The golden light of the fading sun seemed to dim as Octavia's world fractured further. "No… my boy… how could someone do such a thing?" Her voice was a ragged plea, her face twisting into a mask of grief that even the fine silk of the study couldn't soften.
Leyhwin, sitting across from her, remained a pillar of stoic intensity. He watched the way her spirit seemed to wilt under the weight of the "Draconic Curse" before he finally spoke. "There is a high probability that this curse is intertwined with the very nature of his birth," he said, his voice level but not unkind. He straightened his posture, the heavy fur of his robe shifting over his shoulders, and poured her another cup of the amber-colored herbal tea. "Drink. You will need your strength for what comes next."
He leaned back, his white eyes drifting toward the corner where Athel remained lost in the stacks of ancient tomes. "Your son is more than just a remarkable talent of this new generation, My Lady. He is a walking impossibility. Whether he is a direct descendant of the Dragon-kin or something more complex, he possesses a raw will and a mana capacity that I have never seen in a child of sixteen."
As the Count looked at Athel, his vision shifted. To the common eye, Athel was just a boy reading a book; to a Seventh Circle mage, the boy was a sun in the center of a storm. Leyhwin could see the sapphire-blue mana, the lifeblood of sorcery, pulsing in Athel's veins. But alongside it, there was a second energy, something ancient and predatory that he recognized as the Draconic influence.
What fascinated Leyhwin, however, was a third phenomenon. The two energies weren't clashing, they were circling one another in a coherent, rhythmic dance. Where they touched, they bled into a third, iridescent color, a new form of energy that defied every law of magic Leyhwin had ever studied.
"He is beyond remarkable," Leyhwin whispered, more to himself than to Octavia. He turned back to her, his gaze piercing. "I intend to teach him personally—if you will permit it, Lady Octavia."
Octavia froze, her hand hovering over the tea. "My Lord… you must not exhaust yourself for people like us. We are already drowning in your generosity. To have Athel recognized as a mage is more than enough to change our lives—"
Leyhwin raised a single, gloved hand, cutting through her protest with a sharp motion. "Enough, Octavia. This is not about charity. As the lord of these Northern Marches, I cannot overlook a miracle. I will be honest with you. I have my own greed. I would much rather keep a person of his value within my territory than send him to the Capital, where the King's vultures would let his potential rot in a gilded cage."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "I will not make him a servant. I want to train him—to stabilize his magical core before it consumes him. And then, if Athel wishes for it, I will send him to the Royal Academy. Not as a commoner, but as a ward and patron of the House of Rodwell."
Octavia sat in a stunned silence. The offer was a dream, the very thing Athel had wished for under the oak tree in Oaklands. But she felt the invisible chains tightening. To accept was to tie their fates to the Rodwell name forever. It was a debt that could never be repaid in gold, only in loyalty.
"I will let you consider the offer with your son," Leyhwin said. With a casual flick of his wrist, the shimmering veil of silence that had encased them dissolved into nothingness. He rose from the armchair, carrying his tea back to his mahogany desk.
In that instant, Athel broke away from the shelves, rushing toward them with a heavy book clutched in his hands. "Mother, look!" he exclaimed, his emerald eyes bright with a spark of pure, untainted hope. "This book—it's about the histories of the Great Houses! It says that a noble's duty is to ensure the comfort of their people. If I learn this, Mother, I can make sure you never have to work until you're sick again."
Octavia reached out, her fingers trembling as she took her son's hand. She looked at him—really looked at him—seeing the boy she had raised in the cotton fields, now standing in the center of a web of ancient magic and royal politics.
"My child," she said, her voice catching as she glanced nervously toward the Count, who was watching them from his desk. "I have something to tell you. Lord Leyhwin has made us a proposition."