So, this was a mage's study…
Cirino took in the small, well-kept room. It smelled of old paper and older dust. Shelves lined every wall—some bare, others overflowing with books, and most cluttered with loose papers and files. At the center, Walter unrolled a large sheet of parchment across a sturdy oak desk. Etched on it was a complex diagram—a magic circle.
"Is this legal?" Cirino asked, brow raised. Unauthorized sorcery wasn't exactly smiled upon. The Choir had entire divisions dedicated to tracking down unlicensed practitioners—fines, imprisonment, sometimes worse.
Walter didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his vest pocket and produced a silver pocket watch, its cover engraved with the symbol of a hollow sun.
"I have a student's license," Walter said calmly. "This falls well below anything illegal. We're only testing the gem for signs of corruption."
Cirino's eyes flicked back to the parchment. "What, the magic circle?"
"Formula," Walter corrected sharply. A slight frown tugged at his face. "The proper term is Thaumic Formula."
Cirino blinked. That tone was familiar—his old unit's field sorcerer had been the same way about terminology. For all he cared, though, it would always be a magic circle.
"Right," he muttered under his breath.
Walter ignored him and began setting small candles on each of the parchment's four corners. The design itself was intricate—a compass-like star interlaced with a dragon sigil Cirino didn't recognize.
"This is just a containment array," Walter said. "If the emerald's carrying any Malethic influence, this will hold it."
Walter placed the gem at the center of the parchment, then extended his hand. From his coat, he drew a small, thin blade. With a quick, practiced motion, he cut across his wrist. Crimson drops splattered onto the paper, soaking into the etched lines of the formula.
A shiver ran down Cirino's spine—first cold, then a searing heat that pulsed from the parchment. The air snapped. Crimson lightning arced outward, striking the shelves and walls, leaving blackened scorch marks across the study.
Cirino flinched, instinctively raising an arm. The sharp scent of burnt wood and ozone filled his nose. Through it all, Walter didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, his blood feeding the circle, voice calm and steady.
"Relax," Walter said, tone almost casual. "It won't hit you. The formula's algorithm excludes biological matter."
Could've mentioned that earlier, Cirino thought bitterly, lowering his arm.
His gaze drifted back to the parchment. Walter's outstretched hand trembled slightly as he began to speak—no, chant. The words were old, their syllables strange and heavy, like the echo of something long buried. As his voice grew stronger, the blood-soaked lines began to smolder.
The paper caught fire—not a natural flame, but a luminous one, bending upward into a dome of burning red. It enclosed the emerald completely, a cocoon of heat and smoke that filled the room with the acrid tang of ash.
When the sparks finally died, the dome flickered once more before collapsing inward and vanishing with a faint hiss. Walter approached the table, examining the gem. Without hesitation, he held his wounded hand above it, letting a few last drops fall before smearing his blood across its surface.
He stepped back. The air still crackled faintly, though the room was beginning to settle again.
Walter crossed to a nearby desk, calmly tearing a strip of cloth and wrapping it around his wrist. Cirino, meanwhile, stood frozen—his eyes locked on the gem. Of all the thoughts he could've had, only one managed to surface.
This isn't going to ruin the value, is it?
Walter didn't even look up as he said, "Relax. It'll wash off. Your gem will be as good as new."
Cirino turned to him, mouth thinning into a flat line. "What, are you a psychic too?"
"It was written all over your face," Walter replied with a shrug. "You had the same look Papa gets whenever someone brings in something expensive. Same look he had when you walked in holding that gem."
Is it normal to slander your father when he's not in the room? Cirino mused dryly. He could only imagine the reaction if he ever spoke that freely about his own caretakers—Sister Marietta would've given him the lecture of a lifetime. Maybe even a few smacks for good measure.
Walter grabbed a cloth from the desk and began wiping the soot and blood from his hand. "Since you're still here, make yourself useful. Help me clean up. I'm taking your share of the cost for the papers, the formula, and the blood—"
Cirino blinked. What?
"Excuse me?" he said, incredulous. "You're charging me extra? That's illegal. Hidden costs aren't—"
"It's also illegal to carry around a suspected corrupted artifact without reporting it to the Choir," Walter cut in dryly, "but I don't see any Inquisitor standing beside you, do I?"
