Kael walked ahead, his coat catching the breeze like it had somewhere better to be.
Renold followed a few paces behind, muttering something about posture and ruined reputations under his breath.
Selene trailed last.
Not dragging her feet, exactly—but lost in thought.
Or maybe just lost.
What decisions led me here?Hard to say.
Then—bam.
She walked straight into Kael's back.
He had stopped, apparently, right in front of a sleek black carriage.
She recoiled instantly.
"Apologies, my lord," she said quickly, gaze dropping.
Kael sighed.
Not angrily—just like someone who'd been bumped into one too many times in life, metaphorically and now literally.
Without a word, he climbed into the carriage and disappeared behind velvet curtains.
Selene stepped forward quietly, already edging toward the rear bench to keep her distance.
But then—
"Sit with me," Kael said.
Not a question.
A calm command.
Her soul briefly attempted to leave her body.
She hesitated at the footstep.
"My lord, as a slave, I should—I mean—it wouldn't be proper, I'll sit in the back, I swear—"
"It's my order," Kael said simply.
Then "smiled".
"Besides," he added,
"We should bond. ...Right?"
Renold sighed.
Audibly.
Selene moved stiffly, like a puppet reconsidering its strings, and climbed in beside Kael—rigid, cautious, quiet.
Kael shut the door behind her.
Click.
Renold blinked.
Then blinked again.
"…Master," he said, knocking on the closed door, "you left me."
Kael's voice floated through the curtained window.
"You can bond with the driver."
For a long moment, Renold stood there in the road, frozen.
Somewhere in the distance, a violin of fate played a single mournful note.
In his mind, decades of loyal service flashed by like tragic stage directions:
Brushing coats. Smoothing gloves.
Defending egos.
He looked toward the driver's bench.
The driver—a gruff, bearded man chewing on something vaguely alive—nodded in greeting.
Renold's soul quietly died.
But he obeyed.
Of course he did.
That was what he was for.
Inside the carriage, silence settled like a heavy fog.
Selene sat rigid in the farthest corner, spine straight, hands folded, eyes fixed anywhere that wasn't Kael.
Preferably the wall.
Or the upholstery.
Kael watched her without speaking.
Not glaring. Not smiling.
Just watching.
Selene began to sweat.
Not from heat—the carriage was enchantment-cooled.
Just from vibe.
Kael, meanwhile, wasn't trying to intimidate her.
He was thinking.
If I want to understand this world's magic system, I'll need help, he thought, fingers tapping his thigh idly.
Elemental structure, affinity theory, spell matrices...
And across from him sat Selene Vael.
Once the Academy's brightest prodigy.
Now reduced to a pale, shaking bundle of anxiety, sitting like a hostage in a cursed tea party.
Still, Kael reasoned, Who better than her?
He opened his mouth to ask—
And Selene dropped to her knees.
"Master!" she gasped, grabbing his hand.
"Please! I didn't mean to insult you—I'll never speak out of turn again, I swear!
Just—please, don't boil me in oil!"
Kael blinked.
"…Boil you?"
"I mean—I'll sleep in the garden! With the snakes! Or the haunted statues!
Or the cursed pond—whatever you want, just please, not the oil!"
He stared at her.
She wasn't joking.
Her eyes shimmered with panic, voice trembling, posture full grovel.
Kael glanced down at the hand she was clutching.
He looked like someone who had just been handed a crying kitten and a live grenade at the same time.
"Am I doing that?" he muttered to himself.
"I don't think I'm doing that..."
He remembered the fire in her eyes at the auction—how she'd stood beneath the bidding lights, unbending, unreadable, dangerous.
Now?
Now she looked like she expected to be cooked alive and served with rosemary.
Is this really the same girl? he thought.
Then he really looked at her—pale, flustered, dramatic, ridiculous.
Kind of cute, he admitted, despite himself.
He gently pulled his hand away and rested it on her head.
"Relax," he said.
"No oil. No snakes. No ponds.
You're not getting boiled or ...haunted."
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
"…Really?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
A pause.
"Thank you?"
She retreated back to her seat, still a little shaky but no longer on the verge of offering up her other kidney.
Kael cleared his throat, tone turning more neutral.
