The golden morning light slanted through his chamber windows, soft and warm, but he felt none of it. He sat on the edge of his bed, his legs dangling off the side, head bowed. The silence in the room pressed close, like a thick curtain wrapped around him.
The scolding was over. The punishment delivered. Alaric had been caught, reprimanded, and locked in his room for sneaking into the library at night. He didn't bother to argue anymore—he was in the wrong.
His parents had meant well. He knew that. Duke Aldric's voice had trembled just slightly, and Duchess Elysienne's hands had curled in her lap, trying to remain composed. They were scared. Always scared.
But love that came with locks on doors and fear behind every glance wasn't the kind he needed.
"He doesn't look sick," he remembered hearing one servant say weeks ago. "But there's something off about him."
He touched his chest through the fabric of his tunic, out of habit more than anything. The mark was gone—faded without a trace. But its absence hadn't changed the way people looked at him. Servants still flinched at his passing, and his parents watched him too closely, or sometimes not at all, as if unsure which was worse.
He wasn't stupid. He understood now. The way his parents treated him wasn't just about safety—it was about control. The label had already been given. The Cursed Child of Argentvale. A whispered name that traveled faster than truth ever could.
It didn't bother him. Not really. Not yet.
But part of him knew: if things stayed this way, if the fear around him grew, it would begin to matter. People feared what they didn't understand. And if they ever learned about Avalon, or the Tower, or Viviane… they'd tear everything apart just to keep it from threatening their carefully ordered lives.
No, Avalon had to remain hidden. That secret couldn't be traded—not even to clear his name, not even for anything.
The polished floor gleamed beneath his feet. The walls, lined with tapestries and fine carvings, might as well have been iron bars. This wasn't a bedroom. It was a cage dressed in luxuries.
He laid down on the bed without undressing, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His heartbeat was steady, but a quiet storm churned behind his gaze. No tears. No screams.
Only silence.
The morning passed in slow layers of routine.
Knock knock.
"Good morning, young master!" Camilla's voice chimed like sunlight through mist as she peeked in. Her braids were slightly crooked, her apron dusted with flour. "Time to rise and shine. Your lessons await!"
Alaric didn't respond at first. He lay on the bed, arms still folded, staring up at the ceiling as footsteps approached—soft and familiar. Her presence lingered at the edge of his awareness, warm and patient.
"Come now," she said with a grin, brushing off his shoulders. "Etiquette waits for no one, and we're behind on dancing again."
"Fine," Alaric let out a sigh.
So, the day began.
Hours blurred together. A passage of yawns disguised as polite nods, curtsies measured by syllable count, and poems recited with all the passion of a clock's ticking. He bowed when told. Smiled when asked. Stepped left, then right, then spun without thinking.
On the surface, Alaric was the picture of grace—polite, observant, obedient. Inside, his thoughts wandered far from the polished halls of Argentvale.
Avalon…
His eyes drifted toward the sky whenever had the chance. Somewhere beyond the veil of clouds, above the reach of ordinary life, was the Tower. His master. His real work. Not this dull procession of expectations.
He wondered when Viviane would send word again. Or if she even remembered he was waiting.
Camilla clapped her hands. "That was a perfect turn, my lord. You're finally starting to enjoy the rhythm!"
He offered a small smile in return, one carefully practiced over many times. "Thank you, Camilla."
She beamed. She never noticed how his focus slipped. He was too practiced in the art of appearing present while being far away.
If it hadn't been for that cat burglar sneaking into the palace—the nimble Therianthrope girl—he would still be stealing time to study. He missed the stolen hours with the magic tomes.
He sighed quietly, turning back to the window during a break in the lesson.
And then—
A flicker.
His breath caught.
A flash of white swept past the window, wings catching the morning light. The tiny bird glided before hovering midair, its feathers shimmering faintly with residual mana, head tilted just so—as if amused by his surprise.
Viviane had finally sent her—just in time.
The rest of the day stretched unbearably long.
