Bernadette, no longer the bearer of any family name, quietly examined the small bone that lay on the embroidered placemat in front of her.

It would undoubtedly be inappropriate to touch it.

She kept her hands clasped on the table.

Otherwise, the insensate urge to touch it would have been unbearable, and she was not about to embarrass herself.

Not any further.

As a proper noble lady, she had grown up with the valuable lesson that one could ask the staff for anything beyond their usual duties if they were well-paid enough.

That lesson had never failed her before—overpaid people were eager to perform tasks, especially if a tip was provided.

“I once again thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Bernadette said over the silence she had brought upon herself.

She had voiced her gratitude earlier, but anything short of repeating it would have her locked in place.

It would have her continuously asking herself a simple question to avoid thinking of how she had derailed everything.

Just what was she supposed to do with this information?

Bernadette’s instincts told her she most certainly had to do something, seeing as it could imply a failure on the late Champion Saint’s part when he liberated and cleaned up the area.

There was, however, an additional possibility she could not ignore—their return.

Her husband was nowhere near as great a threat as she heard the Tree Veins Champion had been, so perhaps the soulless fiends had grown bold.

The only issue with that theory would be how, by reputation, the kind of entity that looked human but was not, tended to fail at keeping a low profile.

Their communities, or even lone ones, were detected sooner or later purely by their inability to convincingly present themselves as human, even in cases where they could alter their appearance.

Had any stragglers remained—or chosen to return given the Champion Saint’s absence—it would have been borderline impossible for them to do so quietly.

So how, exactly, had three of them died in the mangal?

It has to be from before our time, Bernadette reasoned.

The simplest answer was bound to be the correct one.

She could spend hours thinking of ways in which they could perhaps have moved in and died, times between when either the staff or another member of the Rīsan family had monitored the area.

But the timeline would not match that which the forester was telling her.

As such, Bernadette had believed she could confidently speak her mind. “They were likely remnants those responsible for the cleansing of the area missed, when the Champion Saint reconquered these lands for humanity’s sake.”

Yet for the Champion Saint and his forces to have missed something this significant, it must have been unreachable.

That had been what felt like an hour ago, and Bernadette had yet to dig herself out of the social hole she had careened right into.

The forester had simply nodded back at her, his eyes on the placemat before her.

He had initially appeared more concerned as to whether she would give the bone back than anything else. As he had recounted the find to her, he had almost sounded thrilled.

A sharp contrast to the stoic figure that now sat across the table.

Bernadette was good enough at reading people… At least as far as she believed.

The conversation had not gone well, and she would do her best to not commit it to memory. Still, she believed her actions justified—how could she bring another child into this world without at least looking into the circumstances plaguing her youngest?

Some indeterminate amount of time into the silent contest for who could stare at the bone the longest, the man spoke.

“Correct my assumption should it be incorrect… you wish for me to advise you on how to find your ever-vanishing child?” when the forester met her gaze, it did not strike her as a look of anger—it was something closer to overdone neutrality. “I was under the impression my task is to ensure the wellbeing of the mangal that may or may not be a part of your property, and while I understood your request for my aid in combing the area, I fear I am not qualified to offer advice on childcare.”

“It is less about finding her, and more about how to understand her. The way I interpret this, the Champion Saint himself missed the skeletons of three seablooded fiends,” Bernadette raised her chin. “Yet you found them, where even he could not! It truly ties in—my daughter has been prone to disappearing, as far back as her first crawls. I could think of no one else to seek counsel from in such a matter, skilled as you appear to be in finding the lost.”

“Bones are quite easy to notice in the sand,” the forester assured her. “You cannot honestly believe this to be comparable. From what you described, it appears as though your child was born with an Inherent that enables her to move around unnoticed, unimpeded, or both. Inherents are unpredictable—you would be best served seeking a professional to advice you on it.”

“I do not wish to take this matter… out of this house, in a manner of speaking,” Bernadette exhaled. “I was the only mortal in my family, but my youngest-born is gifted. If she has such an Inherent, or even an Affinity… Certainly, you must be no stranger to how things may turn should word reach the wrong ears?”

In truth, Bernadette did not mean that—as peculiar as Adelheid was, her heritage was far too mundane for any overreaching mages to want to get between her and her family.

What she hoped was to strike a chord, play on a mage’s feelings.

She had hired the man through an intermediary, but Bernadette had her suspicions—her own conclusions about the remains and the Champion Saint pointed to something far less unassuming than a mortal forester hiding beneath that masked level.

