Dictum
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Sunday,” Eleanor said warmly.
“It’s nothing, madam,” he replied with a casual shrug. “I’m only doing my job. Master Vincent pays me a generous amount of coins for this sort of thing.”
The three of them walked side by side through the narrow, cobbled streets on their way home. Mr. Sunday and Eleanor conversed easily, their words flowing like old friends catching up. Viena, however, was quiet—though not out of shyness. Her sharp little eyes were busy examining every detail of Mr. Sunday’s attire: his well-worn leather boots, the sweeping drape of his cloak, the buckles on his belt, the bulging pouches at his side, and even the tiny, polished buttons on his tunic.
It wasn’t fashion she was interested in. No—she was trying to figure out exactly what he had done to that thug earlier, the one who had dropped like a stone before anyone could react.
Mr. Sunday caught her staring. “Is there something you need from me, Viena?”
“Ah! You remember me!” she blurted, startled but pleased.
“Of course, little miss. I remember the people worth remembering.”
Eleanor raised a brow. “And where exactly did the two of you meet?”
“At Uncle Liam’s place in Niems,” Viena explained. “When I went there with Lisabelle for the hunting season!”
“Oh, I remember that one,” Eleanor said thoughtfully.
“But I honestly didn’t expect Mr. Sunday to even know me,” Viena went on. “I mean, we didn’t even speak to each other back then.”
Mr. Sunday gave a small bow of his head. “Then I owe you an apology for not greeting you properly the other day. But let’s just call this”—he gestured between them—“a form of professionalism.”
“Professionalism?” Viena echoed, puzzled.
“I work for Master Vincent,” he said matter-of-factly. “Master Vincent cares deeply for Lisabelle. Lisabelle cares deeply for you. That means if something were to happen to you, Lisabelle would be upset, and if Lisabelle’s upset, Master Vincent will be upset. And if Master Vincent is upset, well… I will almost certainly be upset—because he’ll take it out on everyone under him. Including me.”
Mr. Sunday shook his head in mock pity, as if imagining a particularly grim fate for himself.
Viena laughed, the sound light and bubbling in the cooling evening air. Their conversation meandered from one subject to another as they strolled through the lantern-lit streets, and before long, they had reached their destination.
Mr. Sunday turned to take his leave. “Well, now that you’ve arrived safely, I’ll—”
He stopped, looking down at her with mild amusement. “Yes?”
“There’s something I forgot to ask!” she said, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What exactly did you do to that thug who suddenly collapsed earlier?”
Mr. Sunday’s answer was smooth, almost too smooth. “I cast a sleep spell on him.”
Instead of reacting immediately, Viena simply stared at him. Her gaze was steady and unblinking, taking in the half-mask over his face as if trying to read the truth behind it.
“Lies,” she said at last. “Papa told me sleep spells only work on people who are already unconscious.”
That caught Mr. Sunday off guard. He has been caught wet lying. His brows rose, and for a brief moment, he regarded the girl with genuine intrigue.
“I knew it,” she pressed, her voice low but certain. “You ... killed him, didn’t you?”
“Viena!” Eleanor hissed, scandalized by her bluntness.
Mr. Sunday chuckled softly, letting the tension dissolve. “Then, if you want the full thing, you can go and ask your father about… Dictum.”
“Dictum?” Viena repeated under her breath.
“Until then,” he said, inclining his head, “I bid you good night. May your dreams be as restful as they are long.”
With that, Mr. Sunday turned and strode down the darkened street, his cloak rippling in the wind. Viena stood rooted to the spot, her mind buzzing. She had just learned something very interesting—something she needed to know more about.
She could hardly wait to tell her father. Hopefully, he wouldn’t come home too late tonight.
It was nine o’clock at night. The entire house lay in quiet slumber—except for Viena. Lisabelle, who had earlier promised to teach her about the atlas, had surrendered to sleep after barely five minutes of reading together. She looked so utterly exhausted that Viena couldn’t bring herself to wake her. Instead, the girl slipped away into the living room, waiting for her father’s return.
Half an hour later, the creak of the front gate broke the silence. Viena immediately put water on the stove to boil for tea before hurrying to greet him at the door.
“Papa, you are late,” she said with a small pout.
“Yes. There was a lot of work—especially after all the competitions wrapped up,” he replied, loosening the laces of his boots.
As always, Viena clung to his broad, tall back with a kind of lazy affection before they both moved through the familiar rhythm of their nightly routine. Soon after, freshly washed and dressed, the father settled into his chair with Viena perched on his lap. Together, they sipped steaming tea in the soft glow of the lamplight.
“Why are you not asleep yet?” he asked.
“Because I have a question. And Lily couldn’t answer it for me, so I can only rely on you!” Viena looped his arm around her waist, drawing warmth from his presence.
“All right—what is it you want to ask?”
“What do you know about… ‘Dictum’?”
The father froze for a moment. He hadn’t expected that word to come from her lips. Dictum was a rare magical term, barely known even among seasoned scholars of the arcane. How could she have stumbled across it? Did their modest library really hold something that obscure? He wasn’t sure.
“Where did you learn that word?” he asked.
“Today I saw someone using strange magic that made people fall asleep instantly,” Viena said, her tone light but carefully measured. “And I overheard one of the passersby saying that word—Dictum.”
She lied without a blink. If she told him what had truly happened, her father would almost certainly confine her to the house for weeks, lecturing about safety and all the reasons she shouldn’t wander into trouble.
“Dictum… is a form of power unlike conventional magic. Some believe it to be the truest magic of the human race.”
“What does it look like? Can you show me?”
Viena’s eyes sparkled with anticipation, but Randia slowly shook his head.
“I can’t use it.”
“Why not?”
“For those bound closely to the gods, learning or wielding Dictum is… extremely difficult—usually impossible.”
Viena, still not fully understanding, began rubbing the soles of her feet together—a small habit she had whenever something unsettled her.
“So what exactly is Dictum? How does it work?”
“…I don’t expect you to truly grasp it, but there’s no better way to explain. Dictum is a race-born magic of pure intent, a power absolute in its collective strength, and it takes its price directly from the one who wields it. Only certain people can use it.”
“Does it use the flow of Meta and Anima too?”
“No. All it requires is for the user to steel their heart. But in some cases, when the caster speaks their will aloud—clearly and with certainty—it becomes even stronger.”
“So… it’s just a wish?”
“Hm. That’s a huge oversimplification. But if that makes it easier for you to understand, then yes. A wish… with a price.”
“What’s the price?” Viena pressed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Depends. It’s different for everyone. Could be your hair turned bald, you feeling unwell for a long time, and so on.”
Her questions finally satisfied, Viena let out a small sigh and rested her head against her father’s chest.
“I see… How interesting. Do you think I could use Dictum to make myself tall and big like you, Papa?”
“Don’t be silly. It’d be a waste to lose something precious just for a wish like that,” Randia replied, brushing his fingers lightly through the edge of her hair. “Besides… you’re fine just the way you are.”
“Oh? You mean, like—I’m so pretty my height doesn’t even matter?” Viena grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“More like,” Randia said without missing a beat, his expression perfectly straight, “no matter how tall you get, you’ll always be small in my eyes.”
Viena’s jaw dropped. “You’re a jerk! Bleh!” She stuck out her tongue at him in annoyance, though the faint pink on her cheeks betrayed her amusement.
They spent the rest of the night exchanging stories about the first day of Ludus Magnorum. Randia, who hadn’t seen any of it, listened patiently as his daughter recounted every curious moment she had witnessed. Before long, Viena let out a soft yawn. The stories were set aside for tomorrow—when she would surely return with more tales of matches yet to come.