Cirino exhaled through his nose, defeated. Spotting a broom by the wall, he took it and began sweeping. His military instincts kicked in—if nothing else, he was good at following orders, especially from someone who had just helped him. As he brushed the ash into a pile, he muttered, "So what now?"
"If the blood reacts—changes color, texture, burns, hisses, anything—it means corruption," Walter said matter-of-factly. "At which point we'll have to dispose of it properly."
Cirino frowned. "And how long will that take?"
"A few hours. Maybe a day."
Cirino stopped sweeping. "A day?"
Walter gave him a look. "Unless you want to pay double for the reagents I'd need to speed up the process?"
"…Never mind," Cirino muttered. He returned to sweeping, though his eyes kept drifting to the gem sitting innocently on the parchment. The thought nagged at him—what was stopping them from pocketing it the moment he turned his back?
"We're not going to steal your gem," Walter said without looking up.
Are you sure you're not a psychic? Cirino thought bitterly.
Walter smirked. "For all his faults, my father's an honest man. He'd skin me alive if I pulled something like that."
How generous, Cirino mused dryly.
"Besides," Walter added, wringing the cloth in a bucket, "businesses survive on reputation. One rumor of dishonesty and the wolves come running. Things have been rough enough as it is—we can't even afford William's schooling right now."
"Things really been that bad?" Cirino asked, sweeping the ashes into a corner. "I thought city life was supposed to be easy."
"We still need to eat," Walter replied curtly. "And with the curfews, customers have been few and far between."
Cirino paused mid-sweep. "Curfews?"
Walter turned toward him, incredulous. "Do you seriously not know? Haven't you read a local paper?"
Cirino awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "Not really, no."
Silence. Then that deadpan stare again. "What kind of person comes to the capital without money or reading the news?"
"Look—I had special circumstances, okay!?" Cirino's face flushed. "That's what I'm trying to fix by being here!"
Walter sighed through his nose. "Well, you'd better fix it fast. You don't want to be caught wandering during patrol hours."
Cirino groaned. "And where exactly am I supposed to get money?"
Walter just shrugged. "Figure it out. Tell you what—come back after hours. If the blood's still normal, I'll convince my father to buy the gem off you at the agreed price. When there's no reaction at all, it's almost never corrupted."
Cirino's gaze drifted to the gem. The dried blood clung to its ridge, trickling faintly toward the parchment, yet it showed no sign of change—no shimmer, no pulse, no heat. Just a gemstone and a prayer.
He exhaled and muttered, "Fine."
They finished cleaning in relative quiet before Cirino finally stepped toward the door. Zachary offered him a polite wave, which Cirino returned. William, the youngest, only glanced up long enough to nod.
Cirino hesitated at the door, wondering briefly if they'd pay him for helping clean—but of course not. No sane shopkeeper would pay a stranger for work tied to something unsold.
With a final nod to both father and son, Cirino pushed the door open. The bell chimed softly as he stepped out into the cold.
[…]
It was getting late. Cirino sat slouched on a park bench, the same one he'd claimed hours ago. His stomach gave a low, hollow grumble—a sound he couldn't quite tell was born from hunger or the cold gnawing at his bones.
It was infuriating.
His body's complaints no longer demanded action; they were just there—background noise he'd learned to live with.
He was hungry, but not starving. Cold, but not freezing.
At least when he was freezing, he'd move. The desperation to survive had a way of forcing him forward—crawling toward shelter, chasing scraps, even killing the occasional rat that wandered too close.
Now? Now it was just quiet discomfort.
This sucks…
He rubbed his hands together, staring down at the two Crownmarks and a handful of Suns left in his pocket. Would it even be enough for a night indoors? Or would he end up sleeping out here again, on Dunsleight's stone streets, beneath the indifferent eyes of its spires and lamps?
His thoughts drifted—plans, half-formed and useless, fading as quickly as they came.
The sun hung low, its light spilling through the frost in fractured gold. It caught in his hair, setting it ablaze with color—red burning against the pale gray of the city. For a moment, he almost looked alive again.
If I asked the priests for sanctuary, would they let me?
The thought slipped in bitterly, and Cirino immediately dismissed it with a shake of his head. The Choir and the Church of the High-Crown were far too entwined for his liking. After the emerald debacle, the last thing he needed was a priest sniffing around his affairs.