Not just anybody could uncover the secrets of the waters.

The forester in question merely glared at her—he seemed awfully fond of taking his time to respond to anything.

“I will take a look, and share my thoughts. Nothing more,” he said, at last.

Bernadette gave him a practiced smile, gracefully shifting to stand up, the motion fluid. “I thank you greatly. Now is as good a time as any. The children still sleep, so my youngest should not have started teleporting away yet.”

“Pardon,” the forester froze before fully standing up. “She starts teleporting?”

“It may not be so,” Bernadette shamelessly shrugged. “As I stated previously, she vanishes for a time, once or twice a day. She always returns to us, but tracking her down grows increasingly difficult as she ages. I fear it could become a problem once she has grown enough to travel longer distances.”

Now, the look he gave her might have been one of anger.

----------------------------------------

Kristian Rīsan wrestled with the shame that loomed over him as he walked to Beuzaheim. Even the mere act of recalling how the after-party had gone was enough to threaten him with a headache worse than the one last night’s drinks had left in their wake.

He would not be voicing it anywhere near his wife, but he would perhaps go as far as to admit her decision to incorporate games in her ploys to get the townsfolk to warm up to them had turned out quite… fun. And he, of course, regretted that thought immediately.

Wave take me.

Kristian squirmed. How could he even think that? His reputation would plummet if word got around, but Bernadette had explicitly forbidden him from going after the carpenters who, after one drink too many, had stayed overnight playing that wretched game with him. There was plenty of blame to go around, in any case.

Not that Kristian would have acted against the men in the first place—did his wife think him an animal?

No, what he would address was the root of the problem.

It was a matter of principle.

Games were a waste of time, and why would they ever care for what the townsfolk thought of them? Kristian had certainly never had any issues navigating life by leveraging his powerful Presence—caring about relations was a waste of time.

Even if word did get around, and even more random strangers learned of Kristian Rīsan drunkenly accepting to go for a round or three of estuary-boats-and-conquest, everyone had their quirks. His reputation as a fearsome member of Zayden’s party could certainly outweigh a single questionable incident.

Probably.

Still, the annoyance within him was such that he had to leave as soon as he could, to identify all the stores that sold board games. He believed there was only one, regardless. Kristian would buy all that were available so that they could never be used against him again.

Who knew—perhaps luck would smile upon him, and he would find one similar to the one Bernadette had put out, but without the rules fit for morons. Then, as Zayden would say, they would have a ‘win-win’ situation in their hands.

Not that Kristian would go out of his way to play it, obviously—only if his wife forced him to, again. He simply wanted to put the option out there, that if he ever found himself forced to interact with guests again, his mood would not be spoiled.

As much as he would have loved to pretend this was merely about the game, the truth was two-fold—Kristian also had a fairly compelling reason to jump at the chance to be away.

His wife was expecting.

It should not have come as a surprise—Bernadette craved motherhood almost as fiercely as Katrina once had, if for starkly different reasons.

His late wife had been more interested in finally having a child who could inherit her Rare Affinity rather than in the children themselves. She had loved them dearly regardless, but Kristian knew she had struggled to keep her disappointment from affecting her relationship with them.

They had outsourced the details of the children's education and rearing as much as Bernadette did, and in truth, not once had Kristian questioned whether it was right.

Not until his eldest, the indisputable golden child, had gone and passed him over for guardianship of her child.

Sky-father, what did I ever do wrong?

It bothered Kristian more than it should. He had pondered it for days on end at times, even losing sleep to it more than once.

And he could not for the life of him determine why she would go out of her way to exclude him. Beryl had not chosen Anselm intentionally so much as she had simply skipped Kristian—that much became clear with how easy it was for Bernadette to take over.

Clearly, there had to be a flaw in Beryl’s outlook on life, because her father could find no grave offense committed against her, no reason for her to act as she had.

It was baseless.

So why did it hurt?

Kristian was no teenager, prone to outbursts or angst borne from nothing but weakness of the spirit. He owed no one any guilt or regret because he had always acted as he believed he should, and for past events that went badly, there was nothing he could do.

Apologies were worthless—for they did not actually take anything back—and regret was but poison to the mind, something that could cripple one's resolve should one not internalize that the past could not be changed, and as such, to let anything haunt the self would be self-sabotage.

For all he knew that rationally, Kristian could only push those thoughts away, never fully dismissed.

