Interlude: MY… BROTHER.

The air in my room felt thick with anticipation, the kind that hums just beneath the surface of a grand adventure. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I, Mary Mikus, would finally depart for the Midland Academy. The greatest magical school in the Western Kingdom! It was everything I had dreamed of, worked for, practiced for. New spells, new friends, new challenges. And, finally, a chance to truly hone my magic, to become the powerful sorceress I was destined to be.

But tonight… tonight was different. A strange quiet had settled over the manor after dinner. My parents had said their goodnights, their eyes a mixture of pride and a lingering sadness at my imminent departure. I knew they'd miss me, just as I would miss them. And… Jack.

My little brother. He was curled up in his bed, probably already asleep, utterly oblivious to the monumental shift in my life that was about to occur. He was a puzzle, my Jack. Ever since he was a baby, there had been something… different about him.

I remembered when he was three, that clumsy maid had dropped him. Most babies would have screamed the manor down. Jack? He just blinked. Then he looked at the maid with this calm, almost assessing gaze, as if she were a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope. And then I'd erupted, ready to tear the maid limb from limb. Father had stopped me, of course, but even then, I'd sworn that anyone who hurt my Jack would suffer. And Jack? He'd simply watched, his dark eyes unnervingly placid.

He never cried. Not really. Oh, he'd put on a good show when he was little, a few whimpers, a pouting lip. But it never felt… genuine. It was always a performance, something he did to fit in, to appear "normal." And he was so good at it. Almost too good. He'd act clumsy, he'd lose every spar against me, he'd make sure to never show any flash of magical talent, despite my best efforts to coax it out of him.

Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, I'd catch a glimpse of something else in his eyes. A sharpness. A depth that belied his twelve years. A chilling, almost calculating intelligence. It was fleeting, like a shadow darting across a moonlit path, but it was there.

And it always made me wonder. What was going on inside that little brother of mine? What secrets did he hold?

But I never asked. He seemed so determined to be average, to be unremarkable. And I, in my boundless older-sisterly wisdom, decided to respect that. If he wanted to be the background character to my flamboyant protagonist, then so be it. Besides, he was still my adorable little brother, who would cheer me on during my magic practice and give me awkward, but incredibly sweet, hugs.

Tonight, though, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I was leaving him. Leaving him with Father and Mother, yes, but still. What if he got hurt? What if someone tried to kidnap him? He was a noble child, after all, even if he tried his best to be invisible. Would he be able to manage? Would he be able to… protect himself?

I scoffed at the thought. He'll manage, I told myself, trying to quell the unease. He's surprisingly resilient. And besides, Father will be here, and the guards. He'd be fine. He had to be.

I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind buzzing with final preparations for Midland. My magic bag was packed with essential spell components, my academy uniform laid out, my sword—my real sword—hidden safely under my bed. Father had insisted I bring it, "for emergencies." A proper Mikus, he'd said, always knows how to defend herself.

A faint scratching sound reached my ears. I frowned. A mouse, perhaps? The old manor always had them.

Then, the scratching grew louder, more deliberate. Not a mouse. Something larger. And it was coming from my window.

My heart began to pound, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. Instinct. My magical senses, usually buzzing with the ambient energy of the world, were now screaming. Danger.

I slid out of bed silently, my bare feet padding across the rug. My hand instinctively reached under the bed, closing around the familiar hilt of my sword. Cold steel against my palm, comforting in its weight.

The window latch rattled. Then, with a soft click, it opened.

Five figures spilled into the room, silent and swift as shadows. They were men, cloaked and masked, their movements practiced, professional. Not mere bandits. These were something far more dangerous. My stomach clenched with a sickening realization: kidnappers.

"Don't move, girl," one of them hissed, his voice raspy. He held a short, wickedly curved blade. The others fanned out, surrounding me.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through me, but it was quickly eclipsed by a surge of pure, unadulterated anger. They dared! They dared to invade my home, to steal me, on the very night before my dreams were to come true!

"You won't take me!" I snarled, my voice shaking slightly, but filled with defiance. My sword sprang from its scabbard, the moonlight glinting off its polished surface.

The men paused, surprised by my immediate resistance. "Feisty one, aren't you?" the leader chuckled, a chilling sound. "Doesn't matter. We'll still take you, willingly or otherwise."

He lunged first, his curved blade arcing towards my head. My training kicked in. My body moved, a blur of motion driven by years of sparring. I parried his strike, the clash of steel echoing sharply in the silent room. Then, with a grunt, I twisted, bringing my sword up in a sweeping arc.

The blade connected. A sickening thud. The man staggered back, clutching his arm, a dark stain blossoming on his cloak. His mask slipped, revealing a face contorted in pain and shock. He crumpled to the floor, groaning.

One down.

Another man, larger and broader, charged next, a heavy mace swinging wildly. I ducked under the blow, my movements fluid, more precise than even my sparring sessions with Sir Reginald. I pivoted, thrusting my sword forward. The tip found its mark, piercing his leg. He bellowed, dropping the mace, and stumbled backward, collapsing against a overturned chair.

Two down.

The room was suddenly filled with the metallic tang of blood. My breath hitched. It was a visceral, overpowering scent. Not the clean, clinical scent of a training dummy, but the rich, coppery aroma of real, raw life bleeding out. It was… exhilarating. A strange, almost primal satisfaction pulsed through me. This was real. This was a fight for my life.

The remaining three men, their expressions grim now, closed in. They were more cautious, their movements more coordinated. One of them, a gaunt man with unnervingly bright eyes, held a sword that shimmered with a faint, unnatural blue light. An enchanted sword.

My mind raced. Enchantment magic. Dark Elves, perhaps? Or hired mercenaries.

He lunged, his enchanted blade aimed not at a fatal spot, but at my arm. I tried to parry, to deflect, but his speed was unexpected. The blue-tinged blade scraped against my skin, just above my elbow.

A searing, electric shock coursed through my arm, paralyzing it instantly. My sword clattered from my numb fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp clang.

"No!" I cried out, my voice laced with panic. My arm hung uselessly, a dead weight. The man with the enchanted sword grinned, a cold, triumphant leer.

"Got her," he grunted, and then, before I could react, the other two men were on me. Strong hands grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back. My legs buckled, and I fought, I kicked, I screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore from my throat.

"JACK! FATHER! MOTHER! HELP ME!"

The room spun. The faces of the men blurred into menacing smudges. The last thing I saw was the grinning face of the man who had enchanted his blade.

Then, everything went black. My consciousness, battered and overwhelmed, simply shut down.