Part I – The Family Table
The Corbin dining room glowed like a lantern against the darkening evening—steam coiling upward in fragrant ribbons, spices hanging heavy enough in the air to taste. Laughter drifted out of the open windows, mingling with the night breeze and the chirp of crickets from the orchard beyond the wall.
The table was groaning under the weight of the Lunaday feast. Golden paneer pakoras glistened beside mint chutney. Vegetable biryani blazed with saffron and fried onions. The paneer butter masala sat in a brass bowl, rich and fragrant, flanked by jeera aloo and mixed vegetable korma jeweled with almonds. A basket of steaming phulkas (roti) released wisps of vapor each time someone lifted the cloth. Mango pickle, lime pickle, and crisp papads completed the spread, with bowls of gajar halwa waiting for dessert and glasses of sweet saffron milk cooling nearby.
Everyone settled into their seats, the cheerful chatter fading as Mrs. Corbin raised her hand.
"Before we begin," she said gently, "your father will say the blessing."
The room fell quiet. Chairs creaked softly; the gentle hum of the bulbs seemed louder in the sudden stillness. Mr. Corbin bowed his head.
"May the food before us remind us that kindness is not an ending but a habit—practiced here, begun in gratitude, remembered in our actions. We thank the living world and the turning seasons for all that sustains us."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The light shimmered on brass and glass. Even Bran was still.
Then Livia smiled. "All right, eat before it goes cold!"
The cheerful noise returned instantly—serving spoons clinking, plates being passed, voices rising in conversation.
Bran leaned toward Affice, grinning over the steam rising from a golden bowl of lentil soup. The rich, earthy aroma of cumin and ghee made his mouth water.
"Lunaday fast. Every week. We fast from morning to evening, then only vegetarian at dinner. Mother's rule—good for the soul, and mostly for the body."
Affice took a careful spoonful of the dal, the warmth spreading through him. It was perfectly spiced—not too hot, with just the right tang of lemon. He frowned. "But you didn't fast at Thornwick Manor. You even ate non-veg on Lunaday."
Bran's hand shot out, clamping over Affice's mouth. "Shh! Not so loud!" he hissed, eyes darting nervously toward his mother.
Too late.
A firm hand smacked the back of Bran's head.
"Good for your health, you ungrateful child," Mrs. Livia Corbin said, sweeping past with a tray of cucumber raita, her eyes narrowed dangerously at her son. "Your uncle began this custom, and we honor him by keeping it. One day a week of fasting and eating nothing that had a face—how perfectly dreadful of you to complain. And apparently, how convenient for you to forget when you're away from home."
Bran rubbed his skull, glaring at Affice. "Traitor," he mouthed silently.
Mr. Elias Corbin's calm voice carried from the head of the table. "He'd tell you to suffer quietly and chew properly."
Laughter rippled down the table. Aldric poured water for everyone with steady efficiency, while his cousin Cedric attempted to sneak a sixth paneer pakora onto his plate. Cedric's sister, Alina, caught him and smacked his wrist with a spoon.
"Five," she said crisply. "Not six. You're thin because you fidget too much, not because we starve you."
"You're all tyrants," Cedric muttered, but he rescued the crispy fritter anyway when she turned away.
At the far end, Uncle Jonas Corbin, round-faced and bespectacled, was already making sums on a napkin between bites of saffron-laced biryani.
"Young man," he said without looking up, "if you devoted half the energy you spend avoiding your studies to actually learning mathematics, you'd be brilliant at it."
Cedric groaned. "Numbers make my head hurt, Father. I'd rather duel than calculate."
Aunt Ruth Corbin, elegant and sharp-eyed, flicked crumbs off Bran's sleeve as she passed him the basket of phulkas (roti). "Less arithmetic, more explosions. You've already singed half my curtains, boy."
"Only the ugly ones," Cedric said cheerfully, earning a glare that could have curdled the raita.
Bran leaned back in his chair, utterly at home amid the noise. "See, Affice? Peaceful family meal. Not a single casualty yet."
Affice tried not to laugh. He hadn't realized how much sound a family could make without actually quarreling. It was a different kind of magic, one he'd had little experience with.
Mr. Corbin turned toward them, his gaze warm and steady. "Affice, Canjiro. You've both sat at this table before, but tonight you're not guests. You're family—which means you don't stop eating until your plates beg for mercy."
"That may take a while," Bran said. "They're all virtue and no appetite."
"Then we'll fix that," Mrs. Corbin declared, piling more paneer butter masala onto both Affice's and Canjiro's plates despite their weak protests. "No one leaves my table half-fed."
"Especially not on Lunaday," Alina added brightly. "It's bad luck."
"Bad digestion, more like," Bran muttered, earning another glare from his mother.
Alina leaned across to Canjiro. "You eat like you've trained for it. Discipline or pride?"
Canjiro inclined his head. "Discipline, yes. Pride, only when I'm compared to your cousin."
Bran choked on his biryani, spluttering rice. "Traitor!"