"Right—" He exhaled and pushed himself up from the bench. "This day doesn't have to end that badly."
Two Crownmarks jingled faintly in his pocket. Not much, but it was something. And if the gem turned out clean tomorrow, he'd be thirty Aureals richer—a fortune compared to his current state. Enough to splurge, at least a little. If he couldn't shake off the cold, he could at least quiet the hunger.
There's gotta be a diner, a tavern—something I can afford.
With that meager optimism, he set off. His boots scraped against Dunsleight's frosted stone roads, and though the air bit through his layers, the walk didn't bother him. After the long marches through Karvethal's dead farmlands and barren deserts, a stroll through the capital's winter streets was almost… comforting.
Carriages rattled by, their wheels clattering over cobblestone. Horses trotted, breath misting in the chill air. Gas lamps flickered to life along the boulevards, soft halos of light blooming as the sun gave way to dusk. His legs ached, but it was the kind of ache he'd grown to find reassuring—proof he was still moving.
He passed glittering restaurants first—high-end establishments with menus scrawled in chalk, their prices mocking him from behind frosted windows. A few taverns followed, cheaper but still out of reach.
And then he stopped.
A small storefront sat at the corner of a quieter street, its windows glowing warm against the cold. The sign read:
Café Desroches.
Cirino blinked. The name rang faintly familiar. The famed magnate Claurent Desroches's daughter, Vinta, wasn't it? The heiress who'd opened a chain of cafés across the capital. Rumor had it the place was known for quality and fairness—two things Dunsleight didn't often share.
He leaned closer to the menu posted outside, eyes tracing the chalked numbers. The prices were modest—shockingly modest.
Should I?
He hesitated, staring through the window at the dim glow within. Warm light. The faint murmur of voices. The smell of roasted beans and bread.
His stomach answered for him.
What the hell. It's not like I have much to lose.
Cirino pushed open the door, and a small bell above it chimed—a bright, almost cheerful sound that didn't fit the exhaustion sitting in his bones. The barista glanced up, offered a quick "Welcome!", and turned back to the customer ahead of him.
Cirino lingered near the entrance for a moment, taking in the space.
Café Desroches was warm and fragrant. The air carried the deep, rich scent of roasted beans mixed with something floral—lavender, maybe, or rosewater. The floor tiles were a neat black-and-white pattern, glossy beneath the golden lamplight. Paintings hung along the walls—copies, surely, but beautiful nonetheless—and between them stood potted plants, some real, some not, their green a welcome contrast to the cold streets outside.
He let out a slow breath. Huh.
It was… nice here. Too nice for someone who'd been sitting on a frozen bench an hour ago.
There weren't many patrons: a group of students at one table debating theses and theory with more energy than sense; an elderly couple in the corner sharing quiet smiles over steaming cups. The hum of conversation blended with the faint hiss of the espresso machine. Pipes ran along the ceiling like veins, carrying heat from a small boiler that doubled as the café's heart.
Cirino joined the short line, eyes flicking up to the chalkboard menu. His mind immediately began its calculation—how much he could afford, how little he could spend.
Something cheap, he thought. A single mug of coffee, maybe.
He hesitated, lips quirking slightly.
Preferably with a lot of sweeteners…
Only if they were free.
After a moment, it was his turn. Cirino bought himself a modest cup of coffee—black, steaming, and, to his great delight, the sweeteners were free. He grabbed a few packets from the counter and wandered off to an empty table near the corner.
That cost me a crownmark…
Which meant he was now down to three suns and a single crownmark. Not ideal, but tolerable. He'd get his pay soon enough—at least, that's what he kept telling himself. The possibility that he wouldn't get paid didn't even enter his mind. He blew gently on the cup before taking a cautious sip.
Warmth. Bitterness. Sweetness. It was bliss.
As he leaned back, letting the weariness of the day melt away, the door chimed again. Another customer entered.
He was young—perhaps a year younger than Cirino—with hair like white silk and eyes the color of deep forest glass. A thick green coat draped over his shoulders, with a plain shirt beneath. Yet what caught Cirino's attention most weren't the clothes, but the ears.
An elf?
