A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

The dining room fell silent as Chel left for the tailor. Only Ian and Molin remained, the clinking of silverware echoing in the stillness. Molin's voice, flat and emotionless, cut through the quiet.

"Once you cross the border…"

Ian looked up, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You'll miss this place, I imagine."

"One's homeland clings to the soul, even in death."

Ian paused, wondering if his reply sounded too mature for a child. Molin, however, seemed unperturbed.

"You appear quite interested in the capital," Molin observed.

"Naturally. Every citizen of Variel dreams of setting foot in the capital."

The Royal Palace and the Papal Office held immense significance – the birthplace of patriotism and the ultimate destination for pilgrims. Even beyond these grand ideals, the capital hosted a constant stream of festivals and events, a dazzling spectacle for any child, especially one born a bastard in the slums.

"A pity, then. Once you cross the border in a couple of months, such an opportunity will be lost forever. Tell me, young Master Chel, have you ever been to the capital?"

Ian shrugged, his smile widening. Probably not, he thought. This was the farthest border region, after all. A Variel noble's debut into high society was a matter overseen by the Emperor himself. Every autumn, when the rice paddies ripened to gold, a grand party was held for nobles on the cusp of adulthood.

"I believe it will be some time yet," Ian replied.

In a year or two, both Chel and Ian would be of age. But with their future so uncertain, next year felt like a lifetime away.

"If time allows, perhaps you could ask the Count to arrange a trip. Young Master Chel will have many opportunities, but you, Master Ian, might not."

Molin's words subtly emphasized Chel, a deliberate prod to highlight the disparity in their situations. Ian, however, remained unfazed. He wanted to tell Molin to get to the point, but everything had its proper order.

"I still have much to learn. Such a trip is beyond my reach for now."

Molin seemed skeptical. This sharp-witted child hardly seemed like one who would struggle with mere letters.

Ian asked, a playful glint in his eyes, "If I were to go to the capital, could I visit the Royal Palace?"

"Of course. For the young masters of the Derga Count family, I would personally request an invitation from His Highness Gale. I recall you expressed interest in mages earlier."

Molin's eyes gleamed, probing to see if Ian's golden eyes had been a mere illusion. But Ian was too preoccupied with the name Gale to notice. That name…it's familiar.

"His Highness Gale commands many skilled magic wielders. I'm sure you would find it a rewarding encounter."

"Ah." Ian covered his mouth with a napkin, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The connection between Gale and magic wielders unlocked a faded memory.

"Indeed. A most rewarding encounter, I'm sure."

An Emperor remembered only two kinds of people: those who achieved great feats, and those tied to treason. The latter, especially, required careful attention, their lineage tracked for generations to ensure any threat was extinguished.

The Second Prince, Gale. A traitor. A failed one.

That's why the name had resonated. And if that was Gale's identity…

"Is something the matter?" Molin inquired.

"Nothing at all." Ian narrowed his eyes, studying Molin. Could he have sensed the trace of magic in the drawing-room that day? Gale's rebellion was heavily supported by the Magic Division… The purge that followed had decimated the mage ranks, a burden Ian himself had carried as Emperor. The five hundred mages of his era had dwindled to barely a hundred. I remember tearing up the report, furious that he had dragged mages into his schemes.

It was becoming clear why Molin was approaching him. He must have sensed something that day. He spoke of "magic wielders," likely seeking to recruit potential mages before they fully developed their powers.

"You seem unwell," Molin remarked.

"Not at all. Just…" Ian trailed off, gauging Molin's reaction. Whether Molin was certain about the magic or not, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing for Ian. In fact, it could be advantageous.

He pointedly toyed with the brooch on his chest. "My eyes are a bit irritated." Then, he covered his mouth with his fingers, a subtle reminder that the brooch recorded their conversation. They needed to communicate silently.

"Is that so? One moment." Molin rose and went to the table, returning with a small notepad and pen. "Perhaps you could write it down?"

"Eye drops. Thank you." Molin sat closer, handing Ian the notepad. His penmanship was swift and decisive.

Is it a magic stone?

Ian nodded. Molin briefly touched his temple, frowning. Such a rare item, even in the capital. How could a border count possess one?