Stupidity stemming from unfounded feelings like these had to be some of the most irritating issues to deal with—he would have even gone as far as to rank it above mages on that scale, truly.

As he finally reached the true outskirts of Beuzaheim, Kristian would have sighed imperceptibly had he been physically capable of subtlety—instead, it just came off as if he had been exhaling after a grueling jog.

He was perfectly capable of hiring a carriage to town, but at his age, he knew better than to neglect the opportunity for exercise this presented. His Endurance and Speed had plateaued ages ago as far as natural growth went, but that was no excuse to be lazy. Attributes enhanced your basic capabilities, after all—being fit in the first place would make every point that much more worthwhile.

It had nothing to do with the fact that carriage drivers never actually showed up when he tried calling them.

Kristian rarely visited Beuzaheim in any sort of official manner. He rarely visited it in any manner—most of his men lived in town, and he rarely saw them nowadays. Being in their vicinity was strange—strictly speaking, they were people who owed loyalty to Zayden, remnants of the old times who rarely met up outside of their occasional hunts for mana to add to their leader’s obit.

His Inherent Aptitude was one he comprehended painfully well—Kristian could never truly let go of the departed if their relation went past a certain point, no matter how hard he tried to. Even repeat acquaintances could be annoyingly difficult to forget if he allowed himself to care for their existence in the slightest, so a considerable amount of effort went into trying not to get to know any of them much.

People had to be nothing but stones in the way, lest the same Inherent he cherished for how it ensured he had the strength to continue working towards Zayden’s return through the decades tear him apart. He could barely handle the frustration that came with knowing there was nothing he could do for Katrina as it was—though in some ways, being utterly incapable of acting on her behalf lessened that ache somewhat.

Kristian moved to push that all to the back of his mind—now was not the time.

Only when there is a Champion around. Only then was the feeling of letting that Inherent loose bearable.

He remained unsure as to how to feel about these thoughts coming to the surface now, of all times.

Blissfully, Kristian reached the gates, summoning a harvestable. He handed it to the guard without a word. An unblinking stare met him, but after a long moment, the guard waved him past.

They would have likely overcharged him in coin regardless, the greedy scum. Though they shared the [Enforcer] label—at least in most cases, seeing as Beuzaheim would let just about anyone be a guard—Kristian had never been fond of the type.

Zayden had been a literal hero, and all guards ever did was bring trouble to him. They were irritating stepping stones at best, obstructive puppets of the mayor or the nobles at worst.

Unimpeded, Kristian made his way to what he confirmed was the only store that sold the type of game Bernadette had bought, as far as he was aware of.

…And so it seemed, his previous bliss was doomed to be short-lived, for the shop’s door was locked, no light to be seen through the windows.

Kristian moved closer, leaning against the door as he knocked. Most of that which he had earned since merging two Skills had gone to his attributes, but that Perception of his, for all it forever lagged behind, was more than enough for him to notice the faint aura within the building.

Not all used that type of Skill to harness their Presence, but it was common enough. But the fact that they had an aura meant it would be nearly impossible for them not to know Kristian was knocking on their door.

What kind of fool senses a Level 225 at their door and fails to open it?

“Salutations, shopkeeper,” Kristian said. He was quite sure that was how the average mortal greeted traders to make it clear they were here to do business and intended no harm. A moment later, he hesitated, and decided to voice that as well. “I am here to do business.”

Surely, that much was obvious. The more he waited, the more suspicious he grew. Though no candles or scones lit the shop from within, a painted sign that announced it was open remained unflipped—had it been closed in haste?

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The door shook, and Kristian took a step back. He had no reason to stand in its way. A middle-aged mortal pushed the door open, so small that Kristian had to crane his neck to properly make eye contact. Her apron bore a nametag, which Kristian skillfully avoided reading.

“Kristian Rīsan,” she spoke his name strangely, as if rehearsed. “Are you here about your wife’s purchase?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

The woman took a deep breath, as if about to dive off a cliff. “Were they not to your liking?”

Kristian glared at her, weighing his options. They had absolutely not been to his liking, but he could not bring himself to state that when his intention was to clear them out. “They were fine. In fact, I am here to purchase all of your boardgames on my wife’s behalf.”

That’s it—blame Bernadette. It would certainly get back to his wife, but what was she to do? Complain about how he spent his own money?