Alaric could barely sit still through the next round of lessons. Camilla read from a scroll about noble customs, her voice lilting, but he only heard the beat of wings echoing in his memory. His eyes kept flicking toward the window. Again. And again.
The white bird had appeared. That alone was enough to light something within him.
By the time the lesson ended, Camilla was frowning slightly. "You're distracted again," she said, setting the scroll aside. "Something on your mind?"
Alaric gave a small, sheepish nod and offered the softest, most practiced of smiles. "I'm just tired."
Camilla gave him a pat on the head and a gentle sigh. "Alright. I'll leave you to rest. But tomorrow, no more daydreaming, okay?"
He nodded quickly, holding the door open for her with exaggerated politeness. The moment she was gone—
He ran.
The corridor blurred around him as he darted back to his room, heart thumping not with fear this time, but excitement. He threw the door shut behind him, his breath catching as he turned toward the balcony.
A single flutter.
Soft as breath.
Then she arrived.
Perched on the railing of the balcony, just above a cluster of frost-kissed moss and wind-battered lichen, the white bird stood proud and elegant. Her feathers shimmered faintly in the golden light, as if moonlight had clung to her through the day.
Alaric nearly laughed out loud. "Took you long enough," he whispered, raising one hand in greeting.
The bird tilted her head, then fluttered her wings in a small gesture that might have meant agreement—or amusement. Alaric didn't care. Just seeing her again unraveled the tension from his chest.
"You show up when I'm about to go mad," he said, taking slow steps toward her. "Let me guess. Master Viviane's too busy making tea for herself?"
The bird blinked, a slow, silvery pulse of mana passing through her body.
He chuckled, then sat beside the open balcony, cross-legged like a boy but speaking like someone older. "She's testing me, isn't she? Watching. Waiting. Always three steps ahead."
His voice had shifted. No longer soft, no longer childlike. His words held weight now. Rhythm. Memories.
It's Satria who was speaking.
The bird stepped forward, her wings outstretched ever so slightly. She didn't need words. Her message was clear: Be patient. The time is near.
Alaric's expression softened. The grin faded, replaced by a pensive quiet. "So I wait," he murmured. "Not much else I can do, is there?"
Their eyes met—boy and bird.
Then, without another sound, she took flight.
A sudden flutter, swift and graceful, across the afternoon sky. She circled once—just once—before vanishing behind the rooftops, into the clouds.
Alaric stayed by the balcony, watching long after she was gone.
That night, Alaric undressed slowly, not from weariness but something quieter—acceptance, maybe. The white bird's visit had left a warmth that lingered in his chest, soft and steady like a small ember glowing behind his ribs.
The moonlight stretched long and pale across his bedroom floor, filtering through the gauzy curtains. For once, he didn't feel the usual resistance inside—the itch to run, the urge to plan. His mind was still.
He slipped beneath the covers, the silk sheets cool against his skin. With the faint creak of mattress springs and a gentle sigh, he lay back and stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the hush of the room settle around him. No dread tugged at the edges of his thoughts. No flickering visions. No voices reaching from far-off places.
Just breath—quiet.
His limbs grew light first, then the rest of him followed. His breath slowed. The world around him faded, not into blackness, but into pale silver mist. No sharp drop, no jolt. Just… stillness.
Ding…
A soft chime echoed through the quiet—delicate, like a fingertip brushing a glass. The sound reverberated not through the air but through his bones. Familiar.
His thoughts drifted upward instead of down.
Like rising steam.
Like memories returning.
The veil parted—seamless, unseen.
And then, he opened his eyes.
He lay in the center of a square chamber, boots still on, surrounded by pale wood and dark stone. Beneath him, the summoning circle pulsed faintly—old glyphs tracing slow spirals around his resting form.
No wind. No sound. Just the steady hum of Avalon's mana, thrumming like a distant heartbeat.
He exhaled.
Of course. This place didn't need grand entrances.
It welcomed him like it had—quietly, completely, as if he had never left.
He had returned to Avalon.
