"Similar to you, my lord?" Athel asked, his voice cracking slightly. He looked down at his own calloused, dirt-stained hands, then back at the Count's pristine, powerful ones. The comparison felt impossible.
"Precisely," Leyhwin replied, his white eyes gleaming with a strange sort of pride. "You have been blessed—or perhaps cursed, depending on who you ask—with the gift of a mage."
The Count turned back to his desk, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he rummaged through a stack of ancient documents. He pulled out a parchment scroll that looked as though it had survived a century of dust and dampness. The edges were frayed, and the vellum was brittle and yellowed.
"Here," Leyhwin said, extending the scroll toward the boy.
Octavia stepped forward, her face pale. "But my lord, that cannot be. There is no mage lineage in my family. We are people of the earth—farmers and laborers for generations. How can my child be a mage?"
Athel reached out, his fingers trembling. "What should I... what am I supposed to do with—"
As soon as his skin made contact with the parchment, the room seemed to hum. Athel's emerald eyes didn't just reflect the light; they began to emit a soft, pulsing glow. Simultaneously, the ink on the scroll, which had looked like dead, black smears, erupted into brilliant, dancing characters of light.
Terror seized Athel. The memory of the agonizing "checkup" in the tent flashed through his mind, the heat, the screaming, the sensation of his blood boiling. Instinct took over. He recoiled and threw the scroll away from him with desperate force, half-expecting it to explode or burn him alive.
The scroll sailed through the air, headed straight for a shelf of priceless first editions. But it never hit the wood.
Leyhwin didn't move a muscle, yet the scroll froze mid-air, suspended by an invisible tether. It was the same telekinetic grip he had used to pull Athel to his feet.
"Now, now," the Count said. He let out a deep, hearty laugh that shook the bookshelves. "Careful, child. That single piece of paper is worth a hundred times more than your mother's life earnings in the fields."
In an instant, the warmth vanished from the Count's face. His stature seemed to grow, and an aura of suffocating authority flooded the room. The air grew heavy, making it difficult for Athel and Octavia to draw breath. It was a reminder that behind the "soft" nobleman was a man who had carved a path through a civil war with steel and magic.
"Hahaha! I am merely joking with you both."
Athel and Octavia froze, their shoulders slumping under the sheer weight of his presence. The thought of the debt, the sheer number of years of back-breaking labour required to pay for a "piece of paper" was a crushing reality.
Athel then took the scroll to see it much closer, but as soon as his hand touches the parchment, the characters and symbols began to glow again along with his eyes. "Ah!" He exclaimed as he saw that he began to see something in the parchment. "I think... this is a scroll for detecting something?"
"Hahaha! I am merely joking with you both."
The heavy aura vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Leyhwin let out a small, mischievous chuckle, his expression returning to that of a friendly, if not eccentric. He beckoned the scroll toward him with a wave of his hand, unrolling it before Athel's eyes. "Can you read this, Athel?"
Athel leaned in, squinting. At first, it looked like a mess, a chaotic jumble of geometric lines, swirling shapes, and symbols that belonged to no language he had ever seen in the village school. "I'm sorry, my lord. I can read the common tongue, but this... it's just scribbles. Lines and circles."
Curiosity overcame his fear. Athel reached out and took the scroll again. The moment his thumb pressed against the vellum, the "scribbles" began to shift. They didn't just glow, they rearranged themselves in his mind, translating directly into his consciousness.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening. The symbols were no longer gibberish. "I think... I can see it. It's a sequence for... detection? It's meant to find something hidden?"
The Count let out a sharp smirk, his white pupils pulsing. "I'll be damned. You are a much more 'gifted' individual than even the royal mages suspected."
He turned his gaze away from the boy and fixed it on Octavia. His playfulness disappeared, replaced by a quiet, piercing seriousness. "To answer your earlier question, Lady Octavia, I need to know something first. Has it truly always been just the two of you? No father, no relatives from the interior?"
Octavia's breath hitched. She looked at Athel, who was still mesmerized by the glowing scroll, with a look of profound concern. "Excuse me, my lord? I don't understand the relevance..."
"I understand more than you think," Leyhwin said softly. He turned back to Athel. "Athel, there are more scrolls on the lower bookshelves. They are harmless—feel free to explore them. I need to speak with your mother in private for a moment. We will be right over there."
He pointed to a corner of the study where a set of velvet armchairs surrounded a low table topped with a steaming teapot and delicate glasses.
Athel hesitated, his protective instincts flaring. He didn't want to leave his mother alone with a man who could freeze the air with a thought.
"It's okay, sweetie," Octavia said, stepping forward to brush a stray lock of black hair from his forehead. Her touch was shaky, but her smile was encouraging. "Go on. Look at the books."
With a heavy sigh, Athel retreated toward the shelves. Meanwhile, the Count led Octavia to the seating area.
As they sat, Leyhwin snapped his fingers. A thin, translucent veil of light, shimmering like oil on water, descended around the corner, encasing them in a shimmering dome.
"He won't be able to hear us now," the Count said, his voice dropping all pretense of humor. He leaned forward, his face focused and intense. "Now, Lady Octavia... tell me the truth of his upbringing. Tell me exactly who his father was."