Do you wish to cross the border? he wrote.

Ian shook his head. The scraping of his spoon against the soup bowl filled the silence.

With the legitimate heir, Chel, present, your position is precarious. And you have a different birth mother, do you not? The Countess wouldn't take kindly to you leaving Variel.

It was the opening gambit Ian had anticipated. They were preying on his vulnerability, using his birth mother to stoke resentment. They wanted Ian to stay, to replace Chel.

If they saw me use magic, they'll try to recruit me for Gale's faction. If not… There could be only one other reason. They intended to use Ian as a puppet to seize control of the Bratz territory. Despite its mismanagement, the territory boasted a large military force. And a swift takeover was crucial for a successful rebellion. Securing this territory before reinforcements arrived would be a strategic advantage.

But what about Derga? The Count's cooperation would be the quickest and most effective route. The First Prince currently holds the most power, making him and Derga rivals. An alliance with the Second Prince's faction wouldn't be unreasonable. They wouldn't have outright proposed rebellion, likely suggesting a subtle power grab. But their attempt to sway Ian suggests it failed.

Despite their brief acquaintance, Ian understood Derga. A man so greedy and politically astute wouldn't refuse the Second Prince outright. Perhaps he was hedging his bets, but Molin's demeanor suggested a complete rejection.

Are you offering to help me? Ian wrote.

If that is your desire.

Why? Why was Derga uninterested in the power struggle at the capital? Ian recalled the documents from the study, the abnormally high military expenditure. Even with exorbitant taxes, it seemed unsustainable. He had even wondered if the territory possessed some hidden resource.

Could he be…embezzling the taxes meant for the Royal Palace?

That would explain everything: his reluctance to engage with the capital, the skewed finances, and the constant activity at the forge.

Molin tapped Ian's arm, drawing his attention. He wanted a response.

What do you want from me? Ian wrote.

Molin, seeing the boy's willingness to engage, openly mentioned the golden eyes. Master Ian, are you, by chance, a magic wielder?

I don't understand what you're talking about. Ian flatly denied it. Revealing his abilities now would be more dangerous than beneficial. Especially with someone connected to a rebellion involving the Magic Division. He needed to remain hidden until he could protect himself.

Molin tapped the notepad, his gaze sharp, trying to detect a lie. That's a shame.

Will you withdraw your offer because of this?

Not at all. We need you. If you cooperate, we will oppose your legitimization in the capital. Then, there will be no need for you to cross the border.

"Do the clothes fit comfortably?" Derga's voice boomed from the hallway. He would be entering soon, signaling an end to their conversation.

Molin calmly gathered the notes and placed them in the ashtray, adding a small flame and closing the lid.

The door creaked open.

"Oh?" Chel, dressed in his new clothes, hesitated. The atmosphere in the room felt strangely tense. Molin greeted him with a warm smile.

"As expected, the madam's skills are exceptional."

"It was a gift from Sir Degor. Th-thank you," Chel stammered.

"It was my fault for spilling the water. Please, finish your meal. I wonder why Mac is taking so long."

As if on cue, the door opened again, revealing Mac, alone.

"I found our guard practically swimming in the wine cellar. Offered him a taste, and he seems to have…lost track of time." Mac's jovial tone lightened the mood. Ian responded with a smile, resuming his meal. Molin exchanged a look with his subordinates.

"What do you think?"

"As expected, he's sharp."

During their initial lunch, Molin had conveyed Gale's intentions to the Count, but Derga's response had been less than enthusiastic. As he was leaving, he had caught sight of Ian's golden eyes. A valuable asset, especially if he was a magic wielder. A godsend, even. But the boy had denied it…

"Keep a close watch on him." Molin signaled to Mac and Degor with a twitch of his left eyebrow.

Ian looked down at the fork in his left hand and the knife in his right. It felt as if the Royal Palace and the Heavenly Race rested in his grasp.

Then, the steak before me must be Bratz. He could use both sides to carve a path for himself.

"The meat is exquisite," Ian remarked, a satisfied smile on his face. Then, he casually added, "With our guard indisposed, I doubt we'll be traveling far today. Perhaps a stroll in the park after lunch? I'd like to see the lake you mentioned, Sir Molin."