As the flying boat carved a silent path through the early night sky, its hull humming faintly with steady Aether, a cool wind slipped across the deck, carrying with it the faint scent of roasted meat and varnished wood. The stars stretched endlessly above—sharp, innumerable, almost close enough to touch.
Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight as he folded his arms behind his head. "What's your destination, lad?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes—half-lidded—were watching. "What do you want to be?"
The question lingered in the air, blending with the whisper of wind and the low thrum of the vessel.
Ronan didn't answer immediately.
His gaze drifted upward, drawn into that vast, glittering expanse. The stars felt… deeper tonight. As if they weren't just lights, but countless distant places, each one holding stories he couldn't yet imagine. His fingers tightened slightly against the armrest, knuckles brushing the grain of the wood.
"I want to explore the world…" he said at last, voice quiet but steady, like something long settled within him finally given shape. "To experience all the beauty it has to offer."
The words didn't feel grand as he spoke them. They felt simple. Honest.
But when he lowered his gaze—
Both Ms. Amara and Mr. Alden were staring at him.
Not with judgment. Not even curiosity.
Something else.
Ronan shifted slightly under the weight of it, his shoulders tightening as a faint unease crept in. Had he said something strange? Most people he'd met spoke of power, of becoming legends, of carving their names into history.
His fingers curled, then loosened.
"It's not just that," he added, quieter now, almost as if correcting himself. "I also want to protect the ones I love."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
Then—
Mr. Alden burst into laughter.
It came suddenly and full, deep enough to rattle in his chest, warm enough that it didn't feel mocking. Ms. Amara followed, her laughter softer, lighter, but no less genuine. The sound of it slipped into the night air, carried off into the endless sky.
Ronan blinked, caught off guard.
His brows drew together slightly, a faint edge slipping into his voice. "What's so funny?"
Ms. Amara brought a hand to her face, wiping at the corner of her eye as her laughter faded into a quiet breath. "We had a friend once…" she said, her voice gentler now, softened by something distant. "Someone who said almost exactly the same thing."
Her gaze lingered on Ronan, not quite seeing him.
"You reminded us of him."
Mr. Alden's laughter subsided into a low chuckle. He exhaled slowly, his expression easing into something quieter, more reflective. "Now I understand why Gedion thinks so highly of you."
The name tugged at Ronan immediately.
His attention sharpened. "You know Sir Gedion?"
Mr. Alden tilted his head back slightly, eyes drifting somewhere far beyond the deck, beyond the sky itself. "We're old friends," he said simply.
But the way his fingers tapped once against the armrest… the way his voice lingered on the word…
Ronan didn't press further.
Some things didn't need to be asked to be understood.
The conversation thinned after that, settling into a comfortable quiet. The clink of utensils, the soft rustle of cloth, the distant rush of wind—small, ordinary sounds filling the space between them.
When they finished eating, Ms. Amara rose, stretching her arms above her head. The movement was fluid, unhurried, her silhouette briefly outlined against the starlight. "There's a bed inside if you want to rest, Ronan," she said, glancing toward the cabin. "We still have a few hours before we arrive."
Ronan followed her gesture, then looked back at the sky.
The stars hadn't dimmed. If anything, they felt brighter now.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, but… I think I'll stay out here a while. The night sky is too beautiful to miss."
Ms. Amara studied him for a moment, then nodded, something approving flickering in her eyes.
Mr. Alden gave a quiet, knowing hum as he lifted a hand. With a subtle flick of his fingers, the remnants of their meal gathered themselves—plates, utensils, crumbs—sliding neatly into a small spatial pouch at his side without a sound.
Ronan leaned back into his chair once more, letting his body sink into the worn wood. The faint warmth of the earlier meal still lingered in his chest, but it wasn't just that.
Something about the moment—the quiet, the stars, the easy presence of the two beside him—settled into him in a way he hadn't expected.
Not loud. Not overwhelming.
Just… warm.
Hours later, the flying boat descended, its hum deepening as it cut through the lower air.
The calm of the sky gave way to the pulse of the city below.
They landed on a bustling street, the moment the vessel touched ground, swallowed by noise and motion. Voices overlapped in a constant stream—merchants shouting prices, adventurers arguing over deals, the sharp clang of metal striking metal ringing out from nearby forges. The air was thicker here, laced with the smell of oil, smoke, and heated steel.
Ronan stepped down after them, boots meeting stone as his eyes instinctively began to move.
Everything felt alive.
The Hunter's Boutique stood apart from the chaos—not because it was quieter, but because of how it held itself. The building rose with deliberate craftsmanship, carved wooden beams etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift under the light. Above the entrance, a shimmering sign pulsed faintly, its glow steady and refined.
Inside, the change was immediate.
Cool air brushed against Ronan's skin, washing away the heat of the street. The noise dulled, replaced by a controlled quiet. Shelves lined the walls, each one displaying materials and weapons that gleamed under soft, carefully placed magical lights. Some items hummed faintly, others seemed to drink in the light instead of reflecting it.
Ronan slowed without realising.
His gaze moved from one piece to another—metal that shimmered like liquid, cores that pulsed faintly with inner light, blades so finely crafted they almost looked unreal.
A voice cut in, smooth and practised.
"Welcome, esteemed guests."
Ronan turned slightly.