Blinking, the shopkeeper glanced inside. She gave a nod, and several people crawled out from under the store’s various tables. Some brushed themselves off and appeared to resume some previous browsing of the merchandise, while others sped past shopkeeper and Kristian alike, dashing away.

What in any Devil’s name?

“I see,” the woman nodded. “You may enter, then. I will show you to the… to the section. You say your wife means to buy all of them?”

“Naturally,” Kristian agreed. “My wife’s choice to purchase those boardgames has been quite impactful for all involved, so I will not allow this chance to go to waste.”

It struck Kristian that this had to be one of the zaniest situations he had found himself in—he could not even bring himself to be genuinely angry.

As they walked, he could not help but notice how tiled the store was. Small white tiles from floor to ceiling, perfectly spaced with black grout between them. Someone had clearly gone through a lot of effort to ensure they fit in exactly, so not a single tile had to be split to fill space in. Bright red shelves—the same hue as the mantelpieces on the tables—covered both side walls.

It distracted Kristian so badly that he did not hear a single word of what the shopkeeper said as she explained the boardgames.

In Kristian’s defense, he had not intended to listen to her in the first place.

“Do they come with instructions?”

“Yes?”

“Then that will be all,” Kristian started pulling out harvestables. Three was probably enough to cover a month’s salaries for the average employee, but he had slipped the lowlife at the gate a full one. He’d half a mind to make it be four harvestables—how was he to pay her only thrice what he bribed a guard with? “Is this enough?”

The shopkeeper was practically taking them off his hands as soon as he motioned to hand them to her. “Indeed, this is enough for the entire shelf.”

Nodding, Kristian started inventorying the boxes, not even bothering to read the labels. A few of them had quaint painted designs. With the shelf labeled tabletop now emptied, Kristian seriously considered taking her phrasing literally and just taking the whole wave-taken shelf with him to use it as fuel for a fire later, or something of the like. He would be doing her a favor!

“Is there anything wrong?” The woman asked nervously. The harvestables were long gone.

“No,” Kristian assured her as he continued to stare blankly at the now-empty shelf. “I have to ask. Is this my daughter’s work?”

The shopkeeper exhaled for longer than seemed humanly possible. “Indeed, I was among the young lady’s first clients,” her tone was oddly neutral, as if she were intent on keeping something out of it. “She certainly has a noticeable style.”

Things went wrong sometimes. One would not always be satisfied with the jobs one hired another to do. But that was the way life went. As such, in matters of life, Kristian would consider very few grievances to be valid, and this would unfortunately be one of them, even if the shopkeeper had said nothing of the sort.

He hoped that, at least, Thekla had given this woman her money back, lest he find himself having to wipe this place off the face of the land to hide all evidence of this having ever happened.

Summoning two more harvestables, Kristian handed them to the shopkeeper. “Were you to find yourself with any more of these on your shelves, have word sent to me and I shall purchase them at a premium as well. For my wife, of course.”

He did not bother to await confirmation—and a part of him dreaded she might actually follow up on this—instead speeding off the path. His memories of Beuzaheim were few, barely enough to not get lost in it, but he was confident in his ability to find the right place.

Kristian was even careful enough to not run anyone over on his way there.

At last, he reached a peculiar steep hill on the side of town, the type few frequented due to its proximity to the sea above—the perfect place to dispose of unwanted objects. He had grown up close enough to the sea that he did not feel particularly uncomfortable there—not that he would not keep his distance still.

The thought stirred one of his recent concerns—Beryl’s daughter was so curious it hurt. Kristian could not recall when anyone had last questioned him about anything related to his origins, yet he had felt the urge to run. If he had not, he feared he might have been stuck trying to explain the concept of death and the sea to a three-year-old.

And even Kristian knew he was the last person one would want teaching a child about such things.

As he settled on the squarest rock he could find, Kristian’s first act was to summon all copies of the game he had played during the party, and send them flying to the sea. Enough pieces fell off that he regretted not ensuring the boxes would remain closed.

Kristian sighed, moving to pick them up, casting them off as he went.

Just why had it come to this? It was almost enough for him to swear off ever drinking so much at a party again—he rarely did so in the first place, but apparently, the bottles of Zayden’s moonshine that Katrina had sealed off should have stayed sealed. If even an effective Endurance of nearly eighty-thousand could not curb the worst of it, Kristian admittedly had no business drinking it.

“If it isn’t the little Rīsan lord!”

Kristian almost sent the last piece flying towards the speaker. The man was not hard to notice—he was just within Kristian’s range, and moving closer.

