Shadows Over Arcadia

I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, second prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia—and I am currently on a quest to gain power and influence in the Kingdom of Hyperion.

There's a sharp spark of green light that stings my eyes, gone as quickly as it came. For a moment the room seems dimmer in its absence. The old farmer, perched nervously on the cot, blinks in confusion. Alastor and I had been watching his right arm, the ignition point.

Alastor withdraws his hand, shoulders sagging as he slumps into the chair beside me with a weary sigh.

"Was that it?" the farmer asks, still blinking.

I rub the stars from my vision and lean closer to the gash in his arm. The acrid smell of sweat and earth clings to him, mixing with the metallic edge of his fresh blood. The wound looks unchanged. I furrow my brow and activate my diagnostic eye just to be sure.

"That was the right spell this time," I say with a sigh. Beside me, Alastor sways unsteadily. "But again, you burned far too much mana too fast."

"Sorry," Alastor mutters weakly. "I don't know why…"

"You can't heal me?" the farmer asks, disappointment heavy in his voice.

"I can take care of you, sir." I place my hand over the wound. A steady green glow fills the room, and the torn flesh pulls itself together with a sinewy squelch.

"Thank you, m'lord," the farmer says, his voice breaking into joy as he runs a hand over the smooth skin where the cut had been. He looks up at me, eyes shining. "For healing me, and for what you did for my fields a few days ago."

"Revitalizing your crops is a temporary fix," I respond distractedly, my head resting on one hand propped on my knee while the other taps restlessly. "Maintaining the aqueducts and using the techniques I taught you are what will bring lasting improvement." My words come out almost absently, my mind still far away, struggling to understand why Alastor's spell had failed.

I have been instructing him for a week now, and he still has not managed to successfully cast even the simplest healing spell. This is baffling, because he mastered the diagnostic eye almost immediately. When he activated it at the end of the first day, we were both excited. It seemed he might have the rare aptitude for healing magic. Yet the first signs of his struggle appeared even then. Though the diagnostic eye requires very little mana, he could only maintain it for ten minutes before exhausting himself.

"Is he going to be all right, m'lord?" the farmer asks.

"What?" I look up, and no sooner have the words left my lips than something lurches forward from the edge of my vision.

Thud.

The farmer stumbles back just in time as Alastor pitches forward, his head striking the cot's frame before he collapses unconscious at our feet.

"Alastor!" I drop to the floor beside him and heave him onto his back. A small gash marks the skin above his right eye, his leather cap knocked askew, his mouth slack. Blood trickles down his cheek, but his chest rises and falls. I let out a breath of relief, place my hand on his forehead, and cast Heal.

Something catches my eye in the emerald glow of the spell, something usually hidden beneath his hat.

I see…

"The ladies at the counter will take your payment," I tell the farmer as I pull Alastor's cap back over his head.

"Ah, yes, m'lord." The farmer bows awkwardly and hurries from the room.

My eyes remain fixed on Alastor, sleeping peacefully on the floor before me.

What a terrible teacher I am. I have no idea what he is doing wrong or how to fix it. His mana pool is small, and healing is mana intensive, but that alone does not explain why it pours out of him uncontrollably with every spell. I tried repeating everything Lady Muara told me, but it was no use. This was not a problem I ever faced. Again and again he bottoms out his mana and collapses after a single healing attempt.

I draw the dragon's blessing mana crystal from the cord around my neck. A gift from Jade, it can hold far more mana than a common crystal. I press the deep red stone to Alastor's chest. Within it swirls an ember light, like a flame trapped in glass, flaring brighter as I activate it.

Alastor's eyelids flutter open as I slip the dragon's blessing back around my neck. He yawns, blinks, and finally focuses on me.

"Did it work?" he asks with a tired smile.

"You're making progress…" I lie, holding out my hand. He instinctively checks that his cap is still in place before taking it, and together we rise to our feet.

"Then why do you look so disappointed?" he asks.

"I'm just thinking." I roll the crystal between my fingers. "What if you used a mana crystal while casting the spell?"

Still looking a bit dazed, Alastor chuckles. "I'd probably drain that too."

"Yeah, probably." I admit with a sigh.

He rubs his head, his expression settling into thought. "I'd make a pretty awful healer if I needed a crystal every time I tried to close a cut."

"It might still work," I counter.

