A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

"Are we almost there?" Chel whined, wiping sweat from his brow. The weather was mild, and the walk hadn't been particularly long, but the boy lagged behind, clearly struggling.

Ian, on the other hand, felt invigorated by the fresh air, a rare treat. He found a strange pleasure in observing the unfamiliar streets.

"Almost," Ian replied.

"Master Chel, perhaps you should return if you're tired," Mac offered kindly. Chel shook his head vehemently.

He couldn't risk returning alone, not with Deo absent. He had strict orders from his father: observe and memorize every word exchanged between Ian and these strangers.

"Ah, here we are," Molin announced. "The landscaping of Portroga is quite beautiful, befitting its status. The lake is crystal clear, and on a good day, the mountain reflects perfectly on its surface."

Molin's praise wasn't mere flattery. Even Ian, accustomed to the opulent gardens of the Imperial Palace, found the park impressive. But his admiration was fleeting. A flicker of unease crossed his face as he scanned the area.

"How large is this park?" he asked.

"I'm not entirely sure. I haven't explored the entire area myself," Molin admitted.

"A leisurely stroll around the perimeter would likely take thirty minutes," Mac added.

The park was larger than Ian anticipated. He hadn't been given a precise location, and finding his mother in this sprawling space presented a challenge. Even as he conversed with Molin, Ian remained hyper-alert, his gaze sweeping over every passerby.

Then he saw it. In the distance, a cloaked figure, shrouded from head to toe, sat hunched over a makeshift stall. It was impossible to discern even the figure's gender beneath the heavy fabric. But amongst the scattered wares, something familiar caught his eye.

A flowerpot, identical to the one his mother had given him, containing the dried flower. Ian paused, glancing back at Chel, whose hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Perfect.

"Brother Chel seems exhausted. Perhaps we should rest here for a moment," Ian suggested.

"Shall we?" Molin agreed.

"If it's not too much trouble, could we have some refreshments?" Ian added, directing his request to Mac.

"Certainly. Ri!" Mac called to a servant trailing behind, instructing him to fetch drinks. The group settled onto a nearby bench, taking a moment to catch their breath. Ian's gaze kept returning to the stall, waiting for an opportunity.

"While we wait, I'd like to take a closer look at that stall over there. Brother, would you care to join me?"

"No… I'm… fine," Chel gasped, waving a hand dismissively.

Ian fixed his gaze on the three men, silently seeking their approval. The stall wasn't far, and Mac gave a slight nod.

"Go ahead. Though I doubt there's anything of interest there."

"Thank you," Ian replied, making his way towards the stall. He crouched down, examining the items on display. The cloaked figure remained motionless, almost prone. A flicker of worry crossed Ian's mind. Was she unwell? He turned his head slightly, discreetly channeling his magic. His absinthe eyes shimmered gold, and the brooch on his chest pulsed with a faint red glow before falling dormant.

"Mother," he whispered.

The figure flinched, slowly raising its head. Beneath the dark cloth, a cascade of sand-gold hair spilled forth, framing a pair of familiar emerald eyes. It was his mother, Philia.

"...Ian," she breathed.

"Don't react. Just listen," he instructed, his voice low and urgent.

Philia was strikingly beautiful, even in her current state. It was easy to see how Derga had been captivated by her. She started to lift her head further, but stopped at Ian's words. Her veiled vision allowed her to see only his chest.

"Ian… Ian…" she repeated, her voice thick with emotion.

"Mother, I'm doing well. I received your letter. Don't worry about me."

Tears began to stream down Philia's face. Ian watched silently, his heart heavy. He was sorry, but time was of the essence. The men watching him wouldn't let him linger.

"I understand you can no longer contact me through Hana. And I have a request." Ian retrieved a gold coin from his pocket.

"Did you perhaps give me this?" he asked.

"What? A gold coin?" Philia looked bewildered. Ian had suspected as much. It was a ploy by the Count, a subtle way of emphasizing his supposed generosity towards her.

Ian smiled faintly, pressing the coin into her hand. "Use this to prepare for your escape. I'll inform you of the timing through Hana."

Philia was a liability, whether she liked it or not. To dismantle Derga, Ian needed to eliminate all foreseeable variables.

Philia clutched the coin, her gaze questioning. She clearly didn't understand what he was planning.

"Ian, your eyes…" she began, noticing the subtle shift in their color.

"Promise me you'll do this, for me," Ian urged.

His golden eyes, blazing like a predator's, startled her. She blinked, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Ian, if you want to run away, you can," she whispered.

"Mother, I'm sorry, but—"

"Master Ian!" A servant arrived, placing drinks and snacks on the table. Mac called out to Ian, but the boy couldn't turn around, not wanting to reveal his golden eyes.

"I'm already so sorry for sending you away like that. So if you want to leave, don't hesitate."

Mac approached, his expression growing more puzzled with each step. Philia seemed to have come to terms with her own resolve, seeking out Ian to impart a final message. She didn't dare touch him, only gripping his sleeve tightly.

"I won't run," Ian declared, his voice firm. "Whenever you can, gather Gulla seeds. They will be of great use later. Forget the song you sang to me. The lyrics I send in my letters will be our new code."

