The Light Beneath the Surface

The soft click of the door echoed in the quiet room. The elf—tall, graceful, her expression unreadable—paused by the frame before stepping out. Her eyes, glowing faintly like the moon through frost, met mine.

"Be careful with the magical medical device," she said, voice low, almost a whisper. "It's still stabilizing your core. And... don't tell anyone about our conversation."

I blinked. Something in her tone felt off—like a hidden ripple beneath still water. I gave her a raised brow and a crooked smile, then lifted my hand and gave her a slow, skeptical thumbs-up.

She snorted gently, like air escaping through a closed smile, then turned away. I watched as she spoke to someone outside—someone I couldn't see from my angle. Her hand lifted, gesturing directly toward me. Then, without another glance, she stepped aside... and left.

And that's when I saw him.

Father.

He entered with slow, heavy steps, his arms wrapped tightly around a smaller figure. Her blonde hair spilled from beneath a linen wrap, her body limp but familiar. Bandages covered her legs and parts of her face, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

Miya.

My breath caught. The room shrank around us.

Her eyes lifted. The second she saw me, her body jolted. She didn't wait. She tore herself from Father's arms with a cry—no hesitation, no thought—just pure, trembling instinct. Her feet hit the floor with a thud, then she ran.

"Lyra!"

"Miya—!"

We collided with a force that knocked the breath out of me. My knees hit the cold, polished stone as her small arms wrapped around my shoulders, and we collapsed together in a heap of pain and love. Her body shook against mine as she sobbed into my chest, and I felt my own tears slide silently down my cheeks. I gripped her tight. Like she would vanish if I let go.

"I thought you were dead," she cried. "I thought—Lyra, I thought I lost you…"

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm here, Miya. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

We didn't speak for a while—just held each other like broken dolls that could only find their shape in each other's arms.

Then I heard him.

A choked breath. A sound I had never heard from him before.

I turned my head. Father stood there, motionless. His jaw clenched, eyes shimmering, holding onto something he could no longer contain.

Then, slowly, he walked forward. His knees gave out halfway, and he dropped to the floor beside us, folding his arms around both me and Miya.

"I failed you," he whispered hoarsely. "I failed you like I failed your mother."

I felt his hand tremble against my back.

"No," I said, shaking my head, but the word felt so small.

He rested his forehead against mine. "You were children… and I wasn't there. I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to keep you safe. But you… you were the ones who fought, who bled, who saved each other. And I… I did nothing."

"Dad…" Miya whimpered. "Don't say that. You're here now with us. That's all that matters."

"I thought I'd never see you again," he said, voice cracking. "I thought the gods had taken you both like they took her."

I closed my eyes. "She's not gone, dad."

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. "What do you mean Lyra?"

There was so much I didn't understand yet. So many pieces I was only beginning to feel, not see. But I felt her. In the quiet. In the fire. In the magic that burst out of me that day.

"She's not gone," I whispered. "Not all the way."

His expression twisted into something I couldn't name—grief, hope, fear—and then he pulled us back into his chest. No words left. Just breath. Just tears.

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, we cried like a family.

Outside the door, pressed lightly against the velvet-and-stone wall of the room, the elf stood silently. Her eyes were closed, lips gently parted, listening.

From beyond the door came soft murmurs, broken cries, and the sound of three hearts finding their way back to one another.

She smiled.

"Ahhh… what a happy little family," she whispered to herself. "Humans and their emotions. So raw. So loud. So... honest."

Her fingers brushed against her temple as she exhaled dreamily.

"I don't remember my family doing that," she added, her voice laced with distant bitterness. "Not even after seeing each other again after a century apart. Hmph. No tears, no hugs, no kneeling on polished floors. Just silence. So very… elvish."

She leaned her head back against the wall, the expression on her face now unreadable. "Still... it's lovely to watch. Human kin. They bleed so easily, but they love even easier."

Her voice dropped to a murmur, almost to herself.

"I can't believe I told that innocent girl about the Zinck family."

A voice, dangerously close, cut through the air like the snap of a blade.

"You told her about the Zinck family?"

The elf jumped, jerking her head forward—and there he was. Arkan. His face only inches from hers, half-smiling, half-scorning. He hadn't made a sound when approaching. As always.

"Ah—n-no, I didn't—I mean… yes, sir. Sorry." She dropped her eyes, her voice suddenly brittle.