Alastor shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "That is such an Arcadian answer—just throw more power at the problem."

Heat pricks at my ears, but before I can respond he leans back against the cot, his smile widening. "That reminds me of a joke my father told me once. How much power does an Arcadian need to be happy?"

"I don't know," I say cautiously, already bracing myself.

"Just a little bit more." He pinches his fingers an inch apart.

I laugh despite myself, and Alastor joins in. It is true. In Arcadia, we believe power is the key to every good thing. Without it you cannot protect your family or earn your place. So of course we always want more.

Our laughter fades, leaving behind a weight of regret.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I'm really failing as your teacher."

"Why would you say that?"

"I've learned so much about artificing from you in the evenings, but I haven't helped you make progress in days." I rub the side of my head. "I feel like I'm not holding up my side of the deal."

"Nonsense," Alastor says firmly, his kind eyes and gentle tone clashing with the pit gnawing at my stomach. Inside me, two beasts stir, guilt for giving him false hope and the cold grip of worry that I am simply not good enough.

"You haven't failed me. In fact, with everything you are juggling, running the apothecary, improving the farms, and still finding time to teach me, I think you are pushing yourself too hard." He reaches out and grasps my arm. The sudden contact startles me. My gaze drops to his hand on my sleeve, then rises to meet his earnest hazel eyes.

"Your job was to teach me. You have done that. Learning is my responsibility."

I stare at him, a little at a loss for words. Not many people would grab me, and almost never in an encouraging way. I usually would not allow it. He caught me off guard, with my barrier down and his kind understanding. The ache in my stomach eases. Perhaps he is right.

Alastor glances down at his hand gripping my sleeve and, as if suddenly aware of his boldness, pulls it back quickly. "Oh, sorry."

"It's fine," I say, brushing it off as if nothing happened. "You're right. Healing magic is one of the most difficult types of magic to learn. Naturally, it will take time."

Time we may not have. I have not told Alastor that I plan to leave Hyperion in two weeks. I had hoped to teach him at least a basic healing spell before then, but at his current pace that feels less and less likely. I do have a solution, one that would guarantee faster progress and keep him learning even in my absence, but I am not sure he is ready for it.

With a small smile, I head for the door and gesture for Alastor to follow. "Let's see who our next patient is."

The door swings open to the clink of coins on the counter. Lyra, in a blue dress with her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, sorts through the pile of copper stacked before her. Her lips move as she tallies. "Forty, eighty, one hundred and twenty… that's three silver. Add nine more silvers…" She bites her lip, double-checking her math. "Twelve silver in total?" She glances toward Willow for confirmation. Willow, serene and elegant as ever, stands beside her. Her smile moves past Lyra and softens as it finds me.

"Correct," Willow says.

"Thank you for your business," Lyra says brightly as the man in Hyperion military garb collects a small box of potions with a curt nod.

"How are you feeling?" I ask. Lyra turns to me, still beaming, though her pallor betrays fatigue. It is her first full day helping Willow at the counter, and while she is steadier than when she arrived a week ago, the strain still shows.

On her first day she would not leave her room, nor speak to anyone except Shadow. The streets of Hyperion had carved deep scars into her, wounds no spell could heal. Patient care and good food coaxed her back into the open, but her mind is still a battlefield. The monsters that haunt her will not be vanquished so easily.

"I think I've got the hang of it," she says, sweeping the coins into a metal box behind the counter. "It's not hard math, really. Just a lot of it, very fast."

"And the occasional difficult customer," Willow adds with a mischievous grin. Lyra winces at the memory.

Click. The bolt slides home as Shadow locks the door behind the last customer. Outside, Lieutenant Daniel and his men disperse the lingering crowd, their voices rising in a jumbled chorus. Beyond them, the last light of the sun filters through the wheat stalks, golden heads swaying in the evening breeze.

From the base of the porch, Lieutenant Daniel signals through the window to Shadow, confirming the property is clear. Shadow presses his hand to the front door column, where runes have been carefully etched into the wood and inlaid with silver. The markings flare to life, glowing a brilliant blue. A wave of light ripples outward, racing through floor and ceiling until the entire manor is bound within a network of protective and detection spells.

The activation costs only a trace of mana, but the enchantments draw their strength from the mana crystals embedded in the column. With Hyperion's guards watching by day and the wards standing sentinel by night, this may be the most secure home in the kingdom.

