[Date: 02.09.1652]

[Days Since Reincarnation: 729]

He woke up.

There was no jolt, no sense of relief. Simply a transition from blackness to the gray light of the room. Before his mind could form its first thought, his hand moved on its own, half-asleep, reaching up to barely touch his hair. Just for a moment. The gesture was empty, devoid of meaning, and his fingers immediately dropped back to the cool duvet.

He sat up in bed. The room was cold. Unusually cold for the last month of summer. He hugged himself and walked over to his work desk. The heavy oak chair scraped reluctantly across the floor as he dragged it toward the window.

Climbing onto the seat, he could finally reach the high handle. The heavy sash gave way with a dull thud, and the air rushed in. It was so cold and damp that Caelan shuddered involuntarily, letting out a quiet sound like "brr." The air smelled of something incredibly fresh, clean, electric. Ozone. And the dark, damp earth of the garden below.

He leaned on the windowsill, poking his head outside, and took a deep breath. This freshness chased away the last vestiges of sleep better than any icy water. Morning. A new day. The second, a calm, factual thought drifted through his mind. It will be exactly two years on the fourth.

He didn't know this body's real birthday. That information was lost, like everything else before the monastery. So, he had decided for himself long ago: his birthday would be the day of his arrival. The day he was given a name.

Technically, I'll be six in two days.

He closed the window. The sound of the wind and the rustle of wet leaves vanished, and the room fell into an almost absolute silence. Almost.

Because it was in that moment that his sharp hearing caught the anomaly. A dull, low hum, coming not from outside, but from downstairs, from the first floor. It was like a vibration, as if two storm fronts were arguing behind the thick manor walls. The words were impossible to make out, but the very intonation was steeped in irritation. Every so often, the hum would break through in sharper peaks—fragments of phrases that reached him like a distorted echo.

The Duke's formidable, annoyed bass: "...utterly... look at yourself...! ...what if it was Chaos...?!"

And a sharp, defiant voice in response: "...what Chaos?! ...wouldn't have stopped me...!"

Curiosity, cold and sharp as a scalpel, compelled him to act. He silently slipped off the chair, crossed the room, and cautiously, millimeter by millimeter, turned the handle, cracking the door just slightly.

The hum instantly transformed into clear voices.

"—...my carriage is stuck in the mud a mile from here!" the unfamiliar, sharp voice complained. "I had to send the outrider back on foot!"

"It's because of your impatience that you got stuck!" the Duke thundered in reply. "Did you even sleep?"

"I slept. For three hours. As soon as your messenger arrived, I roused my people and set out. We left at four in the morning to be here by six!"

Caelan slipped into the hallway and, keeping to the shadows, approached the top of the grand staircase. From there, he had a full view. Down below, in the middle of the magnificent hall, stood the Duke, arms crossed over his chest. Opposite him was a tall, lean man. His travel cloak clung to his body, water dripped from his silver, disheveled hair, and he was covered in a layer of mud from the knees down. Magister Ellard.

Slightly behind him, near the door, stood another figure who contrasted sharply with all this chaos. A young elf maiden who looked not much older than Lianna. Her clothes were perfectly dry and clean, as if the night's rain had simply passed around her. She was holding a large, waterproof bag and yawning openly, covering her mouth with her hand.

His gaze, now accustomed to seeing the world's hidden light, immediately caught her aura. It was a familiar, crystalline white—the mark of an elf. But it was… quiet. It flowed slowly, almost lazily, around her form. Compared to the turbulent, powerful blue storm that was Ellard's aura, hers seemed faint, almost weak. A calm pond next to a raging sea.

Her long, silvery eyelashes were stuck together with sleep, and her entire demeanor radiated a deep resentment at the whole world for waking her up at such an ungodly hour.

"—...and dragged me along," her quiet, sleepy voice was heard, finishing some previous complaint to Ellard. "Woke me from my sleep... as usual."

The Duke sighed heavily.

"I expected nothing less of you," he said. Then his voice rang out louder, echoing off the high ceilings of the hall. "Elias!"

From the shadows at the base of the stairs, the familiar figure of the butler emerged silently.

"Escort the Magister and his companion to their rooms in the east wing. They will need hot water and dry clothes," the Duke commanded. "And after that, take a few men from the stables and pull the Magister's carriage out of whatever ditch he's driven it into."

He paused, and his gaze hardened.

"Kira will go with you. Just in case."

Upon hearing this, Ellard merely pressed his lips together but remained silent. Arguing was pointless.

With those words, the Duke turned and, without another word, headed towards the west wing of the manor.

As his footsteps faded, Elias stepped forward. With an impassive face, he gestured for the guests to follow.

"This way, Magister. My lady. Breakfast will be served in an hour."

Ellard gave an irritated nod and followed the butler. The sleepy elf maiden, perking up at the thought of rest, shuffled after them. 

As the trio disappeared around a corner, Caelan began to descend the stairs soundlessly. He took a few steps, then paused halfway down.

Why?

The thought was a sharp, sudden spark. This is illogical. I should be preparing.