A young woman stood before them, posture straight, eyes sharp. She bowed lightly to Mr. Alden and Ms. Amara, recognition clear in the precision of the gesture. Her gaze flicked to Ronan, lingering for just a fraction longer than necessary.
There was a pause.
Then, carefully, "If I may inquire… who is this young man?"
Mr. Alden and Ms. Amara exchanged a brief glance.
"Our student."
They spoke at the same time.
Calm. Simple.
But something in their tone—something subtle, firm—settled into the space like a boundary drawn without being seen.
The receptionist dipped her head immediately, stepping back without another word.
Before the silence could stretch, a new presence approached.
"Mr. Alden, Ms. Amara!"
An older man, his beard streaked with grey, his expression open and welcoming, clasped his hands together as he walked forward. "It's always a pleasure. What brings you here today?"
While they spoke, Ronan found his feet moving almost on their own.
He drifted toward a nearby display—materials laid out with careful precision. Crystalline shards, dense cores, strips of treated hide—each one radiating a different kind of presence. Some felt heavy just to look at, others sharp, almost biting.
He leaned slightly closer, eyes narrowing.
The craftsmanship… the balance… even without touching them, he could feel the difference.
"Young Master," the receptionist's voice came again, softer this time, careful.
Ronan turned, caught mid-thought. "Hm?"
"Are you interested in anything specific?"
The title struck him harder than expected.
"Young Master?" he echoed, blinking. A faint crease formed between his brows as he straightened. "You're mistaken. I'm just a student. I'm here with my teachers."
The words came out plainly, but something about the way she had addressed him lingered—subtle, unfamiliar.
The receptionist inclined her head regardless, her expression unchanged. She stepped aside, leaving the path open.
Ronan hesitated a fraction longer… then turned back.
Mr. Alden gestured him over.
"I have a few items to sell," he was saying, his tone even. "Tailed-fox flames. A few bodies. Three one-tailed cores, one two-tailed core, and the full body of a three-tailed fox."
The shift in the room was immediate.
It was small—almost imperceptible—but Ronan caught it.
The receptionist's posture stiffened slightly. The shopkeeper's smile tightened at the edges before smoothing out again.
"One-tailed and two-tailed fox cores are common," the receptionist said, her voice measured. "Their value is modest. However…" Her gaze sharpened faintly. "A three-tailed fox body is rare. Its price will reflect that."
She paused, glancing between the two.
"Should I register the seller as Ms. Amara or Mr. Alden?"
Mr. Alden's lips curved faintly.
He lifted a hand and pointed—directly at Ronan.
"He's the seller."
For a moment, Ronan thought he had misheard.
"Me?" The word slipped out before he could stop it. His chest tightened slightly, something between surprise and resistance rising instinctively. "But—"
"You're starting to handle things on your own."
Ms. Amara's voice cut in, calm, steady.
Ronan turned toward her.
Her gaze held his—not harsh, not forcing—but firm in a way that didn't leave space to retreat.
"This is part of your growth."
Then she shifted her attention.
The air around her hand shimmered—and in the next breath, a small flame bloomed in her palm. It burned low and controlled, but the heat it gave off was unmistakable, the edges of it flickering with something far more dangerous than its size suggested.
"If I find," she said, her voice softening in tone but not in weight, "that you've deceived him in any way…"
The flame pulsed once.
"I will personally burn this place to ashes."
The shopkeeper's laugh came a second too late.
"Of course not, Ms. Amara! You have my word," he said quickly, a sheen of tension beneath his genial tone. "The young master will receive a fair price for both buying and selling."
Mr. Alden gave a single nod.
"Good."
The transaction unfolded with care.
Each item was examined, weighed, and measured—not just for quality, but for authenticity. Numbers were exchanged, adjusted, and settled. The pouch of coins, when it was finally handed over, carried a satisfying weight.
Mr. Alden passed it directly to Ronan.
Ronan looked down at it.
Then back up.
"I can't accept this," he said, shaking his head. His fingers didn't move to take it. "I've already troubled both of you enough."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then—
A hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
Ronan stilled.
Ms. Amara's touch was gentle but grounded. Warm.
"This is your earning, Ronan," she said. "You earned it."
Her grip tightened just slightly, enough to anchor the words.
"Our role is to guide you. Not take what is yours."
Something in his chest shifted.
The resistance didn't vanish all at once—but it loosened.
Slowly, he reached out.
The pouch felt heavier in his hand than he expected.
"Thank you," he said, the words quieter now. "For everything."
Back at the academy, the night had deepened.
The noise of the city had long faded, replaced by a calmer stillness. Lanterns lined the paths, their soft glow stretching shadows across the stone.
Ronan stopped.
He turned, then bowed—deeply, deliberately.
"Thank you again for helping me," he said. "Good night."
When he straightened, he didn't linger.
He turned and walked toward the dormitory, the pouch at his side shifting faintly with each step.
Mr. Alden watched him go, arms folded loosely.
"His adaptability is far superior to what Gedion told us," he remarked, a quiet note of approval threading through his voice.
"Indeed."
Ms. Amara's gaze followed Ronan's retreating figure a moment longer. Something flickered in her eyes—not pride spoken aloud, but present all the same.
Then she turned.
"Let's go."
Together, they walked back toward their quarters, their footsteps fading into the quiet.