"I didn't realize how late it was," Alastor remarks beside me, echoing my own thought.

"Time flies when you nap half the day, doesn't it?" Maribel chides as she passes us, hefting a crate from the storeroom.

"It's not on purpose…" Alastor says defensively, watching as Shadow relieves Maribel of her load.

"Thanks, big guy." Her tone lifts strangely higher than when she speaks to anyone else. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and looks between Alastor and me. "Managed to heal anyone yet?"

"Not yet," Alastor admits awkwardly.

"You'll get there," Maribel answers with quiet confidence. She glances at me and adds, "You've got a great teacher."

I return her words with a smile. It is kind of her to say that. She has learned to use basic healing magic, enough to mend cuts and stop bleeding, from me. But I know most of that comes from Envy's influence, not a virtue of my teaching abilities.

"How's our stock looking?" I ask, watching Shadow gingerly try to place a potion from the crate onto the shelf. The little glass bottle looks tiny and fragile in his large gauntlets.

Maribel ignores my question at first, rushing to his side. She arrives just in time. With a chorus of clinks, Shadow manages to set the potion down, but in doing so knocks several others from the shelf. Maribel deftly snatches two before they can shatter on the floor. She sets them back in place and waves Shadow away.

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"At our current pace we'll be sold out before the end of next week," she answers while straightening the rest of the bottles.

"Enough time for our planned resupply," Shadow says, awkwardly looming over her as she finishes the job for him.

"Will our guest be joining us for dinner again tonight, young master?" Willow asks.

I glance at Alastor. He smiles and nods. "It would be an honor. My father said I can stay late and even spend the night, if you'll have me."

"It's no problem at all. It makes more sense than sending you home after dark. We have plenty of spare rooms," I say.

"Very well, I will go prepare dinner," Willow says, striding away and leaving Lyra looking both fatigued and uncertain, her eyes turning toward Shadow for direction.

"Lady Lyra, you may rest before supper if you like," I offer. Her tired gaze shifts to me instead.

"Thank you, but I'd rather help Master Shadow," she replies awkwardly.

I shrug. She is three years my senior; she can decide for herself.

"And we should head to the workshop while we wait for supper," I say to Alastor, excitement creeping into my voice. It is always the best part of my day, studying artificing with him. From the moment I wake, I itch with anticipation to see what new gadget or mechanism he has brought to show me.

"I've got something special for you today," Alastor says, his grin mirroring my eagerness.

We race down the west wing hall, past room after room, until we reach the chamber at the manor's rear we claimed as my workshop. The doors open to the scent of iron and the hiss of the furnace burning bright near the center.

The space is long, lined with broad workbenches and shelves crowded with tools, some bought, others forged by my own hand to match those Alastor uses in his family's shop. Unfinished projects scatter the tables: a half-dismantled chronolog, the blueprint of a prosthetic leg, and scraps of other designs that still wait for our attention.

The chamber is built like a greenhouse, glass panes stretching across the walls. Beyond them, the last light of sunset fades into twilight, stars beginning to pierce the darkening sky. As we settle at the workbench, the night closes in fully, wrapping the manor in shadow.

I take a seat, sweeping aside my hand-copied diagram of a differential gear assembly while Alastor rummages through his bag. Perched eagerly on the edge of my chair, I watch him return and set something small and metallic on the table before me.

"It's another bird?" I ask as I lean in close. It is finely detailed little hummingbird, balanced on thin legs with its wings tucked at its sides. Compared to the elegant and lifelike dancing statue he showed me before, this one feels far less impressive.

I glance back at Alastor, puzzled. His craftsmanship is excellent, but if he called this one special, there must be more to it.

"Yes, but this one is different." He says, extending a finger and pressing gently on the bird's head. It bows under the pressure, then slowly rises back up as he withdraws. A faint click follows, then a shiver runs through the little figure, and suddenly it springs to life.

Its wings, crafted from dozens of delicate metal feathers, unfold with a soft metallic whisper. At first they beat slowly, then faster and faster until they blur, stirring a faint current of air across the table.

In disbelief, I watch the hummingbird lift from the surface, its body shifting naturally with each adjustment of its wings. At a foot above the table it hovers, its tiny head turning from side to side as though surveying the room like a living creature. I lean closer, fighting the urge to reach out and touch it.