But the answer that surfaced from the quiet depths of his mind was even stranger, almost alien. I just… want to.

That word—want—felt foreign, almost forbidden. It was so illogical, so… human, that his hand moved on its own. It rose, his small fingers brushing against the hair on the crown of his head, searching for the ghost of a touch that was no longer there. He even tilted his head, trying to glance up at his own scalp. Strange.

He found no logical explanation. So, for the first time in a long time, he decided not to look for one. He simply accepted the impulse and continued down the stairs, obeying not his mind, but this new, unfamiliar pull.

He himself didn't know why. But he was heading in the same direction the Duke had just gone.

The corridors of the west wing were quieter. There was no bustle of servants preparing for breakfast here. Only muted light filtered through the high windows, painting long golden stripes across the dark carpets. Caelan walked, keeping his distance, his footsteps swallowed by the plush fabric.

Ahead, he saw a young servant with a silver tray approach the massive oak doors of the study. On it sat a single, elegant porcelain cup, a light wisp of steam rising from it. The servant stopped and knocked softly.

“Your Grace, your morning drink.”

“Enter,” came the calm voice from behind the door.

The servant opened the door and, noticing Caelan, respectfully stepped back, allowing him to enter first. Caelan walked in. The Duke stood with his back to them, at the enormous window overlooking the manor’s main avenue. He was staring off into the distance, lost in thought.

The servant silently placed the cup on the carved table. As he did, the Duke spoke, still without turning.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

The young servant flinched, startled by the voice at his back, and after a quick bow, exited, closing the door behind him. Silence fell in the study, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Caelan stood, not daring to disturb it.

After a short pause, the Duke’s voice came again, just as calm. “Come closer, Caelan.”

He knew.

Caelan slowly approached and stood beside him. From his height, all he could see was the heavy, dark windowsill. The Duke glanced down at him, a faint smile touching his eyes. With one easy movement, he lifted the boy and set him on the wide sill.

Now Caelan could see everything. Down below, on the wet road leading away from the manor, he saw a small party: several sturdy men from the stables and the slender, focused figure of Kira. They were walking at a steady pace, disappearing around a bend. The Duke’s gaze followed them, then drifted higher, towards the windows of the east wing.

“You see that impatience?” the Duke said quietly. “Once, it saved my daughter’s life. And nearly cost Ellard his own.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

“Your room… it was once Lianna’s nursery. One night, when she was only three, her power awakened for the first time. It was an uncontrolled discharge of raw energy. The furniture began to crack, and the air grew as cold as a crypt.”

The Duke’s voice grew hushed, filled with the barely concealed horror of the memory.

“I sent a messenger. And he came. He rode through a thunderstorm that night, much like this one, and arrived looking half-drowned. He burst into the room a moment before the energy could have torn Lianna apart from the inside. He didn’t try to suppress it. He… took the blast himself. He became a lightning rod.”

Caelan froze. He remembered it. The hairline fracture in the stone of the hearth in his room.

“The energy that passed through him struck the fireplace. That’s where the crack came from,” the Duke confirmed, as if reading his mind. “Lianna fell asleep immediately, as if nothing had happened. And Ellard lay unconscious for a week. His mana channels were scorched. I ordered everything repaired, except for that hearth. As a reminder.”

He finally turned his head and looked directly into Caelan’s eyes.

“He can be insufferable. But beneath all that chaos… he is the most loyal man I know. So… trust him.”

A silence fell in the study, but this one was different—warm, filled with understanding. Caelan processed the new data, and his mind immediately shifted to the other anomaly he had seen in the hall.

“Your Grace… that elf maiden, Caelira,” he said quietly. “Is she strong? I saw her aura. It’s white, like mine, but… pale. Much weaker than my own.”

The Duke didn’t answer right away. He smiled, recognizing his student’s analytical approach.

“What did I teach you at the chessboard, Caelan? The most dangerous piece isn’t always the loudest one.”

He looked directly at the boy, a warm spark of memory in his eyes.

“Your winning move against me… you sacrificed your knight to lure my queen into a trap. It looked like weakness, but it concealed a victory. Caelira is that same principle. She looks like a common pawn on the board. But in truth, she is a hidden queen.”

Caelan tilted his head, intrigued. “But what is her power?”

“In the circles of the aristocracy and the Academy, she has two names,” the Duke continued, his voice lowering. “The polite one is ‘The Stillness.’ But I prefer the other one. The one given to her by those who have seen what she can truly do. ‘The Void.’”

He leaned closer to Caelan, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a mischievous spark in his eye.

“Want to see why? I give you permission. Create the most powerful, fastest fireball you can manage. And hit her in the back when she least expects it.”

He saw the doubt on Caelan’s face and his smile widened.

“Don’t worry. You’ll understand what I mean when you see the result. You can even do it at breakfast. It might liven things up a bit.”

He lifted Caelan off the windowsill and set him on the floor.

“And now, let’s go. It’s almost time for breakfast. And if we’re late, our impatient friend, who knows nothing of stillness, will start setting the tablecloths on fire.”