Cedric grinned. "He's not wrong, though."
Mrs. Corbin laughed, the sound warm and bright. "This is how supper should sound—like a festival and a squabble had a baby."
Affice smiled despite himself. The warmth here was almost painful. After months of silence, of newspaper headlines calling him 'savior' and 'Peacemaker,' this ordinary, chaotic noise felt like a powerful spell against loneliness.
He bit into a crisp papad, the satisfying crunch mixing with the creamy richness of the paneer butter masala he'd just swallowed. The food was comfort itself—hot, filling, made with care.
His eyes drifted across the table to where an empty chair sat—the seat once kept for Bran's late uncle, the founder of the Lunaday fast.
Canjiro followed his gaze. "He'd have liked this," he said quietly.
Affice nodded. For once, silence felt like the only proper answer.
Part II – The Visitors from the Parliament
The laughter was still echoing faintly in the dining room when a soft fluttering drew everyone's eyes to the window.
A crimson house sparrow darted in through the half-open shutters, a flash of scarlet wings against the lamplight. It landed neatly beside Mrs. Corbin's vase of lilies and chirped twice—clear, deliberate notes that signaled official correspondence.
Bran frowned. "That's Parliament red."
Mrs. Corbin wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer. "Good heavens, what business would the Natural Parliament have with our supper hour?"
The sparrow held out one slender leg, to which a parchment envelope was tied. It was sealed with deep green wax bearing the symbol of the Natural Parliament: a crown leaf over twin stars. The bird blinked once, expectant.
Alina was the one to step forward and gently untie the letter. The moment the ribbon came loose, the sparrow vanished in a burst of soft crimson light, leaving behind only a faint smell of cedar smoke.
Bran leaned in. "Well, that was dramatic. What does it say?"
Alina's eyes moved quickly across the page, her brow furrowing. "It's a notice," she said finally. "From the Parliamentary Council of Magical Affairs. They're sending two representatives—arriving by teleportation—to discuss a matter of national concern with you three." She looked up at Affice, Bran, and Canjiro.
A tense silence fell over the room.
Uncle Jonas set down his napkin, his expression thoughtful. "A Parliament house sparrow. Most people never see one in their entire lifetime. They're using it to honor you three."
"And sending two representatives directly," Aunt Ruth added quietly. "That shows the sincerity of the matter. This isn't a casual request."
"When?" asked Mr. Corbin, his voice measured.
Alina checked the letter again. "Soon. They're on their way."
Cedric frowned. "We haven't even finished dessert!"
"Then eat faster," said Aunt Ruth briskly, though her expression had grown more serious.
The family exchanged glances. Parliament officials didn't send crimson sparrows for trivial matters, and they certainly didn't teleport directly to private estates without good reason.
Mrs. Corbin stood, smoothing her apron, and called out toward the kitchen. "Martha! We're expecting Parliament officials shortly. Make sure the hall is presentable and the kettle is on for tea."
A maid appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "Parliament, ma'am?"
"Yes, and make sure the bulbs in the hall are lit properly," Mrs. Corbin continued briskly. "Send someone to the gate to receive them when they arrive and escort them to the hall. We'll meet them there once we've finished supper."
The maid nodded quickly and hurried off.
Mr. Corbin looked at the trio. "Best finish your meal properly. Parliament can wait a few more minutes."
Exactly ten minutes later, the air outside the Corbin Estate shimmered with a familiar distortion. There was a sharp crack, and two figures materialized just beyond the iron gate, the evening air still humming faintly with the aftershock of magic.
The first was a tall man in grey robes embroidered with Parliament's insignia—neat silver threadwork depicting the crown leaf. His hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his bearing was that of someone who dealt with official business as naturally as breathing.
The second was a young woman with a severe expression, her dark hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. Her long blue coat was fastened with silver clasps, and her sharp brown eyes took in everything at once—the well-kept gardens, the warm glow from the windows, the iron gate that stood between them and the house.
Marcus, the watchman, jerked upright from his stool, his hand flying instinctively toward the alarm bell before he recognized the official insignia. He squinted at the visitors, uncertain.
The man stepped forward and produced a silver identification card that gleamed even in the dim light. "Zaalim Singh, Home Ministry. This is Sophie Carmichael, my assistant. We're expected."
Before Marcus could respond, a maid appeared from the house, hurrying down the path. She nodded to Marcus after a quick glance at the visitors. "Mrs. Corbin says to let them through. They're to wait in the hall—the family's just finishing supper."
Marcus swung the gate open with a reluctant creak, stepping aside. "Please, go on through."
Sophie inclined her head politely as they passed. "Thank you."
The maid led them up the winding path to the house, through the entrance, and into the spacious hall. Bulbs cast warm amber light across the walls, and the faint scent of spices still lingered in the air. A comfortable seating area had been arranged near the cold fireplace, and the maid gestured to it.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable. They'll be with you shortly."
Zaalim and Sophie sat, though neither looked particularly relaxed. From somewhere deeper in the house came the sound of voices—laughter, the clink of plates, the scrape of chairs. Normal, domestic sounds that seemed oddly out of place given the nature of their visit.
