Chapter 6: The Ghost of the Garden
The rhythm of Lucien's days had begun to settle into something almost sacred.
Each morning, he woke before the sun, breath fogging the cold air of his chamber. By the time the estate stirred to life, Lucien was already drenched in sweat, practicing forms with a sword nearly as tall as his shoulder.
Two hours with his father. No words wasted. No mercy given.
Caelum Drayven Vaelor was a man of steel—sharp in gaze, precise in instruction, and utterly unforgiving. But Lucien didn't want mercy. He wanted muscle memory. He wanted scars in the shape of progress.
After swordwork came the struggle to shed the weight his former self had let pile on. Sprints across the eastern fields. Rope climbs. Core drills until his stomach felt like a forge. He could feel his body changing—not yet fast enough, but changing nonetheless.
And when his muscles screamed for rest, he retreated to the library.
There, among the scent of old parchment and dust-laced mana, he became a ghost. His fingers danced across spines, absorbing everything from the Codex theory to family history, memorizing battle doctrines and obscure noble customs. A boy reborn, building a new self from ash and echo.
Yet something remained missing.
He could swing a sword. He could study for hours. But mana—the very force of this world—still eluded him. It was like reaching for fog. He felt its presence in the air, the way it whispered through leaves, hummed in stone, pulsed in blood. But he couldn't grasp it.
Not yet.
---
It was during breakfast, two weeks after his rebirth, that Caelum said something strange.
They sat in silence, as they often did. Only the occasional clink of silverware on porcelain broke the hush.
Then, without looking up from his cup, the Duke said, "There's a ghost in the garden who owes your mother a promise."
Lucien blinked. "Pardon?"
Caelum took a sip of tea. "She's sharp-tongued, half-mad, and drinks too much. But she once made the skies weep fire during the Border War. If you want to stop flailing in the dark, find her."
He said nothing else. Didn't need to.
---
Lucien found the path behind the greenhouse three hours later, hidden beneath creeping vines and rusted iron gates. He followed it through a winding trail of forgotten statues and overgrown hedges, until the trees gave way to a clearing unlike anything else on the estate.
The garden was wild.
Not the kind of manicured chaos nobles pretended was "natural," but truly untamed. Thorned roses wrapped around ancient stone benches. Vines clawed at shattered urns. The wind whispered through cracked windchimes that hadn't sung in years.
And at the heart of it stood a crooked cottage, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow.
A crow sat on its moss-covered roof, watching him with unsettling intelligence.
Lucien stepped forward—and immediately ducked as a pebble whizzed past his head.
"Too slow," a voice called out, lazy and unimpressed. "You must be the brat."
He turned.
She stood leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over a battered coat. Her silver-streaked black hair was tied back in a messy knot. One hand held a chipped mug of steaming tea; the other lazily twirled a finger, releasing a crackle of blue lightning that fizzled into the air.
Maeve Thorne.
She looked him up and down like she was inspecting rotten fruit.
"You're not as fat as I expected," she muttered. "Still soft, though."
Lucien opened his mouth—then wisely shut it.
The crow cawed, as if in approval.
Maeve raised an eyebrow. "You're smarter than you look. That's rare."
She turned and walked back inside, not checking to see if he followed.
Lucien hesitated. Then stepped across the threshold.
---
Inside was… chaotic.
Books piled in corners. Teacups balanced on shelves. Strange crystals glowed faintly from jars, and a mana-weaving diagram was etched into the floorboards in chalk. The air smelled of storm-wind and spice.
Maeve dropped into a chair and pointed to a cushion across from her.
"Sit."
Lucien sat.
"Why are you here?"
He met her gaze. "To learn."
She snorted. "From me?"
"Yes."
A long pause. Then she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The room quieted. Even the crow went still.
"Mana," she said softly, "is not something you command. It's something you invite. You don't grab it—you listen to it. Like tuning a harp string you can't see."
Lucien nodded slowly.
She reached out—and before he could react, flicked a spark of lightning at his chest.
He flinched hard.
She rolled her eyes. "You flinched. Try again."
Another spark.
This time, he held still. It burned—just a sting—but he didn't move.
Maeve grunted. "Better."
---
The next hour passed in silence.
She made him sit cross-legged on the chalk circle. Instructed him to close his eyes. Breathe. Not with his lungs, but with his mana—whatever that meant.
"Feel your blood," she whispered. "Feel the beat behind the beat. That's where it hides."
Lucien tried. At first, nothing.
But as his breath slowed and the outside world faded, he felt… something.
A flicker.
Like warm static crawling across his fingertips. A shimmer behind the skin.
It vanished the moment he acknowledged it.
"Don't chase it," Maeve said from somewhere nearby. "Let it pass through you."
Lucien breathed deeper. Waited.
The sensation returned—barely there, like a whisper in the bones. His body felt heavier. Not tired. Grounded.
Like gravity had noticed him for the first time.
He opened his eyes.
Maeve was watching.
A slow, crooked smile tugged at her lips.
"You didn't fall asleep," she said. "That's a start."
She stood, the crow hopping to her shoulder. "Come back tomorrow. Same time. Earlier, if you want to stop being useless before your Codex wakes."
Lucien stood, bowing slightly.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she muttered. "I'll probably kill you on accident by next week."
She paused at the doorway. Glanced back once.
"You've got your mother's eyes," she said. "Don't waste them."
---
As Lucien stepped back into the wild garden, the air felt different. Lighter. Charged.
He flexed his fingers, trying to call back that shimmer. It didn't return.
But he smiled anyway.
Another step forward.
One breath closer.