“It appears you can recognize me, yet I am not afforded the same privilege.”

“Really?” the man’s lips turned downwards in an exaggerated expression. “It breaks my heart to know any of the hollow cores know not the name of their dear mayor.”

So this is him. “You are in no position to say so when I am but a visitor to this town of yours,” Kristian sent the last piece off as he raked his memories for the name of this fur-clad buffoon. That oversized coat did not appear even remotely practical, even for The Snow. “I do not suppose you have a valid reason for speaking to me? I have some objects to dispose of.”

“Heh. Evidence of anything?”

“That implication might weigh heavily on the mind of any who would care,” Kristian said noncommittally—he had never been one for banter, and this man was not worth the effort. Not to mention, he could dispose of these just as easily in the mangal next to the manor. This location would simply have been more covert. Or should have been. “And I fear I shall stay no longer, for my task is complete. May you remain safe from the waves, little Maryem lord.”

“H—”

Hollow core or not, the mayor’s words were clearly not loud enough to remain intelligible when Kristian started running. Much of the gravel on the paths was disturbed, and he tossed a harvestable in the direction of what he believed to be the town’s maintenance building.

And to think, Kristian had almost found himself having a good day.

----------------------------------------

Anselm Rīsan had gotten no closer to decoding his mother’s intentions, but his pocketbook had grown nearly imperceptibly heavier. He was glad he had purchased that encyclopedia on the way back home, for cutting out words from it had turned out to be quite the surprising loophole.

His thrill for writing had been brief—the blessing did indeed daze him if he tried to write as well. However, tossing a word here and there, then moving away for a time, seemed to do well enough to let him pin a decent amount on a page.

Enough that seeing them close together had to make anyone grow suspicious.

The pocketbook rested before him on his quarters’ desk—Anselm could do nothing but gaze upon it. He did not trust himself to open it, to read the words he had haphazardly tossed in there.

As the days went by, he had grown to regret his outing more and more—the innkeeper and her companion would undoubtedly bring trouble to him down the line. He was also unsure as to just for how long he had slept during his stay at the inn—what he had believed to be a single day appeared to have been nearly a week.

And he had not made it back in time for his sister’s celebration.

Matilda would be livid, but Anselm would apologize, and speak with Bernadette to seek suggestions on how to make it up to her. She would know best.

For now, he remained locked in his quarters. Something had changed, and today, he had awoken in the same manner he had then—abruptly aware of himself, unable to move a muscle, until the blessing in his core rose like a sun on a horizon, and all but forced him to breathe anew.

Sometimes, there were dreams, but they were foggy mirages compared to what he had seen back at the inn.

Again, he had lost time, though perhaps a day or two this time. Everything was sharper than it had been just before, enough that the pattern seemed clear to him—he would worsen and worsen until he felt as though he might die, then after the pain of whatever the blessing did passed, he would feel surprisingly well.

I made a mistake in running off somewhere else to die, Anselm admitted, though he could hardly blame himself. Something about how certain he had been of it, combined with the ideas his brain haunted him with, of who might find him dead and how.

Truly pernicious seasickness left dust behind—not obits.

He placed his hand over his pocketbook, sending it to his inventory. Its time would come eventually, if he ever saw Hanne again. If enough time passed with her gone, he might consider going to somebody else—perhaps Bernadette—but he understood he would be unable to explain himself. At least Hanne knew enough to perhaps connect the dots.

A part of him wondered if his hunger should have bothered him more, but he was not in the mood to leave his quarters—the warmth that flowed through him since awakening remained, and while this energetic spell lasted, he would make the best of it.

It had been far too long since he last let [Freehand Alchemy] run loose. Old Martin had always warned against using this whenever not in a good state of mind—the Skill kept them from being locked into strict recipes, but relied heavily on quick thinking to be able to mitigate any dangerous reactions.

Whether Anselm was even capable of clarity nowadays was dreadfully up for debate, but he would wait no more. By now, the cycle seemed predictable enough that he suspected he would barely be able to move within three or four days.

His initial plan had been to prepare five concoctions, but he was no longer sure as to whether he could achieve that. He combed through everything he and Hanne had kept in the drawers—he had been certain they’d had more neutralizing water in stock.

Did Hanne take anything when she left?

If she had, Anselm had not quite been in a position to notice.

Sighing, he examined the container. Perhaps two. That was as much as he could manage, though it was a shame.

