It had been a week since Lucian first arrived in Drea, and five long days since Ellie had last spoken to him without muttering death threats between sips of wine or behind poorly hidden glares.
To Lucian, the whole thing was… vaguely hilarious.
A grown woman — and not just any woman, but arguably the most brilliant mage in the region — actively dodging conversation like a shy apprentice at a dance. All because he'd casually suggested her mana stretching stances could use some "minor tweaking."
He had meant well.
Sort of.
In retaliation, Ellie had locked herself in her study, posted Black the cat as a furry chaperone, and taken to communicating with Lucian using nothing but sighs, groans, and sarcastic retorts.
Lucian, meanwhile, had kept himself busy — diving into magical theory, sketching bizarre runic formations that made even Black flick his tail in exasperation, and learning spells at a pace that made beginner textbooks feel like bedtime stories.
But now?
He was bored. And curious. And bored again.
Which meant one thing: trouble.
So, with Black padding silently at his heels like a disapproving uncle, Lucian crept up the narrow staircase to the second floor — a part of the house rarely used and barely lit. Dust curled in sunbeams, and the wood creaked beneath his steps as if the house itself was warning him off.
The hallway ended in a single door: thick oak, slightly ajar.
Something magical buzzed faintly beyond it.
Lucian pushed it open.
It was a small library — dim, musty, but warm, like forgotten stories wrapped in sunlight. Shelves of crooked wood lined the walls, crammed with scrolls and ancient books whose bindings looked older than some noble houses. The air shimmered faintly, tinged with the scent of lavender and ink.
And there, at the far end of the room, resting beneath a beam of golden light, was a staff.
It looked like it had been placed there on purpose — not forgotten, but honored. Its long shaft was a deep, earthen brown, nearly black, threaded with faintly glowing runes that pulsed with a heartbeat-like rhythm. Its head twisted upward like a reaching branch, cradling a spherical crystal that shimmered a soft, oceanic blue.
A placard beneath read, in fine etched letters:
Acies.
Lucian stepped closer, breath slowing. Something in his chest… stirred.
And then it kicked in — that thing he hadn't named yet, that strange sense that came over him whenever he was near deep magic. A pull in his mind. A current. A click.
It began with a whisper behind the eyes — the world around the staff faded, and in its place, threads emerged. Not physical ones, but shimmering lines of meaning. Lines of mana logic. Lines he could follow.
His breath caught.
The staff's inner workings unfolded before him — not in words or diagrams, but in sensation. He could feel the mana pathways within it: elegant, deliberate, refined. Mana flowed through the channels with barely any resistance, moving like silk in water. Each curve, each node, each loop — they weren't just designed… they were perfected.
Lucian's own inner pathways — wild, liquid, instinctive — pulsed in response, almost envious. Compared to this, his system was a muddy stream.
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"…What if I could shape my own pathways like that?"
Black meowed behind him. Loud. Judging.
Lucian glanced back. "Don't start. I'm thinking."
Another, more dramatic meow.
"You're a cat. You literally lick your own butt."
Before the feline could retort, the door behind them creaked open.
Lucian turned — and froze.
Ellie.
Hair tied up in a lopsided bun, held in place by what looked suspiciously like a wand. Her robe hung loosely off one shoulder, revealing a tank top beneath that had definitely seen better days. Barefoot. Slight blush. Slight sway.
Tipsy.
Her eyes locked on Lucian. Then the staff. Then back to Lucian.
She groaned, spun around.
"Wait," Lucian said quickly.
She paused at the doorframe, one hand against the wood, the other dangling limply.
He gestured to the staff. "What's the story behind it?"
Ellie exhaled like she'd just been asked to explain the meaning of life with a hangover. Still, she shuffled back a few steps, leaning against the frame with theatrical exhaustion.
"Acies," she mumbled. "High-tier staff. Name means 'Sight.' Made from the last root of a dying Dryad… and a crystal core extracted from a dungeon Aether breach. It's built for precision, not power. Surgical stuff. Like threading a needle with a lightning bolt."
Lucian blinked. "…Sounds beautiful."
Ellie squinted. "Don't get ideas."
He didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the staff, curiosity burning low and steady.
Ellie continued, words slower now — drunk, but clear in meaning. "Wands, staffs… they reduce inefficiency. Mana loss. Help with flow. But the real ones — the named ones — they bond. Soul-bond, you know? Not just tools. Partners. They amplify your magic. Your nature. Like…" she waved vaguely, "...a good wine. Or a good cat."
Black blinked.
"The stick in my hair?" she added, pointing. "Spiritual wood. Only grows where mana soaks deep. Ten years minimum. It sings when it finds someone compatible. Cuts clean through the noise."
Lucian's curiosity sharpened. His eyes shimmered slightly — not with mana, but with hunger for understanding. His trait hummed beneath the surface, threads pulling gently at her words.
Ellie noticed.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Lucian."
He blinked. "Yeah?"
She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Don't do anything stupid."
Then she turned, wobbling slightly, and vanished back down the hallway — leaving Lucian standing there, face bathed in soft light, eyes still fixed on the staff.
His fingers flexed slightly.
His heart beat loud in his ears.
"...Stupid is relative," he murmured.
Then he turned — and went to his room.
Because apparently, he had something revolutionary to do.