125.5 : Notes of the Silver Quill
(Lyra’s POV)
The study was quiet except for the scratching of my quill and the faint crackle of the fireplace.
Stacks of parchment surrounded me — maps, expedition logs, reports from Solmaria, and half-finished letters to the guild.
But tonight wasn’t for politics or planning.
Tonight, I was recording them.
The children of Valemont.
The next generation that somehow managed to carry both chaos and hope in equal measure.
I dipped my quill into the ink, leaned forward, and began to write.
Status: Stable. Emotional growth evident.
Elara hasn’t changed much in strength — but her temperament has softened since the incident with Rooga three years ago.
She trains harder now, not out of pride but purpose.
The same girl who once saw the sword as glory now sees it as responsibility.
I can still remember her tears that night — the way she looked at her brother’s motionless body and swore she’d never lose control again.
She hides that guilt well now, buried under confidence and laughter.
But it’s there. I see it every time she draws her blade too carefully, as if afraid of cutting what she loves.
Elara will become a great swordswoman, perhaps even a greater leader.
But her heart still bends toward her brother’s shadow.
Status: Anomaly. Potential: Beyond measurable scale.
I’ve long stopped calling him prodigy.
He’s simply Rooga.
To think an eight-year-old child could cast an elven legend — a Supreme Spell that existed only in myths — is something even the most arrogant scholars in Asterion wouldn’t believe.
To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.
When I trained him between ages six and seven, I learned to despise his calm.
Every spell I showed, he mastered in hours — and then discarded it like a toy.
He’d move on, uninterested, as if chasing something far beyond what my lessons could give.
By the end of seven, he barely trained at all.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to NovelFire for the genuine story.
His sword collected dust, his notes untouched.
He walks the fields instead — talking to villagers, fixing carts, humming to himself like the world’s secrets are already known to him.
Perhaps that’s what true genius looks like — disinterest in everything ordinary.
Still, I thank the gods and the goddess that he bears no hatred toward Asterion.
If he did… even I’m not sure who could stop him.
I paused my writing and rubbed my temple. “Riaz,” I muttered aloud without thinking.
A small voice answered instantly. “Yes, Auntie?”
I blinked, startled, looking down to find him sitting on the floor near my desk, legs crossed, scribbling little monsters on spare parchment.
I hadn’t even noticed him there.
“I wasn’t calling you,” I said with a sigh.
He grinned up at me, ink on his cheek. “That’s okay. You can say my name all day if you want, Auntie.”
“Auntie, huh…” I murmured, shaking my head.
When he was one, every time I held him he’d babble Mom, and Selene’s stare could have burned holes through walls.
It didn’t take long before she told him firmly, Call her Aunt.
To think I’d earn that title before ever finding a husband of my own. Hmph.
Anyway, back to Riaz.
He’s quiet — more so than Rooga — but his curiosity is endless.
Where Elara seeks mastery and Rooga seeks understanding, Riaz seeks experience.
He learns from everyone:
Kain’s swordsmanship, Melissa’s defense, Acker’s archery, Noile’s brawling.
And at a frightening pace, too.
He doesn’t possess Rooga’s absurd power, but he has something rarer — diligence.
He never complains, never skips a session, never asks why.
If Rooga is the miracle, Riaz is the foundation that holds miracles steady.
The newest spark in the family — and already the talk of the estate.
Unlike Rooga, I can see her mana core. It glows unnaturally bright, like a star trying to live inside a human body.
She’s four.
Four.
I don’t think she’s insane like her brother — thank the heavens — but she might be even more gifted.
Where Rooga learned through structure, she moves through instinct.
She doesn’t calculate mana; she feels it, molds it like clay.
Selene calls her “our little flame,” but I see her as something else — the balance between her siblings.
Rooga burns too cold, Riaz too patient.
Eria? She’s warmth itself.
I suspect, in time, she’ll surpass even Selene.
Maybe that’s what terrifies me most — the realization that this family breeds miracles like flowers in spring.
I set the quill down and leaned back, letting the ink dry.
Four children.
Each one a legend in the making — or a disaster waiting for the right moment.
The world outside would kill for power like theirs.
And yet, all I wanted tonight was for them to stay as they were — laughing, bickering, living beneath Maori’s watchful roots.
I glanced toward the window, where the tree’s glow shimmered faintly in the distance.
“Keep them safe,” I whispered. “Especially that troublemaker.”
A soft breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the faint scent of mana — warm, serene, almost like an answer.
I smiled faintly and returned to my papers.