Before I can, the bird drifts back down and lands on the table. Its wings fold neatly against its body, and in an instant it is motionless as a statue once more.

"That's amazing," I breathe, still stunned.

"I really love birds," Alastor says, resting his head on his arms atop the table. His eyes linger on the little construct, softened by a wistful longing. "They are so free."

I recognize that look. I have felt it myself, staring out the windows of my tower and wishing I could fly away with the birds.

"This is fantastic craftsmanship. It's a piece of art," I say, marveling at the intricate detail in each carved feather. "You've clearly put your soul into this." I add with a grin, secretly wishing I could put my soul into it too.

"It's not finished. It can only hover," Alastor sighs. "I want it to fly like a real bird."

"I have something I want to show you too," I say, struck by a sudden idea. Closing my eyes, I connect with one of the hummingbird puppets patrolling the manor. A moment later it swoops into the workshop through an open window, darting past us before circling the room.

Alastor's head follows its flight, eyes widening with each dart and twist. "That's yours? Ren, that's…" His words trail off as the puppet lands gracefully on the table beside his bird. He leans in, slack-jawed, watching as the tiny wooden creature turns in place, wings spread wide as if showing itself off. "Amazing," he whispers.

Suddenly he jerks his gaze to me, an intensity I have never seen in him before. "How does it work?" he demands.

The hummingbird flutters onto my palm as I explain. "It's a wooden puppet. What makes it move is a complicated series of spells." I set it back on the table.

"There are no mechanical parts?" Alastor asks.

"Here, I'll show you." I place my hand over the puppet. A spark of white light flashes from it into my palm. Like a marionette with its strings cut, the bird collapses limp on the table, wings and legs sprawled awkwardly.

For a moment the world around me blinks out of existence. Days of memories rush past as if I am watching myself from above. Hours shaping stone for aqueducts, faces in the apothecary line, scraps of conversations between Shadow and passing patrons, Willow driving an unruly customer out in terror, Lord Dax speaking with Kane—all of it tangled together in an unintelligible blur.

I blink, and the workshop returns. Alastor is watching me with concern. "You okay, Ren? You sorta froze."

"Don't worry about it. It's normal," I say casually, scooping the puppet into my hands and holding it out to him.

"That's normal?" he says, baffled, as I place the limp puppet into his hands.

His attention shifts to my wooden construct. I beam with pride as he inspects every detail, gently testing each joint I had so carefully shaped.

"I see. So the position of each joint requires mana to maintain?" he asks.

"Yes."

"So that would mean exerting more force costs more mana, and the force you can exert is limited by the mana stored in the device?" Alastor's tone turns thoughtful, almost clinical, as he sets the puppet back on the table.

"Yes," I reply, though with less enthusiasm now. It feels as though he is about to find fault in one of my beloved creations.

Alastor studies it intently, rubbing his chin. At last he smiles. "It's a beautiful, functional piece of artistry. But… if you're interested, I think we could combine our designs and make it even better." His eyes gleam with excitement.

"Combine how?" I ask, my own eagerness returning.

"Well, if your joints articulated with gears and drive shafts connected to a motor, they wouldn't need mana to hold a static position." As he speaks, he pulls a sheet of parchment from beneath the workbench and fetches a quill and ink well.

He pauses with the quill in hand, eyes flicking from the parchment to me. "Are you sure it's alright to use this? Parchment and ink aren't cheap."

I shrug. "Use as much as you need. I brought plenty from Arcadia."

Alastor barely pauses before nodding, his eyes alight. "If you're certain…" He flattens the parchment eagerly and leans over it, quill darting in quick strokes that dart across the page faster than his words can keep up.

"If we designed a motor you could manipulate with your spell, your puppet would move the same but use far less mana," he says, hand flying across the parchment as the vision comes alive in ink.

I watch, transfixed, as Alastor's vision takes shape before my eyes. His focus is absolute, the concentration of a true craftsman. Alastor has no power. In Arcadia that means he would never be feared, never be respected, never be counted as anything more than ordinary. Yet watching him so effortlessly create new ideas and bring them to life, I cannot help but respect him.

"Would this work on a—ah… larger construct?" I ask, thoughts flickering to both Shadow and TALON.

