Training began quietly.

  Too quietly, Thena thought—until the silence shattered for the third time that morning.

  A pulse of mana burst from her hands, detonating harmlessly into the air like a misfired star. Papers scattered. Dust leapt. The faint hum of lingering energy vibrated through the training hall.

  “UGH—! Why is it so hard?!” Thena shouted, dragging a hand through her hair. “Seriously—this is stupid!”

  Frow hovered a short distance away, arms crossed, wings flicking in restrained irritation.

  “It’s not stupid,” Frow said flatly. “It’s uncontrolled.”

  “That’s the same thing!”

  “It really isn’t.”

  Thena groaned and tried again.

  She closed her eyes, drew in her breath, and focused inward—on the strange warmth coiled beneath her ribs. Aura first. Always aura. Frow had drilled it into her relentlessly.

  Feel it before you shape it.

  She pushed.

  Too much.

  A wave of raw energy surged out, rattling the walls and sending a sharp gust spiraling up to the ceiling.

  Frow zipped backward. “—Thena!”

  “Sorry! Too much, too much—!”

  She tried again. Less this time.

  Nothing happened.

  “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Frow pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re forcing mana instead of converting it. Aura isn’t fuel—it’s a source. You have to refine it.”

  “I am refining it!”

  “No, you’re bullying it.”

  Thena shot her a look. “That feels personal.”

  “It should.”

  By the third week, the damage became routine.

  Charred floors. Cracked stones. Blown-open windows. Every failed attempt ended with Thena cleaning the hall in grim, exhausted silence while Frow supervised with the emotional warmth of a disappointed librarian.

  “I mean…” Thena muttered one afternoon, collapsing onto the floor, “I’m kind of getting used to this. But it’s always either way too weak or way too strong.”

  She lifted a hand and summoned a flicker of fire—too small to warm her palm. Then wind—unstable, wobbling. Water—sloppy, spilling everywhere.

  She sighed.

  “Maybe I’m just not suited to be a mage like you.”

  Frow hovered closer, gaze sharp. “Magic isn’t about suitability. It’s about alignment.”

  “Alignment with what? Because my alignment feels broken.”

  Frow didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, she nodded toward a small clay pot nearby. “Try a barrier.”

  Thena blinked. “Again?”

  “Yes. Again.”

  She frowned—but obeyed.

  This time, she didn’t force the energy outward. She shaped it inward, tracing an invisible boundary around the pot. The mana flowed… smoothly. Naturally.

  A translucent barrier shimmered into place, steady and clean.

  Thena froze.

  “…Huh.”

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  She tapped it. The barrier held.

  Her eyes widened. “Wait. That was—easy.”

  Frow stared.

  Again.

  Thena strengthened the structure, reinforcing the edges, testing its elasticity. The barrier responded like it understood her.

  “…At least I’m starting to master this,” Thena murmured. “Maybe since it’s in the blood… that’s why it’s easier to understand compared to other magic.”

  Frow’s expression darkened—just a little.

  “Maybe,” she said carefully.

  At night, the training changed.

  The noise faded. The halls slept. And the library breathed.

  Thena sat cross-legged at a long desk, ink-stained fingers hovering over parchment. Across from her floated Nara, arms folded, expression smug.

  “No, no,” Nara said, tapping the page. “That rune curves inward. If you write it like that, you’re declaring ownership.”

  “…Why does a language have that many ways to accidentally start a contract?”

  “Because Valenreach was built by people who survived on words,” Nara replied proudly.

  Thena leaned back, squinting at her. “I still can’t believe you’re teaching me, Nara. You’re a good mentor. Unexpectedly. It’s really easy to understand your teaching.”

  Nara puffed up instantly. “HAHA~! Well—”

  “—Or maybe my Logophile blood is just too strong,” Thena cut in dryly, not even looking up. “Makes it easy to understand you.”

  Nara choked. “Who do you think I am, Thena? I’m a warrior spirit! We’re very smart! Do you know how hard it is to control our strength and think of strategies and—”

  “I mean,” Thena said calmly, meeting her eyes, “you look stupid.”

  Silence.

  Nara stared at her.

  “…Excuse you, miss. I am NARA—”

  “NARA!”

  Frow’s voice cut through the hall like a blade.

  She hovered past the study room, glaring. “It’s night. Lower your voice. You’re going to disturb the Living.”

  Nara shrank instantly. “I—I—”

  Frow sighed, shaking her head as she flew off. “Unbelievable…”

  Thena covered her mouth, giggling.

