“How dare you!” Anja shouted to the top of her lungs. “Let’s see how long you’ll manage before they kick you out with nothing. You’ll crawl back here and beg for my forgiveness, you see?”

She watched as the frail back of her son got further away. She kept shouting, caring little about whether her loud voice could still reach him or not. The neighbors could hear her clearly, that was for sure.

“Don’t even think about coming back to me crying, after you lose everything! You hear me?!”

It was a modest house in a residential area housing mostly low to middle nobles and affluent merchants. Even among commoners, Anja’s behavior was unsightly.

The ladies of the nearby houses pressed their ears and eyes to the window, watching her every move, recording her every word. This would be a good topic to discuss at their next gathering.

Anja growled at the neighbors’ windows, glaring at them as if she could look into her peeking neighbors’ eyes. She turned on her heels and slammed the door with a loud bang.

“He’s my son,” she muttered. “I am his mother! Is this how he repays everything I’ve done for him?”

To his credit, she had never really done anything noteworthy for him. But from Anja’s perspective, giving birth to him alone was already a huge contribution.

She didn’t want to acknowledge that a mother’s role was more than just giving birth.

A mother had to nurture her children, love them, and fulfill their needs, both physical and emotional. Anja hadn’t done any of them.

It was a burden she didn’t want to carry.

Looking at the sliced bread on the table reminded her of how arrogant her son had been just moments ago. She rushed there and swiped everything off the table with her hands. The expensive silverware, the fresh slices of bread, the water—everything spilled on the floor.

Her breath hitched. Throwing things didn’t make her feel better. It made her feel worse.

“Aaaarrggggghhhhh!!!!!” she screamed as loud as she could, jumping as she pounded the table with her fists.

***

“Everyone thinks art is made to entertain kings and nobles. That’s how they teach it now. But once, art was the crown,” Frau Mariane explained.

She did her best to condense the information, but history wasn’t meant to be summarized. As she struggled with her method of teaching, her voice slowly faded in Zuri’s ears, becoming more and more like background noise as Zuri drifted off to sleep.

“Rulers knelt before singers. The Keepers sang truths, and the land answered. Their voices bound treaties, healed wounds, and even silenced storms.Not by magic, but by meaning. But the king—” Frau Mariane abruptly paused when she noticed Zuri’s head bobbing.

The history teacher took a deep breath, holding herself back from scolding the spoiled young lady, as it could only end in her losing her job.

“Excuse me, Lady Zuri!” she spoke firmly, clenching the pen in her hand. “How do you expect to be an opera singer if you have no respect for Essentia?!”

She was so absorbed in suppressing her frustration that she didn’t realize the pointed end of the pen was soaking the paper with ink. Frau Mariane was shocked when she noticed it. She quickly put down the pen and balanced her rapid breathing.

“Forgive me, Frau Mariane,” Zuri said.

She snapped back to reality at her teacher’s harsh scolding. It wasn’t the loud voice that knocked some sense into her head; it was what Frau Mariane was saying.

She didn’t know that to be an opera singer, she had to study more than just singing itself. She didn’t know she had to learn its history too. But after hearing Frau Mariane’s words, she realized that she had taken singing too lightly.

Zuri was embarrassed.

Am I just like what people see me? That my passion for singing is a mere hobby? That I’d someday marry a gentleman and forget about singing?

Her drowsiness had completely gone. She kept her head low in remorse before lifting her chin with renewed spark in her eyes.

“Tell me, Frau Mariane, what is Essentia? I promise I’ll study more diligently about it.”

Frau Mariane recognized Zuri’s penitence and decided to give her a second chance. “Essentia is the essence of the soul, woven from truth, memory, and emotion. In the old days, it stirred in song, in silence, in stories too sincere to lie. Some called it a gift. Others feared it. Most forgot it.”

“Essentia,” Zuri repeated the word, liking how it tasted on her tongue, ”the magic of the soul.”

“Some awaken when a person is utterly sincere,” Frau Mariane said. Her expression softened as she noticed Zuri’s sincerity to learn. “Others when they hold fast, when they will not bend. Some bleed out through memory, through pain that refuses to be forgotten.”

Zuri tilted her head. “But why is it feared when it only brings out truths?”

For someone whose whole life is filled with beautiful truths, to put it mildly, she couldn’t understand why some truths could destroy lives.

“Because Essentia doesn’t obey. It responds. It’s a power that can't be controlled. That terrified nobles more than swords.”

Zuri still had so many questions. “But it’s gone now. No one has it. Shouldn’t things be fine?”

Frau Mariane shook her head slowly, smiling at the naive question. “Just because it’s forgotten doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Something that powerful can’t perish, My Lady. People nowadays just don’t know they have it, but soon, they will. The revival of the arts will trigger something, and I’m afraid it will be loud. Loud enough to change this kingdom.”

***

Emric stood before Schloss Artig again. This time, not to steal but to get paid. With only a few layers of clothes shoved into the cloth bag, he readied himself for this new chapter of his life.