*
The glow beneath his feet faded as Satria took a quiet breath, his eyes moving slowly around the room. The stone walls still had the same small cracks, the same cold stillness. The wooden floor felt solid beneath his boots—unchanged, steady. Behind him, the dark wooden door stood quiet, almost like it had been waiting too.
No windows. No sounds. The air didn't feel warm or cold—just still, like time had stopped.
He looked down at the summoning circle again. The glowing symbols on the floor shimmered faintly. This room had once made him uneasy. The silence had felt heavy. The symbols, strange and distant. The chamber had felt like a riddle meant for someone else.
But now…
Now it felt familiar, like a quiet moment frozen in time. A place caught between one breath and the next.
He placed his hand on the old door and pushed. It opened with a soft creak.
Beyond it, the Garden of Avalon waited under a sky colored by twilight.
Blue shadows stretched across the path. The trees stood quiet, their leaves still. Soft light glowed from the flowers—magic humming in their petals. No birds sang, but he could feel them nearby, silent, watching.
He stepped onto the stone path, his boots quiet on the mossy stone. Each step brought back memories.
The first time he'd come here, his heart had raced. Everything had felt strange—like he wasn't sure if he was alive or still dreaming. He had been full of questions, afraid of what he didn't understand. Viviane had seemed more like a spirit than a person—beautiful, calm, distant.
But now, the garden felt like it knew him. Like it had been waiting.
He walked under a silver archway, crossed a bridge above a lake so still it reflected the stars, and headed toward the gazebo ahead.
She was there.
Viviane.
She stood quietly, her long robe moving as if touched by a wind that didn't exist. Her black long hair caught the soft light, and her face looked just as it always had—calm and timeless.
She turned as he approached, her expression unreadable for a moment.
Then, she smiled. Small. Warm. Familiar.
"Welcome to the Garden of Avalon," she said, her voice gentle, like a breeze over water.
"Satria Kusuma Wijaya."
Hearing his full name felt like something deep inside him was finally waking up—he smiled.
They sat quietly in the gazebo, surrounded by the calm of Avalon's garden. The lake below shimmered softly, and the sky above was full of quiet stars. Everything felt peaceful—almost like the world had paused just for them.
Satria sat back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the still waters beyond the gazebo. "Master… I've tried everything," he said, voice calm but tired. "Breathing exercises, rune channels, flow mapping and even tricks. But still… nothing happens."
Viviane didn't speak right away. She let the silence settle.
"They all say the same thing," Satria continued. "That I'm too young. That my mana core just needs time to develop."
He looked down at his hands, resting in his lap. "But I'm starting to think they don't really understand magic."
Viviane finally spoke, her tone cool but clear. "They don't," she said. "Contrarian magic is simple. Mainly uses tools, symbols, chants and patterns. It works, yes—but it's shallow."
Satria blinked, surprised by how sure she sounded.
"You're not like them," Viviane said. "Your soul was… changed the moment you were brought back. Your body, too. Everything about your mana now follows Avalon's laws—not Contraria's."
She looked at him directly. "Trying to develop your core using their methods is like planting a tree in sand. It won't take root."
Her words were soft, but they struck deep. Satria looked away, his thoughts spinning.
"So it's not me," he said, almost to himself. "It's the method."
Viviane gave a faint smile. "Exactly. Your mana isn't weak. It's waiting. You've been trying to wake it using the wrong voice."
Satria let out a slow breath, the tight feeling in his chest easing just a little. He had blamed himself.
"But… if that's true," he asked, looking back at her, "what should I do instead?"
Viviane stood, her robe moving like mist around her ankles. "You learn the Avalonian way."
She looked back at him, a small spark in her eyes.
Viviane didn't speak right away. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her black hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. Satria waited, his eyes following the soft movement of shadows on the floor.
Then, slowly, she raised one hand.
A thin, golden thread of light floated up from her palm. It spun gently, forming a circle in the air. More threads followed—sweeping arcs, glowing lines, elegant and slow. A structure bloomed before them, suspended in light, like a delicate model of the stars.
