recall any nation that revered the moon so openly, and that uncertainty only deepened the pit in her stomach.
Her attention drifted lower, drawn helplessly to the engravings pressed into the silver surface. Creatures unlike any she had ever seen stared back at her—etched in such delicate detail that they seemed almost alive.
Some bore wings of a crow folded against narrow backs. Others carried curved horns sprouting from temples and foreheads. Foxes with flaming tails danced along one corner, fire frozen mid-flicker, while wisp-like beings hovered opposite them, balancing the composition. A headless figure lingered near the spine. At the other end stood a warrior with the head of a dog, poised and vigilant.
Dragons intertwined with serpents. Spiders crept along invisible threads. Shapeshifters twisted between forms. Even lifeless objects appeared mid-awakening, caught in the act of becoming something more.
The cover was not crowded—but it was far from empty.
To others, the imagery might have seemed strange. Distasteful, even. Too wild. Too close to the beasts whispered about in bedtime warnings and forest tales. But Xierra felt no revulsion. If anything, the unfamiliar stirred something restless within her.
The unknown had always done that.
The silver sheen muted the designs just enough that one had to look closely—really look—to appreciate them. It demanded attention, patience, and curiosity. And she found herself giving it all three.
Then she realized everyone was staring.
Xierra stiffened.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as cerulean eyes wavered beneath the weight of their gazes. The air felt tighter, heavier, as though it pressed against her lungs. Her legs threatened to buckle, and for one humiliating second, she wished she could simply vanish—slip between the shelves and disappear like mist.
The expectation burned against her skin.
She inhaled sharply and cleared her throat, the sound far quieter than the silence surrounding her.
"Well..." she began, words scrambling for shape in her mind.
Declaring an ambition now—especially after that—felt reckless. Like throwing herself into a storm already crackling with lightning.
Her smile came crooked, unsure.
"...I don't plan on becoming the Wizard King... or Queen," she admitted, voice small, eyes refusing to meet the hopeful stares surrounding her.
"You should."
Yuno's voice cut through the space with unwavering certainty.
Xierra's head snapped toward him, eyes wide. The words echoed against stone and shelves alike, unmistakably clear. He met her gaze without flinching, unbothered by the attention his statement drew.
Her brow twitched. "What? No—no, I—"
"You should," he repeated, interrupting her without hesitation.
This time, there was no room for misinterpretation.
Yuno exhaled softly, already knowing she wouldn't like what came next. He understood her too well—her discomfort under scrutiny, her distaste for unnecessary complications. He had seen her retreat from attention more times than he could count.
In the past, he would tease her for it. Quiet jabs. Small smirks. Moments shared only between them, ending in playful retaliation.
Now was no different.
His amber eyes held hers, and for just a second, something mischievous flickered beneath his usual calm. Xierra recognized it instantly.
Her spine prickled. Oh, he is planning something.
She bit her lower lip, brows knitting as she stared him down, trying—and failing—to outlast his unyielding gaze.
"All right, all right," Xierra relented, throwing her hands up slightly. "I'll try to aim for the top, too. No promises, though. Happy?"
Her tone carried mild irritation as she looked up at him, waiting.
Yuno nodded once. "Very."
Her voice had barely carried beyond them—but the tower erupted anyway. Applause surged like a wave, swallowing her whole. From the corner of her eye, she caught it: Yuno's smile, small and victorious, hidden from everyone else.
Her breath hitched. The realization crashed into her all at once.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, blooming fast and unmistakable, painting her face rose-red as the weight of her words finally settled in. She felt utterly defeated—steam might as well have been pouring from her ears as she realized she had walked straight into his trap.
Again.
"For someone so quiet," she muttered under her breath, resignation threading her words, "you really know how to tease."
Xierra sighed, long and heavy, her fingers curling around the spine of her grimoire as though it might steady her. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Xierra let her gaze drift sideways—toward Asta.
He was quiet. Unnaturally so.
Grimoires had answered her and Yuno both, ancient pages stirring to life beneath the chapel's vaulted ceiling, their magic humming faintly in the air. Yet Asta's hands remained empty. The space where his grimoire should have been felt glaringly obvious, like a missing note in a melody that refused to resolve.
The thought gnawed at her.
Asta had always been a late bloomer. She knew that better than anyone. When even Nash could conjure a spark to coax firewood alight, Asta had relied on brute effort and stubborn will. Yuno shaped wind with disciplined ease, and Xierra herself could coax fire into obedient arcs—slow, imperfect, but hers.
Asta had none of that.
The realization settled uncomfortably in her chest.
"Fate can be so cruel," she murmured, barely louder than breath, the words slipping free before she could stop them.
