They whispered his name as the wagons rolled into the gates of Drea.
Lucian.
The boy with duskfire eyes.
The one who walked into the forest with devils… and came back alone.
In the last hours of the journey, he had barely stirred.
Erza had insisted he rest — and by the time she had realized his head had fallen into her lap, it was too late to move him.
She sat stiff, hands folded awkwardly, her cheeks a bright red.
"You were… really cool, back there," she whispered.
Then blinked hard.
"I-I mean! It was scary too! I was really scared—!"
She clamped her mouth shut and didn't speak again.
Lucian, eyes still closed, just smiled faintly.
"Cute."
The sun crowned the morning as the first wagons entered the city gates.
Lucian opened his eyes slowly.
His hair was a mess. His cloak rumpled.
His face drawn from fatigue… but clean.
He stepped down from the wagon with a dull thud, boots landing on pale cobblestone.
And around him—Drea bloomed.
White-walled buildings climbed the hills like tiered temples, roofs glazed in sapphire and gold.
Sunlight kissed their edges. Flowers spilled from windows.
The air smelled of fresh bread, lavender oil, and city dust.
Children ran past, laughing. A nearby minstrel played a tune under a fig tree.
It was beautiful.
Alive.
Peaceful.
Lucian stood there, quietly taking it all in.
So this is Drea…
Then the crowd surrounded him like a tide. Even those who weren't apart of the passengers came around.
A merchant — still pale from the memory of blood and smoke — stepped forward.
He bowed, not deeply, but with honest weight.
"My lord… If ever you wish to break fast at my home, it would be my honor."
Lucian blinked.
Another followed quickly.
"Please, you must let us host you. My wife would love to meet the one who saved me!"
And then—
"You may take anything from my orchard! Pears, peaches, plums — it's all yours, boy!"
And then the wild ones started.
"I'll rename my second son after you!"
"We'll have a festival — 'Lucian's Flame Day'!"
Then one who Lucian suspected to be Erza's grandfather — "You want my granddaughter's hand in marriage?! Take her! She's fertile, I swear on my goats!"
Lucian choked on air.
Erza — standing just behind Lucian — froze.
Her eyes widened.
Her face turned pink.
Then red.
Then mock anger.
"G—Grandpa!"
Lucian, still blinking in exhaustion, mumbled:
"…I really just came here to study."
The crowd paused. Murmurs.
"Study…? Study what?"
Lucian reached up, brushing dust off his cloak with a sigh.
"Magic. I'm supposed to meet a tutor. A woman named Ellie?"
Dead silence.
Like birds stopped chirping. Like Drea itself held its breath.
Then—
"…You mean Ellie the drunken mage?"
Lucian, eyes already half-closed, sighed.
"Please tell me there's a different one."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Drea was bright.
Not just in color — though the white buildings did shimmer like polished ivory under the sun — but in spirit. The city felt like a place that had been smiling for centuries and never learned how to stop.
Its people bustled like a festival was always five minutes away. Laughter danced in the air. Banners waved between alleyways. The scent of fresh bread and river herbs drifted on the wind.
Lucian moved quietly through it all.
His cloak flared slightly behind him with each step, and exhaustion clung to his shoulders like wet cloth. Still, he kept pace. He always did.
At his side, Erza walked a little ahead — or tried to.
She was unusually quiet.
Everyone in Drea knew her — the woodcarver's granddaughter, the girl who ran errands faster than gossip. People waved. Some whispered:
"That's the boy from the caravan..."
"Is that really him?"
"They say he fought off bandits with his eyes glowing..."
But no one came close.
Lucian didn't mind.
He liked the silence between them.
They turned into a winding alleyway, and the white stone walls gave way.
That's when he saw it. Isolated from the white buildings and vibrancy stood a red house.
And not just red.
Crimson brick. Slanted roof. It stuck out like a bad idea.
A tilted balcony that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks.
Out front, a garden full of strange purple stalks and broad-leafed flowers with tiny teeth. One of them hissed at a passing fly.
Lucian slowed to a stop.
"Guess this is it."
Erza stopped beside him, her fingers tightening at her sides. Her face was flushed — bright as a ripe apple.
Then, before he could speak again, she stepped forward, stood on her toes, and kissed him.
Just a blink of contact. A light peck on the cheek.
Lucian blinked.
"...?"
She was already staring at the cobblestone like it held the secrets of the universe.
"For saving us," she said softly.
Then she turned too fast — tripped — caught herself — muttered something about "dead gods" — and bolted down the street like her dignity was chasing her.
Lucian stood there for a moment, watching the corner where she vanished.
"…Cute."
He turned back toward the red house, raised a hand to knock — then paused.
The door was already slightly open.
Of course it is.
He nudged it gently. It creaked inward without resistance.
Inside, the air was dim and cool, scented faintly of lavender and something warmer beneath it — maybe burnt cinnamon or spiced wine. The whole place looked like it had once tried to be orderly… and then gave up halfway through.
A modest center table sat in the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs.
Books lay sprawled across it: "On the Oscillation of Arcane Currents", "Reverse Theory and Mana Conduction", and "Why Fireball Solves Most Problems" to which he found totally ridiculous.
Crooked portraits hung on the walls — misty mountains, a thunderstorm painted in careful strokes, a solitary tower surrounded by golden dunes.
"Hello?" he called.
Silence.
Then something shifted above.
Lucian looked up.
A pair of golden eyes stared down from a wooden beam overhead.
An owl.
Still as stone. Watching. Judging.
It didn't hoot. Didn't blink.
Just stared.
Then something soft brushed against his ankle.
Lucian looked down.
A white cat. Sleek. Silent. Graceful.
Its collar read: "Black."
Of course.
The cat turned, padded toward another room, paused at the curtain of hanging beads, and looked back.
Lucian sighed.
"Really? You're guiding me?"
Black flicked his tail once and slipped through.
Lucian followed.
The bead curtain swayed as he stepped through into a small kitchen — or at least, something that used to be one.
Half of it looked more like an alchemist's lab: jars of herbs, bubbling flasks, a glowing crystal that hummed slightly. The other half looked… lived in. A chipped mug. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate.
And there — on the floor, half-under a crooked table —
Lay a woman.
Mid-to-late twenties. Pale-golden hair splayed like sunlight across the tiles. A pointed hat lay an arms length away. One slipper on, one missing. A coat draped over her shoulder like it had fallen from somewhere. An empty goblet rested in her limp hand.
Dead asleep, .outh half-open. A line of drool threatening to fall.
Lucian blinked down at her.
Then at the cat.
"…Seriously?" Talk about a first impression
Black meowed once.
The woman groaned. One eye cracked open, bloodshot but oddly sharp.
"Whazzit… wha' time is it…?"
Lucian crouched slightly, raising an awkward hand.
"Hi. Uh. I'm Lucian.
I came to study magic under Ellie of Drea."
He gestured vaguely toward the room.
"Malrik sent a letter. Ring any bells?"
The woman blinked.
Then sat up.
She reached toward a kettle that had definitely been bubbling for too long, took a sip of something Lucian was absolutely certain was not tea, and rubbed at her face.
"Oh. Right. You're the kid from the forest. Caravan ghost or whatever."
She squinted up at him.
"Gods. You look taller in the rumors."
Lucian just stared.
What have I gotten myself into...