"Anyway. About the magic system here—"
He tried to sound casual.
Not desperate.
Not like someone who had only recently learned that mana cores weren't a dessert.
Joke!
Selene gave him a look.
Then, without thinking, she blurted:
"Why would you want to know?
You're magicless."
Silence.
Again.
Kael stared at her.
Did she just insult me… again?
"I didn't mean it like that," Selene said quickly, eyes wide.
"I—I just meant… you know… why would someone like you want to know about magic?"
Kael raised an eyebrow, unmoved.
"Someone like me."
"No! I mean yes—but not in an insulting way! Just… factually insulting.
I mean—factually true.
You're—you're not magically inclined, right? I wasn't mocking—"
"You were."
"I was."
Silence again.
Thick. Awkward.
Heavy with the quiet horror of someone realizing they're really, really bad at saving conversations.
Kael leaned back in his seat, staring out the window.
Selene shrank back into the corner, chewing regret like stale bread.
Outside the carriage, Renold sat stiffly beside the driver, arms folded.
The driver hadn't stopped talking for the past ten minutes.
"—and then she said, 'If you're going to buy another enchanted skillet, at least have the decency to learn how to cook with the first one,'" the man droned, reins barely moving.
"I mean really, who argues over skillet enchantments?
Women, right?"
Renold blinked slowly.
Stared forward.
He could feel the life leaving his body in small, sighing increments.
Inside, his soul whispered,
You were once a promising young man.
You had dreams.
He glanced back at the carriage.
Silence.
He sneezed once into the wind.
That awkward kind of sneeze that wasn't about dust or cold.
Just… existential fatigue.
Selene cleared her throat, straightened a little, and finally began.
"In this world," she said, slipping into her lecturing voice—the kind that clearly used to command classrooms—
"Magic is cast using spells.
Mortals born with mana aptitude can learn them and become mages."
She glanced at Kael.
He nodded.
She continued,
"Those without aptitude remain —well— magicless."
Another glance.
Kael's left eye twitched.
A vein pulsed gently at his temple.
Magicless, he thought bitterly.
I have SSS-rank mana control, bitch.
He did not say it out loud.
He smiled.
Painfully.
"Go on," he said, through gritted teeth that somehow still sounded polite.
Selene continued, now warming up.
"Spells are ranked.
From Rank 1 to Rank 9.
Low-rank spells are simple, like conjuring light or heating water.
But as a magician masters higher-level spells, their mana pool expands.
Their lifespan increases."
She paused for effect.
"We call this Ascension."
Kael blinked.
"That's… dramatic."
She nodded proudly.
"From Rank 6 onward, mages are considered immortals.
And Rank 9—well, those are basically gods."
Kael sat back, absorbing that.
Gods.
Immortals.
It really was fantasy.
Then again, he was literally in a fantasy world now, so—checks out.
"So all you need to do is keep learning spells?" he asked.
Selene snorted.
"No," she said flatly.
"If it were that easy, the continent would be crawling with demigods.
Learning spells is hard.
Most people with average aptitude only get to Rank 2.
Maybe 3 if they're lucky or have noble backing."
She flipped her hair dramatically at that.
Like it was a mic drop.
Kael stared.
Flatly.
Expression deadpan.
She coughed.
"Ahem.
Point is—even with high aptitude, the higher-rank spells aren't sold on the open market.
Rank 3 and above? Controlled.
Church, academy, noble clans, old temples—they all hoard them."
She shrugged.
"If you want those spells, you join them.
Swear loyalty.
Follow orders. Or…"
She raised her brows.
"You remain weak."
Kael nodded slowly.
That made sense.
Of course humans wouldn't let power run wild.
The first thing they'd do is put it behind a paywall—ideally one that included a blood oath and a suspiciously strict dress code.
"So to become a god," he muttered, "you first become someone's intern."
"Exactly," she said cheerfully.
Kael sighed, staring at the carriage roof.
Monopoly on power, he thought.
Lovely. Just like home.
Kael tilted his head, voice casual.
"So," he asked, "what rank are you?"
Selene sat up a little straighter, the corner of her mouth lifting.
"I'm a Rank 2 magician," she said proudly.
There was an expectant pause.
She waited.
Internally, she was already hearing the praise:
Wow, so talented!