There were only so many ways to detect the touch of the sea, and he knew only a handful of them. This number was further narrowed down when he took into account just which ingredients he had at hand. Still, if he’d had more of this water at hand, he could have handled four mixtures at minimum.

They were also often geared towards objects, such as those meant to detect whether something had been left out for too long during The Rain. Only one was meant to test people for exposure that could prove troublesome, in the form of an ointment that would harden and crack soon after application even if the person showed no symptoms of seasickness.

Bernadette likely knows more.

Yet Anselm obviously could not ask her—his old friend was far from dumb. She would ask questions, which he would be unable to answer. It would be troublesome for him and Hanne alike.

Setting out two crystalline bowls, he set out to prepare these before he could think better of it. He split the water as evenly as he could manage, knowing even an imperfect amount would serve with his Skills active.

In truth, Anselm had no idea what he expected, no idea why he was wasting his time doing this.

He just wanted to see it with his own eyes, even if it was just to confirm that which was blatantly there.

For the first one, he went with powdered bane-of-brine mixed with samdazblad extract. The former was not fit for consumption, as it was a particular type of rock known for remaining unscathed when touched by the waves, and the latter came from a plant of the same reputation, though it was safe to ingest. Combined, they could be used to detect whether a non-solid was contaminated, as the ingredients would isolate it from the rest of the concoction.

Anselm stirred it all in with a delicate metallic spoon, until the motion and his Skills turned it into a smooth, translucent green-gray mixture.

The second one only required a single ingredient, crushed sielschelle. It was also far simpler, as the test it was geared towards relied on being able to see the reaction through the neutral waters.

Your [Flawless Amalgam] Skill has improved! 40 → 41

Your [Freehand Alchemy] Skill has improved! 41 → 42

Your [Potency Margin] Skill has improved! 35 → 36

You have reached Level 100!

Under other circumstances, this would be cause for celebration.

Slowly letting out a breath, Anselm took a step back. Arguably, he’d gone through barely any effort as it was—these were not exactly complex recipes.

He was somewhat pleased to find he could once again feel his heart pounding in his chest as he pushed away the panic. It would just be a tiny cut. That had worked out for that lunatic Jericho, had it not?

The blessing did not stop him from pressing the needle against his fingertip, but he found it was a struggle. Something told him he could not have gotten this far had there been witnesses.

It was mostly painless—Anselm frowned at the realization that he could not identify the exact sensation. He could somewhat feel the needle, like a dull pressure under his skin, but he felt no urge to wince.

He also did not bleed.

Anselm stared at the ‘wound’, befuddled. How had Jericho pulled it off? He was less surprised by this than by the fact that it had clearly worked for the alleged doctor. Had his choice of implement mattered?

The idea of using a knife was… unappealing. It should have been in the back of his mind at this point, but he found he was unsure as to just how much he could heal on his own when he barely felt alive at times. He had some of Hanne’s salves at hand, but nothing good enough to heal him as well as Jericho’s healing cream had.

Yet he could not think of another way. He summoned a small blade meant for mincing leaves, pressing it to his left index finger just as he had with the needle. It certainly helped that he could not feel it, not truly, but it still made him uneasy.

Impulse pushed that away soon enough—Anselm pressed the blade further as it failed to react. In truth, this was far more concerning than anything the tests he planned could have yielded.

Unwilling to waste any more time, he reached within. His condition would experience a fleeting improvement when he focused on the blessing’s manifestation in his core—would this be any different? The moment he drew on it, he gasped, pulling the blade away.

It took a few heartbeats, and little happened, but droplets rose from the cut. It would have been blood, nothing peculiar, had it not been for the sheen to it, like the sight of the sun touching the waves.

That was not a sight he should have been able to recognize.

Anselm shook himself back into focus, scrambling to place his hand over the first bowl. Three drops touched the waters, and he moved on to the next one. He barely managed two on the next before it simply… stopped. Even with the sunlit warmth in his veins, the cut had swiftly gone cold and unbleeding.

The wound remained, but it appeared almost old, and he shuddered. In some ways, he had grown to accept his bizarre state as the new normal, but this recent clarity forced him to face it more thoroughly. Some details had been easier to ignore when he could barely think.

In the end, it was as Anselm expected—and feared. It was not what the tests were for, but they pointed to it all the same. He watched the first bowl with a defeated sigh, the drops floating like bubbles for the concoction would not allow it to truly enter the mixture. To its right, pieces of sielschelle cracked as strangely iridescent darkness spread through the waters.

