Walking with the detective was more than mere steps upon the gravel. It was a descent into a tunnel I could not see, a journeying far away without ever leaving the spot. I know this sounds like bad poetry, but that is how it happened—because it was not I who walked. I was not yet Thomas.
In a background I do not narrate, Thomas once asked the detective: Why walk? Why always walk?
"Trust only the thoughts that come to you while walking," the detective had said. "The greatest ideas are discovered on foot."
And I—the narrator not yet born—was observing the scene from somewhere over Thomas's shoulder. Reading what he wrote in his notebook, seeing what he forgot. I understand now what the detective meant. Walking churns the blood in the nerves, empties the head to fill it with something else. And as a doctor, I confirm he was right. Thomas was not a writer, but he was the stuff of writing.
He walked with his neck bent. Not in fear or shame. He was counting steps without realizing it: one, two, three… the pendulum of a clock that never stops. I understood the rhythm, while he was experiencing it for the first time. Something he had always known, yet never felt. Yes, it is strange. But everything here is.
He lifted his gaze.
The villa stood upon a low hill, approaching slowly. I noticed we had taken longer than necessary. The villa is not far from the village, but the detective had not yet finished his rites. He was still awaiting some conclusion, from Thomas… or from me.
My attention shifted to the three shadows.
They were no longer angry. They were bewildered. Castor muttered curses I could not grasp, as if addressing himself in another tongue. Lagrita averted her eyes from the villa, watching the grass as it withdrew beneath our feet, as if pulled by an invisible thread. As for **Ancaues**, he maintained his cold composure, yet fine cracks had appeared in his mask. A faint fissure, left by the last thing he knew of Merdin. I was not present there, but I see the aftermath now.
No one questioned the detective. No one demanded we stop. And that is pitiable. These are among the greatest **magicians** of **Uris**, yet they offered nothing. No inquiry into the **magic** of spacetime, nor into how Merdin had been wielded despite their having sealed it—or perhaps because they knew all too well.
I realized something else. Weariness had returned, as shadows do. A slight heaviness in the knees, a falter in the rhythm. This is the first weariness I have experienced, and I am not adept at handling it. My feet grow numb and scream in silence, pleading to halt. I did not.
I raised my eyes.
The night sky was clear. No pollution to veil it. Stars and galaxies scattered across a deep blue canvas, painted with a painful precision. One star seemed too fixed, more than it ought. I felt a strange happiness, an unjustified contentment. As if beauty could kill everything else within us.
And as we descended from the hill, the villa grew clearer.
It was glowing. Not with reflection, but with a light emanating from within. A full moon at midnight. Around it stood small white houses, several stories tall, yet from this distance they appeared like pebbles arranged beneath a titan.
And here, I noticed what I had not seen before.
The villa was enormous. Impossibly enormous.
It stretched for miles toward the sky.
This was not a linguistic exaggeration.
It was an architectural impossibility.
I felt as though the night had finally settled.
A cool breeze drifted over the dusty road, stirring the dry grasses on either side.
In the air, faint points of light; mana fireflies drifted slowly, appearing and vanishing with no discernible pattern.
I stopped. The detective continued walking, his steps unwavering, as if knowing questions required no closeness.
I looked back at the three who had halted in bewilderment.
"If that is so, why did you not use any magical tool…"
I said quietly this time,
"Would it not have been simpler for discerning Simon's disappearance?"
No one answered.
The sound of the wind filled the void.
One of the mana fireflies drew near, then drifted away, indifferent to the question.
Ancaues spoke at last:
"Because tools do not reveal truth."
He paused a moment.
"They merely give form to what we already know. Do you suppose a tool could tell you something we are incapable of relating?"
I furrowed my brow.
"A convenient assumption,"
I said.
"Tools exist that are designed to surpass the limits of their users. Some defy even the comprehension of their makers."
He replied without inflection:
"And who declared surpassing a virtue?"
Then he added:
"We are not so deficient in knowledge that we must seek a crutch."
Before I could comment, Lagrita interjected:
"In fact, Sir Thomas, you are correct. Tools do exist. Their existence is no secret. The Sacred Magicians bequeathed us certain divine artifacts that surpass our understanding."
She said it as if correcting a point of history.
"But they are employed only when reality itself proves insufficient."
"And Simon?" I asked.
"He remains within acceptable probability,"
she replied.
"He has not transgressed the limit."
I exhaled slowly.
"And Merdain?"
I lifted my head slightly.
"He wielded spacetime magic. Which is forbidden."
Castor laughed softly, the laugh of one long accustomed to this question.
"Forbidden does not mean impossible,"
he said.
"It merely means: not for all… Spacetime magic is still permitted for those of the highest ranks in critical circumstances. Do not misunderstand—we do not seek to deprive the world of it, but the duty of the Houses to safeguard the world's stability holds greater import than, say, your family's excursion to another continent."
I took a step forward.
"And why was it forbidden in the first place?"
I fell silent for a moment, then continued:
"The prohibition was enacted shortly before Simon's disappearance. That is no coincidence."
Lagrita gazed at the moving lights in the air, not at me.
"Time and space are not as fixed as you believe,"
she said.
"Something presses upon them, constantly. And we… we minimize the losses."
"What is this something?"
No one answered.
The breeze strengthened slightly, extinguishing some of the lights in the air.
"That is enough, Thomas."
The detective's voice came from ahead, calm, without turning.
"You are not wrong not really... You ask the right questions,"
he said.
"But at the wrong time."
He finally ceased walking.
"Truth is not wrested by curiosity."
Then he continued:
"And sometimes, the best way to comprehend it… is to let it be, for a while."
Writer's Corner :
A huge thank you to everyone who has read the chapters so far — the story has now surpassed 41,000 reads, which is amazing!
Honestly, though, it's a bit sad that I haven't seen any comments on any chapter so far.
I would be extremely grateful for any word from you, whether it's praise or criticism. Any interaction means a lot and helps me improve the story.