"This is how we shape magic," Viviane said, her voice soft, but steady. "Not through words or tools—but through self."
Satria leaned forward, breath held.
"The Mana Heart," she began, pointing to the glowing orb at the center. "It's your source. Quiet, deep, and full. This is where your magic lives."
Lines extended from the heart, forming orbits like rings around a planet.
"Mana Circles," she said. "They conduct and shape the flow—subtle, responsive. Each one listens to your intention."
Then, another soft pulse of light flared in the head of the image.
"Here's the Mana Cortex—your focus, your clarity, your thought. Without it, the mana will rampage."
Thin, shimmering strands traced their way from head to limbs, curling through the body like silver thread in cloth.
"Mana Circuit," she said gently. "It runs with your veins, slow and patient. It carries your mana to every part of you."
Tiny lights flickered around the outer circles, blinking in soft colors—crimson, sapphire, gold, violet.
"Mana Essences," Viviane whispered. "They bloom when you're ready. Each one is a reflection of your affinities."
Satria stared, wide-eyed. The system made sense—not in a logical way, but in a felt way. It wasn't simply instructions. It was a mirror.
"Now look here," she said, and the glowing image shifted.
A second diagram formed—stiffer, flatter. Straight lines. Sharp angles. A single core glowed near the chest, surrounded by rigid channels.
"This is Contrarian magic," she said quietly. "A locked system. It uses chants, runes, and rituals. Magic shaped like machines."
Satria frowned. The image looked lifeless. Fixed.
"Contrarian magic comes from the outside. You bend yourself to it. Avalonian magic begins from within."
She closed her hand, and the lights slowly faded into nothing. The darkness returned, warm and quiet.
Satria sat in silence, heart gently thudding.
"It's not that you can't," Viviane said. "It's that you were trying to force a song your voice wasn't meant to sing."
He looked up, and their eyes met.
"I want to start over," he said. "The right way."
Viviane smiled—not wide, but real. A rare smile of approval.
Satria sat forward, eyes bright with resolve.
"If I'm to follow this path," he said, "then I need a way to practice when I return. Something real. A method."
Viviane met his gaze without surprise. "I was hoping you'd ask that."
With a wave of her hand, light gathered in her palm. It coiled like mist, then tightened into shape—forming a small silver-bound tome. Ribbons of magic shimmered along its edges, stitched with Avalonian runes that pulsed like living script.
"Take this," she said.
Satria took the book gently. It felt warm, almost alive. As he flipped through the pages, the diagrams inside danced faintly. They matched the things Viviane had explained earlier—Mana Cortex, Circuits, Heart, Circles, and Essences—all drawn with care.
The gazebo held them in quiet stillness, its arched roof casting soft shadows as the garden around them faded into deeper hues. The book rested open in Satria's lap, its glow mingling with the silver wash of moonlight, while the hush between them felt like part of the magic itself.
"Close your eyes," Viviane said.
He obeyed.
"Now… find the place behind your eyes, where your thoughts begin. That's your Mana Cortex. Let it settle."
A breath.
"Feel the current move. Let it flow downward, through your veins, through the circuits inside you."
He felt it—like a thread of warmth tracing down his arms, his spine, his chest.
"Now," she whispered, "shape the heart."
At his core, something stirred.
A pulse.
It wasn't loud—but it was there. A quiet center forming, beating not with blood, but with mana. Around it, empty space opened like rings in water.
Thin threads of light appeared, forming the first Mana Circle—soft, perfect, waiting to be filled.
Then came the Essences.
A small flame. A droplet of water. A swirl of air. A tiny dust.
They floated gently, orbiting his Mana Heart with quiet harmony.
Satria breathed in—deep, still. He let the image burn into him. This was what he needed to carry home. Not just memory, but shape. Not just theory, but truth.
Viviane's voice returned, low and calm. "Your body on Contraria won't have this structure yet. You'll have to build it from memory. But you will remember. That's enough."
He opened his eyes slowly.
