The Seed He Left Behind

It was an ordinary tale. A wicked Gold Dragon had oppressed the people and ruled over them, until a hero appeared, struck the beast down, and saved the world. After that, Saint Martein guarded the Empire… and so on and so forth. So common a story that Roina took little interest in it.

She passed beneath the ceiling fresco with an indifferent gaze and walked on quickly, making straight for the pillar that had given her that strange feeling before—the old column that did not belong among the rest. It stood in a blind spot, easy to miss.

Hum… hum… hum….

Thump… thump… thump….

The resonance rising from the pillar and the heart that beat in time with every pulse of it formed a strange harmony. Her heart pounded. This pillar was unmistakably calling to her.

What… is this…?

As she had done before, she drew the cloth aside and laid her hand upon the stone. A clear coolness washed over her, and once again geometric patterns etched themselves into the pillar in blue light. She sank into another world. It was as if rich, dense water—cool and lucid, yet gentle enough that it never hindered her breath—had wrapped itself around her. The water moved as a living thing, forming one vast whole.

Though she had never been taught any such thing, Roina understood by instinct that this was magic. The magic was very old. It enveloped the crown prince’s bedchamber and held every intrusion from outside at bay.

Wonder filling her, she reached out and touched that magic. The pillar was its center, and its circulation. Slowly she felt out its true nature. Keeping her from leaving this place was one of its duties, and yet the magic quietly bowed its head to her. As if it had met its master, the blue magic watched her, taking its cue from the look on her face.

She understood without effort.

I can touch this magic.

The black choker at her throat would not yield, but this blue magic was no different from a familiar bound to her. She did not know the precise principle. It simply felt natural.

And within it she saw a small gap. A magic like a tiny seed, as if someone had planted it there, was opening a fissure in the greater spell. Curiosity drew her eyes to that seed.

“Ah.”

The sound escaped her before she knew it. This seed had been left by the golden-eyed man. She could feel his presence. She reached out as if it were the most natural thing in the world and touched it, and the seed, as though answering her hand, sprouted, opening a gap in the magic of the room. Through that gap, a faint wind from outside came blowing in.

It worked.

A thrill shot through her, and Roina’s eyes flew wide. A way out of this place—it was here. Instinct told her that if she made contact with the gap, she would be able to see, with perfect clarity, what lay beyond the room. The blue magic was connected to every corner of the crown prince’s palace, and this seed had given her the means to turn that network to her own use. Clutching the choker at her throat in a desperate grip, she took one step that longed for freedom and drew near the gap.

Again. That person. At the familiar feeling—and the longing she could not explain—Roina’s eyes opened wide. The man with the golden eyes had appeared once more.

A firm mouth. Cold, white skin. Every time she faced him, her heart surged as if it might burst—as if she were meeting someone infinitely precious whom she had not seen in a very long time. A tender ache, strange and yet familiar, wrapped around her.

Who… are you?

She trembled. Those two syllables felt as if they were the very reason she existed. Before she knew it, the feeling welled up, and tears gathered in her eyes.

Roina nodded and wiped her tears. Somewhere in this world, there was someone on her side, and that knowledge settled deep in her heart as comfort. She opened her mouth, meaning to say something to the man called Lutan. Countless questions were swirling inside her.

“What kind of game is this?”

It happened then. Someone caught her about the waist and tore her out of the magic. She felt the warm, enveloping spell shrink in on itself and flee. Startled, she turned—and a hand seized her by the chin.

Blue eyes holding a fierce light, finely drawn features, a brow faintly knit, a hard line of mouth. The crown prince. For a little while she had been so lost in the magic that she had forgotten, but he had certainly been on his way here.

He crooked one corner of his mouth. The hand that had held her waist slid downward and traced the length of her thigh.

His touch felt like a snake crawling over her skin, and Roina froze like a mouse before a cat.

He dragged her roughly and flung her onto the bed. She screamed without a sound.