Father Orsi's voice crashed through the tension like a bell rung too hard.
"I'll take that back! Yuno and Xierra are the shining stars of Hage!!!" he boomed, sentences tumbling over one another in his fervor, joy bursting from him in every direction.
The children erupted. Arlu squealed, hopping in place as she clapped with reckless enthusiasm beside Horo. "You're amazing, Yuno, Xie!"
Horo's blue eyes gleamed as he stared at the grimoires, wonder written plainly across his face. Arlu nodded so hard her hair nearly flew loose. "They really are, right? Right?"
A nun behind them laughed softly, reaching out to smooth Arlu's midnight-black locks back into place.
"They're so cool...!" Rekka breathed, hands pressed together, before she joined the clapping. The younger ones followed suit, applause scattering through the chapel like falling rain.
Xierra barely heard it. Joy brushed past her without settling.
Her eyes drifted back to Asta just as he slowly rose to his feet. The overhead light cast his face in shadow, obscuring the familiar sharpness of his lime-green eyes beneath unruly ash-blond bangs. Something tight and uneasy coiled in her stomach.
Concern crept beneath her skin.
Would he hate them?
Would resentment take root where pride should have been?
She had endured enough scorn to know how easily words could burrow deep and fester. Years of sideways glances and careless cruelty had taught her that much. Yet Asta—stubborn, unyielding Asta—had always faced the world head-on, as though daring it to knock him down. He was stronger than she ever was.
Her gaze softened despite herself. There were too many possibilities. Too many unknowns. She couldn't imagine what choice he might make.
"Yuno! Xierra!"
The sound of her name sent a sharp jolt through her. Xierra stiffened, heat prickling at the back of her neck as attention began to shift, as it always did.
Asta lifted his head. His eyes burned with unmistakable resolve as he pointed at them both, a fierce grin cutting through the gloom.
"Just you two wait. I'll catch up in no time!!" He thumped his chest with his thumb. "After all, I'm your rival!!"
The knot in her chest unraveled all at once. Relief washed over her, and Xierra smiled—wide, genuine, unguarded. She'd forgotten, somehow, how unshakeable he was. How impossible it was for him to give up.
He never did.
"Did he just say 'rival'?"
"He didn't even get a grimoire—what is he thinking?"
"You? Their rival? Don't make me laugh."
The murmurs sharpened into open scorn, glares slicing toward Asta from every direction. He didn't flinch. Not even once.
Xierra bit the inside of her cheek, lips pressing together as something fierce stirred in her chest. Anger—quiet, controlled, but burning—rose for the first time in a long while.
Her fingers loosened.
With a measured breath, she cracked her grimoire open just enough to peer inside. The crescent-shaped tome lifted gently before her, pages fluttering as though responding to her pulse, before settling near the front—waiting.
I suggest that you should lie low for now, Master.
The voice surfaced without warning, slipping between her thoughts like a blade drawn too quietly. Xierra startled, a sharp intake of breath hitching in her chest. Her shoulders tensed, fingers curling around the spine of her grimoire—but only for a heartbeat.
Whatever reaction threatened to bloom, she strangled it before it could reach her face. No one noticed. Not the murmuring crowd, not the stone-eyed officials, not even Yuno standing close enough that she could feel the faint pull of his mana brushing against her own.
Acting purely on your emotions will only bring more trouble, the voice cautioned, firm yet restrained.
Her cerulean gaze widened, her pupils trembling as if the world itself had shifted a fraction off-center. The voice echoed inside her head with unsettling clarity—distinctly male, steady, carrying neither mockery nor warmth. It sounded close, intimate, yet no presence revealed itself. No footsteps. No silhouette. No ripple in the air.
Swallowing hard, Xierra took a risk she had never dared before.
Who are you? she asked silently, her question careful, almost reverent.
The reply never came.
Silence folded in on itself, thick and unanswered. The absence pressed heavier than the voice ever had.
Her grip loosened. A quiet exhale slipped past her lips. Perhaps it had been nothing more than her instincts finally finding a voice—years of restraint and caution whispering sense into her blood. Anyone else might have called it delusion. Xierra chose survival.
Her attention drifted back to the present just in time to catch Yuno moving.
He passed Asta without sparing him so much as a sideways glance, his boots striking the stone with unhurried purpose. The gleam of his chrome-tinted eyes reflected the towering shelves as he walked, posture straight, expression carved from stillness.
"Yuno?" Xierra called softly.
He paused only long enough to glance over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, she saw it—the smallest narrowing of his gaze, a tension pulled tight beneath his calm. Then he turned forward again.
"There's no way," Yuno replied flatly.