The glow around them faded, and the book now rested in his hands again, dim but warm—ready to be studied, practiced, remembered.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Viviane looked at him—not sternly, not softly, but with a calm depth that always seemed to see further than he expected.
"You're doing well," she said. "But before we go further, you need to understand something."
Satria sat upright, listening.
Viviane's gaze softened as she looked at him. "Your ability to come here," she began, "isn't an accident. It's also a result of the mark I placed on your consciousness."
She touched her temple lightly. "When your mind enters a low neural activity state—like sleep—you can choose. If you will, Avalon will answer."
Satria leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "So… I can decide?"
Viviane nodded. "Yes. That was your request, wasn't it? A way to return. So I gave you one. As long as your body is at rest, and your thoughts are clear, you can come here."
He blinked, processing. "So I just have to… go to sleep?"
She smiled faintly. "Sleep, with intention. That's the key. This isn't physical travel—it's a resonance. A link between Tower of Avalon's and your mind. Think of it like a doorway made of thought. One you can open."
Satria sat back, exhaling softly. "That's… a lot more convenient than I expected."
"Right now, your visits are temporary. This place welcomes you—but only as a guest. That won't change until you complete your restructuring."
Satria raised his gaze. "All five parts?"
"Yes," she said. "The Mana Cortex. The Circuit. The Heart. The Circle. And finally, the Essences. Only when all are formed and aligned can we begin the true lessons."
He didn't argue. He didn't pout. He understood.
Magic wasn't just power—it was structure. It was discipline.
"I'll build it," he said quietly.
Viviane's eyes softened. "Good."
A breeze swept across the garden—gentle, full of mana. She raised her hand once more, and the air around Satria shimmered, glowing with faint silver dust.
"Sleep well," she said, voice light but fond. "And good luck, my cheeky apprentice."
Satria smiled as the world around him began to fade. His form dissolved like mist, scattering into the wind.
The stars of Avalon vanished one by one, and his thoughts began to drift downward—back to the world below.
*
Alaric's eyes fluttered open.
Soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, painting his room in pale gold. He sat up slowly, blinking. Barely a few minutes had passed since he'd laid down.
Viviane's words rang like a bell inside him. No time to waste.
He pushed off the covers, settled cross-legged on the floor, and closed his eyes. One breath in. One breath out.
He focused.
First—the Mana Cortex.
He narrowed his awareness, letting go of every wandering thought until only one remained: intention. That single thread of focus stretched forward, lighting a spark in the dark.
Next—the Mana Circuit.
He mapped glowing lines throughout his body. Threads of light wove through his arms and legs, pulsing gently beneath the surface like veins of liquid starlight.
Then—the Mana Heart.
He centered his awareness at the core of his being. A warmth gathered there, subtle at first, then steady. Light condensed inward, folding over itself again and again until it began to beat—quiet and radiant.
Around it—the Mana Circles.
Thin, luminous rings spun into existence, orbiting the heart in perfect balance. One—for now. Like celestial bodies, calm and obedient.
And finally—Mana Essences.
They appeared without effort: a flickering flame, a drop of water, a breath of wind, a grain of dust. Each essence drifted into orbit, pulled gently into place by gravity that wasn't physical—but felt.
The room grew still.
Then it began to hum.
A low, rising pressure filled the space, mana seeping into the air. Curtains rustled. Light flared from his chest—soft, but building. Too fast.
A pulse.
Then—
BOOM!
A brilliant flash lit the entire wing. The floor cracked beneath him, scorched in a perfect ring of glyph-shaped burns. Particles of raw mana danced through the air, scattered like dust in sunlight.
Footsteps thundered toward the door. It burst open.
Camilla stood frozen in the hallway, mouth agape. Knights and servants behind her peered in, wary, alert.
Alaric knelt at the center of the blast zone, hands resting on his lap. His tunic was singed, his hair tousled. But his expression was calm.
He looked up.
A faint glow pulsed from within his chest. The Mana Heart was formed now—completed.
This was only the beginning.