Elves—or Eylid Fae, as scholars called them—were rare in Dunsleight. They kept to their own lands, their own empire far to the east. Trade routes existed, of course, but elves seldom lingered here unless on business or exile. To see one so casually walking into a city café was… unusual.
He wasn't the only one staring. A few of the other patrons looked over, curious. The barista, however, greeted the newcomer with a casual wave.
"Mr. Sio! The usual?"
The elf—Sio, apparently—nodded wordlessly. The barista hurried to prepare his drink, passing it over with the sort of familiarity that spoke of routine.
Then, cup in hand, the elf turned—and headed straight toward Cirino's table.
Cirino blinked as the elf stopped before him, green eyes narrowing slightly. Up close, the boy looked smaller, more fragile—dark rings under his eyes, a weariness that didn't belong to youth.
"That's my spot," the elf said flatly. "Get out."
…
Huh?
Cirino blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
The elf said nothing at first—only stared. His green eyes fixed on Cirino's blue with an intensity that could've bored holes through stone.
"You. Are. In. My. Spot."
He spoke slowly, deliberately, like he was explaining a simple concept to a particularly dim child. Cirino's brow furrowed, his shoulders sinking as he let out a quiet, exasperated sigh. Elf or not, he wasn't about to be bossed around in a café, of all places.
"Excuse me," Cirino began, voice edged with restrained annoyance, "but I don't see your name written anywhere reserving this seat for you—do I?"
The elf tilted his head slightly. "I thought every regular here knew."
"So I'm supposed to just know?"
"You're a newbie, then," the elf said flatly. "Well, now you know. Get out."
Cirino felt a vein twitch. This guy…
"No," he said firmly, leaning back in his chair. "Why this spot anyway? It's not like it's the only empty one."
The elf regarded him for a moment, his tone calm but curt. "It's the most isolated from everyone else."
Cirino gave a dry chuckle. "Congratulations, then. It's not anymore."
"You don't get it." The elf's tone sharpened, patience thinning by the word. "I'm the only damned elf in this city, and people like to stare. I don't like that, so give me this spot and we won't have any issues."
Cirino raised an eyebrow. "So your solution is to cause an even bigger scene? Everyone's staring right now, you know?"
And it's not because you're an elf anymore, he thought dryly.
Sio's brows knit together. His sharp, forest-green eyes darted toward the surrounding tables—and sure enough, people were whispering, casting glances his way. The elf's nostrils flared before he exhaled hard through his nose, visibly swallowing his pride.
Then, without another word, he sat—not elsewhere, but directly across from Cirino.
"This is your fault," he muttered.
"Whatever you say, buddy." Cirino leaned back, choosing to enjoy his coffee instead of the argument. He was far too tired for this brand of nonsense.
Across the table, Sio lifted his cup and took a long drink—pure black coffee, no sugar, no cream. He didn't even sip it. He drained half the cup in one go, like a man trying to burn the edge off his irritation with caffeine alone.
Cirino stared, blinking. "Is that healthy?"
"Caffeine helps me when dealing with headaches like you," Sio said flatly, not even looking up. "Mind your own business."
You started it!
This elf was unbelievable. Was this the famed Eylid Fae arrogance everyone talked about? If so, it was… underwhelming. He half expected the refined, old-world tone that bards liked to dramatize—but Sio just sounded like any other grumpy teenager.
Cirino sighed and turned back to his coffee, taking a long, deliberate sip. The bitterness hit his tongue, softened only by the sugar packets he'd dumped in earlier. It wasn't great, but it was warm—and that was enough.
His gaze drifted to the windows. Outside, the city of Dunsleight was beginning to quiet. The winter sun sank lower, its glow scattering through the mist that crept between the gas lamps. Carriages rolled by slower now, wheels crunching faintly against the frost-bitten streets.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
I should visit Walter—see if there hasn't been any reaction.
He needed that money. Badly. Enough to rent a room, maybe even eat something proper tomorrow. The idea of sleeping on cobblestone didn't sit well with him—soldier or not, Cirino liked at least some comfort.
Guess I really am spoiled, he thought, taking another sip.
He spent the rest of the time in the café in relative quiet. His new elven companion didn't speak out, nor did he say a word after their first confrontation. And honestly, Cirino preferred it that way.