The words fell like frost.
Both Xierra and Asta froze.
Her thoughts screamed, disbelief clawing up her spine. I know he's blunt—but not like this. She forced herself to breathe, knuckles whitening at her side. The space beside her felt suddenly fragile, as if one wrong sound might shatter it.
Asta didn't laugh. He didn't protest. He didn't shout.
He said nothing.
"Asta..." Xierra murmured, the name barely leaving her lips.
.
.
.
From behind the gathered children, Sister Lily stood quietly, hands folded at her waist. Worry shadowed her gentle features as her gaze lingered on the girl clutching the moon-marked grimoire—and the boy standing too still for his own good.
"All right!" Father Orsi's voice boomed through the tower, slicing through the tension with practiced cheer. He clapped his hands together, grin stretching wide. "Let's head home and prepare for the feast! It'll be the biggest one we've ever had tonight!"
The younger children erupted at once, their excitement spilling across the stone floor in bright echoes and hurried footsteps.
Before Xierra could gather her thoughts, a familiar tug pulled at her dress.
"Xie, Xie!" Arlu whined, small fingers gripping the fabric as she bounced impatiently. "Come on! Hurryyyy! They're gonna eat without us!"
She launched into a breathless complaint—how Xierra was supposed to cook again today, not Father Orsi, and how his food always turned out rock-hard no matter how much the priest insisted otherwise. The words tumbled out clumsy and earnest, an obvious attempt to pull Xierra back into the moment.
It worked.
Xierra knelt slightly, smoothing Arlu's hair as her lips curved into a reassuring smile. The tension in her eyes softened, catching the light as she nodded along, pretending the worry in her chest hadn't taken root.
Still, the question refused to fade.
Will Asta be all right? No... is he even all right?
One by one, people filtered out of the grimoire tower, their voices dwindling into distant echoes. The once-crowded circle opened up, leaving behind shelves now refilled—new grimoires hovering where empty spaces had been, forged from shimmering particles that danced like fireflies caught in starlight.
Xierra paused at the threshold.
She tilted her head back, letting her gaze linger on the sight for just a moment longer—the glow, the quiet magic humming in the air, the weight of beginnings settling into place. Then she intertwined her fingers with Arlu's smaller hand and turned away.
As they stepped into the fading light beyond the tower doors, Xierra could only hope that things would somehow, eventually, be all right.
.
.
.
The grimoire tower had begun to exhale.
What was once crowded and ringing with excitement now felt hollowed out, its vast interior settling into a brittle quiet. Only a handful of figures remained—latecomers lingering out of curiosity, murmured conversations drifting toward Drouot as he answered questions with patient familiarity. The shelves loomed tall and solemn once more, their ancient stone swallowing sound with practiced ease.
Among those final stragglers stood a man who did not belong.
His gaze darted too sharply, jumping from face to face as though weighing them, measuring something unseen. A low chuckle escaped him—soft, fractured—before curling into a grin that made nearby onlookers stiffen.
No one approached him. Not after everything they had just witnessed. Not when the air still buzzed with magic too fresh to feel safe.
Dark, tangled curls spilled over his brow, obscuring half his face and doing little to hide the ruin beneath. His robe—once green, perhaps—hung loosely from his frame, the hem caked with dried mud and grime. Tears split the fabric in places that spoke of long travel or careless living.
There was no pack slung over his shoulder, no wares tucked at his side. Too little to mark him as a merchant. Too bare to call him an adventurer.
Most dismissed him as a vagrant.
They were wrong.
His eyes were the most unsettling part—glassy and hollow, devoid of warmth, as if whatever once lived behind them had long since burned away. When he laughed again, the sound slithered along the stone walls, low and crooked, lingering just a moment too long.
"Heh... heh... heh...!"
He turned, footsteps unhurried as he drifted toward the tower's exit. Sunlight spilled in through the archway, catching in his pupils and igniting a sharp, unnatural gleam—light reflected, not welcomed.
His gaze followed two figures outside.
Xierra, her laughter quiet and genuine as Arlu clung to her side, chattering without pause. The girl's grimoire rested against her hip strap, catching the glow of late afternoon. A warmth surrounded them, fragile and bright.
Then—Yuno.
He waited partway down the stone staircase, posture straight, eyes lifted toward them. The wind teased his cloak, tugging gently as if answering to him alone.
The man's smile stretched wider, lips pulling back to bare uneven, neglected teeth.
"...I never thought something so significant would appear in a backwater town like this," he murmured, voice trembling with warped delight.
A breathless laugh followed, thin and broken.
"And to think..." His eyes glinted, sharp with knowing. "...there are two of them."
To Be Continued...