Even as a slave, you shine!
Maybe I should listen to you more!
Maybe I should let you sit near a window!
Back at the Academy, even among the elite classes, only a handful had made it to Rank 2 at her age.
She had been called "prodigy," "rising star," "irritatingly perfect"—well, mostly by her classmates, but still.
She imagined Kael now sitting there, quietly awed by her magical brilliance.
Then—
"Oh," Kael said.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
"…Only Rank 2? Huh. I thought a prodigy would be better."
Silence.
Something inside Selene cracked.
Like a teacup dropped and stepped on in the same motion.
Her mouth opened.
No sound came out.
She stared at him, dumfounded.
Emotionally violated.
Did he just—?
"Master," she finally said, voice scandalized,
"that's rude. Even the King of our kingdom is only Rank 5!"
Kael blinked.
"That's the strongest magician in the kingdom?"
"Yes!"
He frowned.
"Why hasn't anyone gone past that?"
Selene folded her arms, pouting like he'd insulted her entire bloodline.
"Because mana is thinning in our kingdom," she said.
"It's getting harder and harder to ascend.
Some say no one will even reach Rank 5 again in the next few generations."
"Most major clans and sects have already left this kingdom. Only a few serious organizations remain."
Kael blinked.
"They left?"
"Years ago," she said, tone bitter.
"They all moved to the Elion Empire.
We're technically under its jurisdiction now, but our mana density is—well, you've seen it.
It's like trying to swim in soup."
Kael nodded thoughtfully.
"So basically… you were born in the wrong place."
Selene sighed, slumping just slightly.
"Yes."
Kael smirked.
"If you were born in the Empire, you'd probably be Empress by now."
She nodded solemnly.
"Exactly."
There was a pause.
Then Kael chuckled.
A low, amused, sharp little laugh.
Selene blinked.
Her eyes narrowed.
She straightened.
"Wait—was that sarcasm?"
Kael looked at her, smiling ever so faintly.
"Was it?"
Her mouth opened.
Closed. Pouted.
"I could have been Empress," she grumbled.
"Or at least a very powerful woman with a pet wyvern and a title."
Kael leaned back, relaxed.
"Sure.
Maybe even two wyverns."
She gasped quietly.
"You're mocking me again."
"Only a little."
Selene folded her arms tighter, sulking now in earnest.
Kael just looked out the window again, still smiling to himself.
This kingdom was collapsing, magic was drying up, and his only ally so far had the ego of a warlock and the self-esteem of a wet towel.
Still.
It was entertaining.
The carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of the Duke's mansion.
It loomed like a memory someone had tried to forget—grand, but frayed at the edges.
The stone walls whispered of better days and worse decisions.
Vines clung to the pillars like regrets that refused to die.
Kael stepped out first, boots tapping crisply against weathered stone.
Selene followed behind, quiet as a rumor.
Renold trailed last, coughing once and muttering something about "this cursed dust" and "no respect for dry cleaning enchantments."
Before Kael could fully inhale the stale air of nobility, a maid rounded the corner in a brisk trot—sharp-eyed, sharp-browed, and sharp in tone.
"Master Kael," she said, nearly out of breath, "there's a family dinner tonight."
Kael froze.
"…Dinner?" he repeated, as if the word itself were an ancient curse.
She nodded, tension in her shoulders.
"Yes, the Duke and Duchess returned an hour ago.
There are… rumors about the Second Young Master.
They want the entire family present.
Properly."
Kael felt something inside him shift.
Maybe a rib.
Maybe a fragment of his soul.
Family dinner.
Tonight.
He stared off into the middle distance like a man contemplating exile—or murder.
"Is my dear second brother back as well?" he asked, voice light but neck visibly stiffening.
The maid shook her head.
"No, Master Kael. But there are whispers he'll arrive next week."
Kael exhaled slowly.
Deeply.
Like someone who had just defused a very unstable mana bomb.
"…Then I have one week of peace," he said.
It wasn't joy in his tone.
It was survival.
Selene glanced between Kael and the mansion, picking up on the tension.
Quietly, she leaned toward Renold. "Who's the second brother?"
Renold just looked at her.
Eyes hollow. Jaw tight.
"Pray you never find out."