Absinthe's easy smile cracks on his face as he points downwards, in the direction of Melchior's boots.

"In your shadow."

"The whole time?"

"Eh… ever since you went into my room. So yeah I guess. I just wish you didn't make a mess of it though."

Melchior picks up the herding pole, the bubble syrup still dripping from the circular hook at the end. He hands it to Absinthe and asks, "So you baited me up here? With the bubble syrup on the windowsill?"

"Nothing escapes your eyes," Absinthe replies with a smile. "I just wanted to spend some time up here with you. Before tomorrow, y'know?"

Grumbling, Melchior pulls out his silver pocket watch. "I was searching for the greater part of an hour. You couldn't just… not hide in my shadow?"

Absinthe remains silent as he pulls out a small glass vial from his dark trousers. He twists the lid open and shakes the capsule, releasing the bluish liquid onto his index finger. Bubble syrup.

In one arc, he moves his finger in a ring around the metal hoop at the end of the rod.

The bubble syrup at the top of the arc drips down to the lower half before Absinthe blows into the hoop that's the size of probably two of his heads.

A large half bubble is created, pushing furiously from the large metal ring.

Melchior sighs as he assists Absinthe by blowing into the ring as well.

The massive bubble floats clumsily in the gentle breeze.

The bubble sinks towards the world beyond the manor. Past the silver gates is a destroyed city. The horizon is littered with debris and the clusters of destroyed houses that sit on cobblestones and dirt like small anthills of shredded wood.

This is the reality of their home. Or at least his father's. Absinthe was born after this city was destroyed by the Orthodox Forces.

It is said that the Orthodox Hero of the war, Vesera vi Rosenfeld, Invoker of the Ice Goddess Nivalis, flattened everything from the gates of the city into its heart in one attack. The ice had long since melted, but Absinthe swears that some areas in the ruins are still freezing cold.

By all means, he should hate her, Versera, but according to Orthodox claims, they deserved it.

The East annihilated his father's home and following the war, they decreed that the Unorthodox Alliance's Capital, Misest, could not rebuild on their lands any longer.

In his and Melchior's studies about the Eastern world, their family in particular are denounced as the ultimate sin of the world.

A little too harsh, Absinthe would say.

Absinthe resented their claims, after all he, his brother, and his father had done no wrong to others or himself, for all he knew.

But he did know. He knows that the ex-Master of the Cult of Saklos all those years ago did commit a great crime against the world. And now, Absinthe sits on this great dilemma where he is expected to inherit the cult, Veiler, as the heir to his father who inherited it after well… killing his father.

"They're going to seriously hate us," Melchior mutters as he takes a seat on the wood, letting his feet dangle five stories above the ground.

As Melchior's boots thudded against the wooden roof, Absinthe's gaze wandered to the sprawling ruins below, the skeletal remains of buildings a haunting testament to the devastation wrought by Vesera vi Rosenfeld's icy wrath.

The wind carried the faint whispers of the past, echoes of screams and shattering glass, and Absinthe's eyes clouded with a mix of anger and somberness. His father's words, echoing in his mind, reminded him that the Eastern world branded their family as abominations, guilty by association.

"Course they are," Absinthe replies nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.

"And that doesn't unnerve you? To be the object of such scorn?"

Absinthe's gaze lingered on the ruins, his eyes darkening as the shadows of his family's past seemed to writhe and twist around him. He felt the weight of his father's legacy, the burden of the pain caused by the previous Master of Veiler. His voice, however, remained steady, a mask of nonchalance still plastered on his face. "Why should it? We're not guilty of anything, are we?"

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The question hung in the air, a challenge to the Eastern world's narrative, as he turned to face Melchior. His violet eyes sparkled with a hint of defiance, but his words belied the turmoil brewing within.

Absinthe sits beside Melchior and faces him. His expression is solemn as he says to his brother. "But as for you... you should hide your last name. It's me that they know of, as the heir to Veiler. Sure your Invocation Magic is a little… unorthodox, but you can pass it off as the abilities of some minor Orthodox God."

An amused expression is plastered on Absinthe's face as he continues, "Hells… it could be Regnilas instead! That's Salinger backwards, isn't it? Melchior Regnilas, it has a sort of dignity behind it, no?"

But Melchior isn't amused in the slightest. His gaze moves from Absinthe to the ruins of the city beyond them. "You're a damned idiot if you think I'm going to relinquish the last name your… our father gave me."

Absinthe's shoulders lower as a sigh escapes his lips. "May Saklos, silence you! You know what you're getting yourself into, yeah?"

"Yes, brother."

Absinthe's shoulders rise this time in a shrug. "Don't come crying to me when an Orthodox Invoker has something to say. The Practical Entrance Exams are tomorrow, aren't they?"

As the siblings sat in silence, the only sound being the gentle rustling of the wind through the ruins, Absinthe's gaze drifted back to the devastation below. The shadows seemed to stir, as if awakened by his thoughts. He felt the weight of his family's legacy, the burden of his father's crimes, and the expectation to follow in those footsteps. The darkness within him whispered secrets, tempting him with the power to prove himself, to prove his family's worth.

The silence was broken by the creaking of the wooden roof as Melchior stood, his boots scraping against the surface. "We should get going, Absinthe."

Absinthe glances languidly to his brother. "Are you packed yet?"

Melchior's gaze slid towards the small satchel slung over his shoulder, a token of his readiness. "I've got everything I need, Absinthe. We should leave before the sun dips too low. We don't want to cross into the Aetheris Magna looking like beggars." The brother's words carried a hint of urgency, tempered by the long-practiced habit of caution.

A silence emerges between them as Absinthe frowns a moment after. The topic is changed sporadically as he says, "Pops won't let me inherit his Grimoire."

"Seriously? Why not? It's a better time than any for you to make a pact with it."

"Something along the lines of… c'mon you know what he'd say. It's gabber like how I'm not ready. Only Saklos knows when that'd be."

Melchior snorts and retorts. "Ah, knowing father, Saklos would say never."

"Zip it," Absinthe replies as he stands back up, fully facing the breeze. It's beginning to pick up its pace now that the sun is falling and night is approaching. "I'll head down to the undercity. I need to return this herding pole. Besides, Father is probably down there in the temples. Maybe I can try to persuade him one more time."

Absinthe's long, wavy black hair flows gently in the breeze. His father wished for him to cut it before the Entrance Exam… maybe he'd do it if he got that grimoire in return.

He pushes off the ground and balances on the edge of the rooftop before hopping off. Melchior peeks his head out and watches Absinthe fade into the shadows in their courtyard.

The shadows ripple as if a stone had been tossed into an onyx lake. The echoing pulsating stops as Absinthe rises from the shadows's depths, unharmed. He waves up to Melchoir and beckons him down.

His brother shrugs and walks off the ledge, dropping five stories onto the grass, crushing a scattering of colorful plants under him. His small, ornate clock earring on his right jingles loudly.

Both Absinthe and Melchior wince.

"Oh shit."

"You idiot," Absinthe whispers as he crouches down, trying to lift a smashed tulip. "You couldn't just have… like broken the stone trail instead?"