  Nara remained frozen, thoroughly defeated.

  Time passed.

  Months layered into a year. Then more.

  Thena learned not just how to raise barriers—but how to anchor them. How to tie them to intent. To conditions. To words written and sealed.

  She learned contracts.

  If she fell unconscious, the magic would activate.

  If blood was signed, the barrier would recognize the name.

  One person. Several. A space. A structure.

  Even a city.

  She never tried the last one.

  But she knew how.

  Standing one night at the heart of the library, Thena raised her hands and shaped a barrier that wrapped around the ancient halls like a breath held perfectly still. The Living gathered, watching in quiet awe as the magic settled—stable, enduring.

  She adjusted the flow carefully, ensuring it would remain even if she weakened.

  “Only one condition,” Thena whispered.

  The barrier responded.

  It would fall only if she died.

  Frow watched from the shadows, wings trembling faintly.

  She had raised the barrier around Valenreach every five years—not because she alone could cast it, but because she was chosen to bear its weight. Other mage spirits could manage a barrier, yes. Five years was considered the limit for most of them.

  But theirs were thinner. Fragile. Temporary.

  Frow’s had always been different.

  After the last Logophile fell—and the guardian spirits who stood beside them were lost in a war no record dared describe—someone had to remain. Someone had to hold what was left together.

  That was when Frow was chosen.

  Nara after her.

  Successors to a legacy that had nearly vanished.

  So when Thena’s barrier unfolded—stable, deliberate, listening—Frow felt her breath catch.

  Not because it was stronger.

  But because it was right.

  After so many years…

  the heir had finally returned.

  Frow turned away before anyone could see the shimmer gathering in her eyes.

  The barrier finished forming with a sound like a breath finally released.

  The library stood wrapped in a translucent shell, steady and calm, its light neither flaring nor fading—just there. As if it had always belonged.

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Frow hovered at the edge of the hall, wings trembling, eyes fixed on the barrier’s surface. The glow reflected softly against her silver hair, catching at the corners of her lashes.

  She didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  “…Just like Fingolfin’s barrier,” Frow whispered, almost to herself.

  Nara noticed first. “…Oi,” they muttered, folding their arms. “Why’re you staring like that?”

  No answer.

  Nara floated closer, craning their neck to look at Frow’s face—and froze.

  “…Huh?”

  Frow’s lips were parted, just slightly. Her expression wasn’t shock. Not fear.

  It was recognition.

  Like seeing familiar handwriting after centuries.

  Nara swallowed. “Hey. You good?”

  Frow drew in a shaky breath.

  “It’s stable,” she said quietly. “The structure… the rhythm… it’s clean.”

  She laughed under her breath—soft, disbelieving.

  “After all this time…”

  Thena, still standing at the center of the spell circle, shifted awkwardly. “Uh—did I mess something up?”

  That did it.

  Nara spun on them instantly. “MESS SOMETHING—?!”

  They shot forward, pointing wildly at the barrier. “Do you have any idea what you just did?! That’s not a practice weave! That’s a guardian-grade formation!”

  Thena blinked. “It is?”

  “Yes! No! I mean—UGH!”

  Nara clenched their fists, shaking. “Do you know how many years it took us to get even close to that?!”

  Frow finally turned away, brushing at her eyes as if something had irritated them.

  Nara saw it.

  Their voice dropped. “…Oh.”

  They floated back, quieter now. “So it’s really true.”

  Thena frowned. “What is?”

  Nara crossed their arms again—but this time, it wasn’t smug. It was tight. Defensive.

  “…The Logophile’s line didn’t end.”

  They looked at the barrier once more, jaw trembling despite themself.

  “Tch. Took you long enough,” they muttered, voice cracking just a little. “Do you know how annoying it is to guard an empty promise for years?”

  Thena stared at them. “…Nara?”

  Nara snapped around instantly. “DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!”

  They scrubbed their face with both hands. “I’m just saying! If you were gonna come back, you could’ve done it earlier! We had to redo the seals so many times!”

  Frow drifted closer, resting a hand lightly on Nara’s shoulder.

  “…You did well,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Nara stiffened.

  Then—very quietly—they leaned into the touch.

  “…Yeah,” they muttered. “I know.”

  The barrier hummed softly around them, patient and enduring.

  For the first time in years, it wasn’t held by memory alone.

  It was held by someone who belonged.