"Of course. It would actually be easier to make the components on a larger scale." His quill halts mid-stroke in a clutch assembly. He turns back to me, a hopeful grin spreading across his face.

"Are you saying you already have a bigger version?"

"One so big you could ride it!" I say, stretching out my arms dramatically and flapping them like enormous wings.

"Show me! Where is it?" Alastor jumps to his feet, scanning the room as if I had hidden TALON among the shelves. "Can I ride it?" he adds eagerly.

"Absolutely—if you help me upgrade him."

We both turn as heavy footfalls echo down the hall. The door swings open, and Shadow steps inside, followed closely by Maribel and Lyra. Both of them are nearly two heads shorter and several times narrower than him, their slight frames in sharp contrast to his hulking presence.

"We have something you need to see," Maribel announces proudly as they make their way to the workbench beside ours.

Their arrival is neither surprising nor disappointing. Shadow and Envy had already proclaimed their success earlier: after weeks of practice, Shadow finally managed to open a portal that did not immediately cook whatever passed through it. It was Maribel who insisted on demonstrating it here, eager to boast of her skill as an instructor.

She slaps her palm on the table and grins at me with smug triumph. "At least one of us made progress today!" she chides.

Then she pauses, frowning as if listening to something unpleasant, and rolls her eyes. "That wasn't mean…"

"It's okay," Alastor says, a little of the wind gone from his sails.

"Fine, fine, I get it." Maribel waves her hand as if shooing away a fly.

"What?" Alastor asks, looking between us in confusion.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault." Maribel sighs, then shoots me a grin. "I'm just the superior teacher." She groans, adds under her breath, "Yes, that was a real apology," then straightens with mock dignity.

"Who is she talking to?" Alastor asks thoroughly confused.

"A shame. Does this mean no more portal-roasted delicacies?" I prod back.

I am not offended. Thanks to Envy, I have come to understand that Maribel's sharp tongue often hides how much she has grown to enjoy our company. Her pride in Shadow's progress is genuine, even if she buries it under barbs. For all her boasting, there is light in her eyes, the same satisfaction I feel when Alastor's inventions come alive.

"They tasted horrid anyway," Maribel chuckles before spinning on her heel and barking at Shadow. "Alright, show 'em, big guy!"

All eyes turn to Shadow at the far end of the workbench. His colossal arms extend, hands leveling toward two points before him. Behind him, Lyra clasps her fists over her chest, beaming at him like a child watching her hero. The four of us brace for the display.

Two infinitely thin discs of swirling black shimmer into existence, hovering inches above the workbench. The ink-dark portals make no sound, no ripple, no disturbance in the air. Shadow lowers his hands, wordless, and retrieves a dragon fruit from his bag. With a casual flick he tosses it through the first portal. It vanishes without a ripple, only to reappear flying out of the second—straight into Maribel's waiting hand.

"Ta-da!" Maribel crows, holding the fruit aloft, completely unharmed.

"Great job, Master Shadow!" Lyra cheers, throwing her arms around his back in celebration.

Shadow stiffens, glancing awkwardly at Maribel, who glares back.

"Get off him!" she snaps, hurling the dragon fruit in Lyra's direction. Shadow snatches it from the air before it can reach her face. Lyra squeals and hops back, startled.

"Great job, Shadow!" I call out, raising my voice over Maribel and Lyra's bickering while Shadow sits trapped helplessly between them.

Alastor leans in close and whispers, "What's her problem?"

"Are girls not usually like this?" I shrug. "I wouldn't know."

"No, I mean—it seemed like she was talking to herself earlier." Alastor watches as Shadow ends the argument with a hug and a few quiet words.

"Oh. Maribel has a…" I pause, searching for a way to explain without saying too much. "She carries an enchanted item with a mind of its own. Its name is Envy. It protects her and speaks to her telepathically."

Alastor grimaces. "She has another voice in her head? That sounds awful." He shakes his head. "No wonder she's so neurotic."

My heart sinks. That settles it. I can't offer Alastor one of the masks if the very idea unsettles him this much. I already had a spare prepared, hoping it might accelerate his training, but that is out of the question now. I won't risk scaring him away.

"Dinner is ready!" Willow's magically amplified voice booms, seeming to come from every direction. Shadow ushers Maribel and Lyra out of the workshop, Alastor and I following close behind.