Mac stood directly behind him now. Ian released his magic, forcing a casual smile onto his face. The golden shimmer in his eyes vanished, and the brooch on his chest returned to its dormant state.

"I'll take this flowerpot. This should be enough," he said, picking up the pot.

"Master Ian? Is everything alright?" Mac asked, scrutinizing the boy's expression. Ian's face betrayed nothing but calm indifference. Mac glanced at the cloaked figure before leading Ian back to the others.

"Master Chel seems rather frail," he commented, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Ian chuckled along with him, glancing back briefly. Philia had prostrated herself, her face hidden beneath the cloak. She knew how to weep silently.

"You bought a flowerpot, Master Ian?" Drogor asked.

"What kind of plant is it?" Molin inquired.

Ian simply smiled. He had no idea. He wasn't a botanist. Based on the letter, he only knew it was a plant his mother had been tending.

"I'm not sure. I bought it because the flowers are beautiful," he replied.

"I've never seen that kind before… Mac! Do you recognize it?"

"How would I know?"

"Aren't you the expert on giving bouquets?"

"Drogor! Really!"

Surprisingly, none of them seemed to recognize the flower, despite its striking appearance. The watercolor-like crimson petals were unforgettable.

Ian clutched the flowerpot carefully, glancing back one last time. The cloaked figure was gone.

The carriage door clicked open. "We've arrived," the coachman announced. Deo stumbled out, clearly still inebriated. Servants holding lanterns stood waiting at the gate.

"Master Deo, welcome back," one greeted.

"You must be tired. Please come inside," another chimed in.

"Master Ian, his Lordship requests your presence in his study immediately," a third informed him.

They moved with practiced efficiency, taking his coat and offering a damp towel. Ian handed the flowerpot to a servant before heading upstairs.

He knocked on the study door. "Enter," Derga's voice boomed almost simultaneously with the knock. He'd been waiting impatiently. Ian stepped inside. Derga, who had been busy scribbling with a quill, looked up.

"The brooch," he demanded, his greeting perfunctory. The brooch, and the information it held, was paramount. Ian approached the desk and placed the brooch before him.

"What did they discuss?" Derga asked, his eyes sharp.

"Nothing of significance," Ian reported. "Lunch was held in the guesthouse's reception room. They mostly spoke of the capital. Afterward, we went to a nearby park and continued our scholarly discussion."

"Is that all?" Derga questioned, his tone skeptical. He picked up the brooch, his gaze lingering on a glass vial filled with a clear liquid—the potion used to activate the magic stone within.

He dropped the brooch into the vial. The magic stone within began to glow, just as it had when Ian channeled his magic. A moment later, a voice, distorted and faint like the echo of a seashell, filled the room.

"[…Is this the guesthouse?]"

"[…Civil servants… dispatched from the capital… reside here. It's comfortable… like home…]"

"What did it say about 'home'?" Derga pressed, his brow furrowed.

"It said something about living there like it's their own home," Ian replied smoothly.

The inferior magic stone produced a garbled recording. Ian suppressed a sigh. So this is how he intends to catch inconsistencies. By scrutinizing the unclear parts. He briefly considered overloading the stone with his own magic, shattering it completely. But before he could act, a new presence filled the doorway. It was Mary, the Countess.

"I need to speak with you," she said, her voice tight with barely contained fury. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. Derga retrieved the brooch from the vial, his face creased with annoyance. Mary strode towards him, her gaze fixed on Ian with undisguised disdain.

"You intend to drag Chel along every time that… thing leaves the manor? Pulling him out of his lessons just to follow and spy on it?"

"Watch your tone!" Derga snapped.

"Or what?" Mary challenged, her eyes blazing.

Chel's condition upon returning had been less than stellar. Soaked in sweat and stumbling, he'd resembled a drowned rat. Mary was making it clear she wouldn't tolerate her son being used as a watchdog again. The tension in the room crackled, a simmering feud about to boil over.

"Excuse me," Ian interjected, tired of the bickering. He saw no reason to endure their marital spat. "If you'll excuse me, Father. I'll see you tomorrow."

He slipped out of the study, leaving the arguing couple behind. The servants, accustomed to such outbursts, scurried out of his way as he descended the stairs. At the bottom, Hana was waiting.

"Hana," Ian greeted.

"Master Ian, I've placed the flowerpot in your room," she reported.

"Thank you. Thanks to you, everything went smoothly," he replied, a subtle confirmation that he'd met with his mother.

Hana followed him, chattering excitedly. "After relaying the message, I realized how large the park actually is. So I directed them to the entrance closest to Portroga's Sector 3, where the guests are staying."

Ian paused at his door, turning to face her. So that was why the meeting had been so easy. Hana had been remarkably efficient. She was a valuable asset.

"Thank you, Hana. Let me know if there's anything you'd like as a reward."

"Yes, Master Ian! Thank you!" Hana beamed, finishing with the lanterns before bowing and taking her leave.

While not as exhausted as Chel, Ian felt the fatigue settling in his bones. He collapsed onto his bed, muttering to himself, "This is problematic… Perhaps I should use Chel as an excuse to visit the training grounds."

It was time to start preparing, to hone his skills and build his strength. Turbulent times were undoubtedly ahead.

For the first time in his life, Ian fell asleep face down, utterly spent.