The Archmage’s Tower was silent. A vast magic circle, reagents, and materials of magic surrounded that quiet place—immense, and yet inhabited by no living being but the Archmage alone. That was the Archmage’s Tower. Because of the barrier, no one who lacked the Archmage’s permission could enter or leave, however noble their station.

Crash!

Between the great circles, a vast vortex of blue mana suddenly broke apart with a tremendous sound. At its center the Archmage sat alone, perfectly still.

The beautiful man who had kept his eyes closed lifted his lids, just slightly. Long lashes trembled.

“Roina….”

As if the frustration were more than he could bear, he bit his lip and drove his fist into the ground. Back then—the first time he saw her by the well—he should have taken her away without a thought for law or custom. He had not known the crown prince was mad enough to disregard even an official stance. He should have realized sooner just how dangerous the imperial house was.

Regret, however swift, always comes too late. Lutan smoothed his long black hair and wiped the sweat gathered at the nape of his neck. Even so, there had been a gain. She had finally found the seed he left behind.

The corner of his mouth rose in a clean arc. Today she had set that seed properly alight. She had never once been taught magic, and yet she had done it as if by instinct. Proof that his eyes had not been wrong. She was, without doubt, the Primordial Star—sovereign of magic.

While he was sunk in thought, something that would not leave him to it appeared. A telepathic voice slipped into his mind—a magic spirit flickering through many colors. It was nothing but a mass of magical formulae, without a self, carrying out only the commands it was given, and yet he called it a spirit. Perhaps because it had watched over the Tower through the long ages of every Archmage, or perhaps because the Primordial Star had made it.

He bit down on his lip. An Archmage inherits the memories of the Archmage who came before. He and his predecessor were different beings, yet they shared a single will: to reclaim the Primordial Star. It was an impish fate hidden in the life of every Archmage. In all those countless years, not once had anyone succeeded.

The spirit shone even more dazzlingly, drawing his attention. At times like this, it almost seemed to be showing its irritation. He lifted a brow slightly and answered short.

“Whose request for a meeting is it?”

The spirit answered just as quickly and briefly. At the name Mayli Amasto, Lutan could not help sinking into thought for a long while. His knowledge of the nobility had stopped somewhere around a hundred years ago. A hundred years ago, Amasto had been an utterly insignificant house. And yet there was a resonance that brushed through his memory.

A name I heard while I was in the Imperial Palace.

He called the memory up at once. It had been just after he left the crown prince’s reception room. He had heard the crown prince’s voice inside, speaking to someone. Now he could not lightly pass over anything that touched the Imperial Palace—least of all anything that touched the crown prince.

Lutan rose. He followed the spirit, which had begun to blink rapidly as if urging him on, and left the room. He had been in the chamber at the Tower’s peak, where the current of magic ran strongest. The reception room was on the first floor, so he would have to go down.

Following the flickering spirit, he descended the Tower stairs. The walls of the old Tower held the smell of moss and of years beyond counting.

Step after step….

Whenever he came down this Tower on his own feet, memories that were not his rose up—clear laughter, and a bright girl smiling radiantly at him. The Primordial Star. The being who, at the beginning, had given magic to the Archmage; the being reborn in every generation, only to fade without ever being met.

He would reclaim her. The Primordial Star. From the mad imperial house.

On the first floor of the Tower, unlike the levels above, there was a reception room furnished for comfort. A striking beauty with lavish golden hair sat on the sofa, her hair bound high, dressed in the uniform of a knightly order. She held her teacup in one hand as she drank, and the picture she made was flawlessly elegant.

When the Archmage opened the door and stepped inside, she tipped the cup and lifted her gaze, and the look of her called to mind a cat affecting prim indifference. With a motion as natural as flowing water, she set the cup lightly down and straightened her posture.

“So you are Archmage Lutan. This is the first time we have met. I am Mayli Amasto, eldest daughter of the Marquis House of Amasto.”

“What brings you here.”

Mayli had offered her courtesy as neatly as a painted portrait, but Lutan did not even sit opposite her; he spoke standing. She lifted her right brow a fraction and the line of her mouth twitched, but she managed, just barely, to keep her smile.