He reached for both bowls at once and banished them from his sight. Later, he would dispose of them. And of the pocketbook.

Anselm scuffled to his bed, unwilling to sit down anywhere near the workstation. He shut the blinds that divided the section from it, allowing darkness to swallow him—that only worsened the terror in his chest.

He felt infinitely small as he sunk against his pillows and screamed.

----------------------------------------

Bernadette moved through the manor in silence, fully intent on smuggling a near-stranger through it.

Her house, her rules. What was Kristian going to do? Complain about how she handled her own matters?

Not seeing him after exiting the foyer had irked her beyond reason—where had her husband run off to this time?

Mien held her hand throughout, lest her expression slipped.

With company, she could not express her anger, not truly.

This was Kristian’s fault, and her partially willing guest should not bear the brunt of that, should her temper falter.

“Here,” she said in a whisper, holding the door slightly ajar.

Her vision was imperfect, her Vigilance not geared towards gazing upon dark rooms.

She could still notice that faint wrongness shrouding her daughter’s sleeping form, a flickering of her image, as if she would fade into the shadows any moment now.

The forester, who kept his distance, was looking to the opposite side of the room—an understandable mistake, as Bernadette had not pointed.

With a motion, she corrected herself. “That one. Is it an Inherent?”

His eyes widened, though they seemed strangely unfocused. “The Level 9. You are asking me about the Level 9.”

“Indeed, that is her.”

He blinked, as if confused by her confirmation. “The Level 9 child is the reason for your concerns.”

“Obviously?”

“I understand,” he said slowly. At no point had he even come close to the door, as if the hall were as far as he could comfortably go. “Congratulations, your child has an Affinity. I would suspect the root of your problems is that.”

The forester seemed eager to leave after that, and Bernadette would not insist—she would rather not wake anyone up and have to explain anything.

Discomfort was plain on his face, enough that it almost worried her.

On their way down the stairs, Bernadette had half a mind to press the matter. “Is there anything wrong?”

As the pattern went, she did not get her answer immediately.

“Do not ask me for such a favor again,” he said as he moved towards the exit. “Your family troubles… You must face them head on, not behind their backs.”

“Pardon?”

“You wanted my advice. It appears I will be giving it, after all,” the forester looked up, slowly sighing. “Be forthright. Tell her you worry. Let her know she can rely on you. If you can have an honest conversation with your children, you will learn far more than you could from asking unqualified people for their opinion.”

Bernadette’s turn to glare had come.

She watched the man walk away, her fists having clenched on their own.

People rarely disrespected her—and she struggled to determine why she took offense in the first place here. He had not insulted her.

She regretted not having vetted him before hiring him—at least then, she would have known whether or not she could confidently push back, instead of simply letting it go.

Suppressing an unladylike huff, Bernadette turned her back on the entryway.

Had he been serious?

Bernadette attempted to picture herself sitting down with Adelheid, her features stoic, all to have a simple talk.

She could not fathom it.

Her daughter was but a toddler, not yet aware enough for her to hold a conversation. Bernadette recognized how the access to mana Affinities provided could improve children’s ability to learn, yet…

Bernadette hurried up the steps, back to the room in which her daughter and ward both slept, leaning over the bed as soon as she got there.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Adelheid. In truth, she loved the child, for all she could not afford to spend her days with her.

Bernadette simply had too much to do. Too many responsibilities.

Especially with the one to come.

She had grown numb to Adelheid’s frequent disappearances, yet a part of her languished in this quiet dread, that one day she might simply not come back.

A single tear slipped past her lashes before she caught herself, summoning a linen napkin to dry her eyes.

Not here. Not in front of her.

It took but a moment.

Bernadette dismissed the napkin, ready to gaze upon her child again.

The bed was empty, and she stumbled back.

Her breath caught in her chest.

Bernadette turned to the door she had shut behind her, glancing at the bed where her ward rested. She searched behind the curtains, under both beds.

She stumbled again, moving to leave before shooting Adelheid’s bed one last glance.

Her daughter was there, her slumber peaceful.

Bernadette knelt on the carpeted floor, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Unseemly as it was, she panted.

For a moment, she could not project calmness. Her Mien might as well not have existed.

As she calmed herself, she steeled her resolve—she would await her daughter’s wakefulness, and see this through, after all.

No more would this remain unaddressed.