Moments later the rest of us, minus Shadow, enter the dining room. The table is already set, a small feast waiting. Maribel slips into the seat beside me, still casting suspicious glances at Lyra across from her, while Alastor takes the chair directly across from me.

We eat in relative silence, the clink of silverware on plates broken only by Alastor's musings about how strange it is that Shadow and Willow are always too busy to join us for supper. I answer him with nothing more than a shrug and another bite.

With our plates nearly cleared and our bellies full, I decide there is no better time to speak. I set my napkin down. "Lyra, Alastor, there is something I need to tell you."

"What is it?" Alastor asks.

"Did I do something wrong?" Lyra asks timidly.

"Of course not. You've both been wonderful," I assure her. "But my work here in Hyperion will be finished in two weeks."

I take a steady breath. "When that time comes, Maribel, Shadow, Willow, and I will return to Arcadia."

"What about me?" Lyra's voice wavers, her face tight with worry.

"Lyra, I was hoping to hire you to stay here and manage the shop for us."

Her eyes widen. "I would love to stay… but alone?"

"Not truly alone," I assure her softly. "The shop has become important to Hyperion. The guards will still be here every day, and with the enchantments on the manor, this may be the safest place in the whole kingdom."

I glance at Alastor, offering a small smile. "And… I was hoping to hire you too."

"We're both young," Alastor says slowly, clearly still thinking it through. "And I'm only an artificer."

"It would only be the two of you for a short while. As soon as I reach Arcadia I'll hire healers to join the staff," I explain. "You don't need to decide right away. But Lyra, I know you need both steady work and a safe home. This place can be both for you."

I look back to Alastor. "And I know you don't want to spend your life making weapons of war."

"But why me? I can't even use healing magic," Alastor laments.

"You will learn. I promise you that. But more than skill, what I need are people I can trust. Those are rare. Yet somehow, I am fortunate enough to already have them right here."

"I will be honored, Prince Ren," Lyra says.

"I am grateful for the offer, but I need to speak with my father first," Alastor adds.

"Very well, take your time," I answer casually, though inside I am overjoyed. It seems both of them are convinced. Finding anyone in Hyperion who would not rob me blind if given the chance has been difficult. I was very lucky to find these two, and if not them, I am not sure who I could entrust this business to.

"Since we will not be here much longer, would you mind if Shadow and I take a few days to complete some local guild requests?" Maribel asks, still eyeing Lyra like a predator studying its prey. "If there is a C-rank contract available, we could both earn a promotion."

"That's fine. Willow can manage on her own for a bit."

"It's late. We should turn in for the night. Alastor, I can show you to your room," I say, rising and brushing crumbs from my shirt.

Maribel and Lyra head off to their respective rooms in the west wing while I walk with Alastor to the east wing. I leave him with one of the spare rooms, where he thanks me again for my offer and hospitality. Then I set off to my own chamber.

When I step through the door, I am greeted by the scent of lavender and the sight of Lady Willow sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for me.

I kick off my shoes near the door, drape my coat over a chair, and flop onto the bed beside her. With a heavy sigh I lean against her shoulder, sinking into her embrace. My mind remains busy, tangled in the questions of the day and the unresolved matters sure to make sleep elusive.

"What troubles you, young master?" Willow's melodic voice carries a calming influence that I choose to let in.

"Do you know why every spell drains Alastor's mana?" I ask.

"Well, young master, there was once a race of mortals jealous of the power of the fae," Willow begins, as though telling a bedtime story. "They stole the son of the fae queen and tried to wield his power as their own. But not understanding that, to the fae, power is life itself, they killed the queen's son. In her grief she cursed their descendants, binding them never to wield magic."

"The entire race cursed for the actions of a few?" I say. "That seems excessive."

"The fae king agreed with you," Willow chuckles. "Not wishing that race to be utterly defenseless, he gave them instead the ability to use blood magic. So they would live, but forever be reminded of their sin, forced to exchange life for power, just as their ancestors once exchanged a life for power."

"Are you saying Alastor cannot use magic because he's half demon?" I ask. I have seen the horns he hides beneath his hat. I confirmed it with my diagnostic eye—he is part demon. If the demon lineage was cursed to never wield mana, then it would make sense that a half demon would be bound by it as well.

"Perhaps. But where fate has closed a door, it may also have opened a window," Willow says softly. "Perhaps your friend should try blood magic."