Arkan exhaled through his nose, slow and composed, but his voice was laced with pride as cold as obsidian.

"Those Zincks… they can't do shit to us," he said, voice low, every syllable spoken like it was chiseled in stone. "They're cowards who hide behind their family name. But the Glorious Country of Zarion? We will burn them out of existence. We'll wipe their cursed bloodline from this universe."

And with that, he turned from her without another word, robes sweeping behind him, six royal knights in dark navy and gold stripes falling in line beside him. Their boots struck the marble floor like thunder.

Inside, the Solomere family slowly rose from their embrace as the door opened.

Marlic Solomere immediately stepped forward, his posture shifting from father to commander. He bent one knee and bowed deeply to Arkan. "My Lord Arkan," he said solemnly. "It is an honor."

Arkan nodded. His eyes scanned the room with mechanical precision before settling on me.

"You must be Lyra," he said.

I nodded, feeling the weight of his presence like a storm rolling into the room.

"And who are you?" I asked, quietly but clearly.

He smiled, though it never touched his eyes. "I am Arkan Valendreth, one of the four high members of the Magic Council of Zarion," he said. "I came here today to meet the girl who survived from a devil."

His tone was not praise. It was analysis. Dissection.

"I've brought something with me," he continued. He raised one hand, and a small crystalline orb floated beside him, spinning gently, wrapped in rippling blue light. "This device is called Veilwater. It measures your mana core."

He stepped closer, placing the orb on a pedestal near the center of the room. A bowl-like structure unfolded beneath it, and a pool of translucent water rose to fill it. The surface shimmered like glass touched by moonlight.

"Each mana core has a color," he explained. "Brown is the weakest. Red, then blue, then purple. And finally, at the very top…"

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

"…White and obsidian. The rarest of them all. Beyond comprehension. Even the many people themself… may not possess it."

I stared at the water, then stepped forward.

"You want me to put my hand in?"

"Yes," he said. "Hold it there. Let the water see your truth."

I took a breath and slid my hand into the pool.

At first, nothing happened. The water was warm, strangely calm, like I was dipping my fingers into something that could breathe. Then…

A pulse.

The liquid glowed softly—then brighter, rising from blue to violet, then obsidian—and then—

White.

A blinding, radiant white. It burst from the bowl like a silent explosion, light pouring across the room, bouncing off every surface. The knights stepped back in shock. Even Arkan's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

My father's mouth opened in stunned disbelief.

"Lyra… your mana core is… white," he whispered, eyes glistening. "It's white."

I pulled my hand back slowly, dazed.

And then, his voice came into my head, smooth and cocky.

"See? People love it. But don't tell anyone. Not even your crybaby father."

"You're watching?" I thought.

"Always."

The room buzzed with excitement. Miya squealed, practically jumping, while my father still stood like a man dreaming. Everyone was distracted.

But something strange happened.

There, in the heart of the water, I saw it—just for a second.

A flicker of gold, dancing inside the white. So small it almost didn't seem real.

But someone else saw it too.

Arkan.

His gaze froze on the gold, the joy in his eyes instantly wiped away. His jaw tightened. A thin vein in his temple throbbed. And then—

Something changed in him.

The others were facing away, clapping, talking. But I felt the shift like ice down my spine. I turned my head just slightly and saw him from the corner of my eye.

His face was blank. Cold. Focused. Predatory.

He moved. Slow. Careful.

He stepped behind me, closer than he needed to. His hand lifted, inching toward my neck, but not as a gesture of comfort.

A killer's motion.

From beneath his sleeve, ancient runes began to glow—faint purple script pulsing like veins of lightning through cloth. Steam hissed from his skin as he neared me. His hand trembled, caught between resolve and fear.

The pain he felt was invisible to the others—but I saw it. Saw the agony twitching in his muscles. Whatever was in me… it was hurting him just to be near.

And then I turned around.

He flinched.

Snapped out of it.

"Excuse me," he said quickly. "I've… I've seen all I need."

He turned and left in a hurry, slamming the door shut behind him. I caught one last glimpse of his face twisted in pain, muttering to himself.

"Why her… why her? Dear Mother… please come to me…"

The room was silent again.

I stared at the door, heart pounding.

And then, the voice came again—calmer this time. Colder.

"Be careful of him," the Mage King whispered.