Sophie glanced at Zaalim. "Quite the journey, sir. Teleported from the Home Ministry to Thornwick Manor, then had to walk to the Aurelius Quarter since no horse carts were available at that hour, and used the public teleportation conduits to get here. I'm still feeling it."
Zaalim rubbed his temples. "The Arcadian Teleportation Services are efficient, I'll grant them that. But two jumps in an hour is never pleasant."
A few minutes later, the Corbin family filed into the hall, led by Mr. and Mrs. Corbin. Affice, Bran, and Canjiro followed, their expressions wary. Aldric, Alina, Cedric, Uncle Jonas, and Aunt Ruth brought up the rear, arranging themselves near the walls with the practiced ease of a family used to receiving unexpected guests.
Zaalim and Sophie rose to their feet as the family entered. Zaalim stepped forward with a polite bow.
"Good evening. I am Zaalim Singh from the Home Ministry, and this is my assistant, Sophie Carmichael. Thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
Mr. Corbin inclined his head respectfully. "Welcome to our home, Mr. Singh, Miss Carmichael."
Bran muttered under his breath, "Teleportation mid-dinner. They always pick the most inconvenient moments."
But his expression changed the moment his eyes landed on Sophie. He leaned closer to Affice, whispering in his ear, "That young woman is beautiful. Quite pretty, actually."
Affice glanced at Sophie and nodded slightly, whispering back with a smirk, "Your future sister-in-law, perhaps?"
Bran's eyes widened, and he hissed back, "Your future sister-in-law, not mine."
Mrs. Corbin shot them both a sharp look before turning to the visitors with a warm, if cautious, smile. "You might have sent word with more notice, but I suppose Parliament business doesn't wait for propriety. The soup's still warm if you'd care for some."
Sophie's stern expression softened for the briefest moment. "You're kind, ma'am. But I'm afraid this isn't a social call."
Mr. Corbin gestured to the chairs arranged in a semicircle. "Let's at least give business a proper seat. Please."
Once everyone was settled, Zaalim set a small leather folio on the low table, his voice matter-of-fact. "We went first to Thornwick Manor. Your housemaid, Elara, informed us that all three of you had traveled here for the evening."
Bran grinned faintly. "She probably enjoyed that."
Zaalim ignored him. "From there, we proceeded on foot to the Aurelius Quarter—approximately fifteen minutes' walk since no horse carts were available at that hour. We used the Arcadian Teleportation Services at the public conduit station to reach the Corbin Estate. Efficient, though still slightly nauseating, if I may be frank."
"Regular teleportation," Canjiro murmured thoughtfully. "Twice in one hour. That's dedication."
"Or desperation," said Bran.
Sophie stepped forward with a polite nod, her expression warming slightly as she looked at the trio. "It's an honor to meet you all. Your reputations precede you."
"Hopefully not the ones involving property damage," said Canjiro, raising an eyebrow.
A faint blush colored Sophie's cheeks. "Oh no, sir! I mean—the stories of your bravery during the war are what everyone talks about." She straightened her coat, regaining her composure. "But we are here on business. Home Ministry business. We have a proposal for you three."
The warm, comfortable feeling in Affice's chest evaporated instantly. He should have known this was coming. For weeks now, people had been looking at him strangely—conversations stopping when he walked into shops in the Aurelius Quarter, whispered comments about the Wand of Ruin and what had really happened in the Royal Palace.
He wanted to help. Of course he did. Innocent people were in danger, and he had the power to do something about it. But the way Sophie spoke about his "reputation," the way they wanted to use his name as a weapon... it made something twist uncomfortably in his gut. He wasn't a symbol. He wasn't a myth. He was just—
He touched his shirt unconsciously, as if he could feel the weight of expectations pressing down on him like a physical thing.
"What sort of proposal?" Canjiro asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Zaalim opened the leather folio and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with green wax, handing it to Sophie. She held it up for everyone to see. "By writ issued by the King, and by order passed by the Natural Parliament, the Arcadian Home Ministry hereby extends formal invitations to Affice Rayne, Bran Corbin, and Canjiro Tanaka to join the Honorary Field Division training program."
Bran blinked. "The what division?"
Zaalim leaned forward slightly. "Last week, the Peacewardens Act was amended by Parliament. The old Peacewardens system has been replaced by the Honorary Field Division. This information is currently known only to parliamentarians and some higher bureaucrats—it hasn't been made public yet."
"And the training program?" Canjiro asked.
"The Honorary Field Division Training Program," Zaalim explained. "It's a newly restructured program under the Home Ministry's jurisdiction—the investigative and defense arm, responsible for preserving magical stability after the war."
"The situation is rather desperate," Sophie added quietly. "Half our trained Enforcers were killed or compromised during the war. The other half..." She shrugged. "Let's just say that having your Parliament controlled by Varkthar-the-Reborn for the better part of a year doesn't do wonders for morale or trust."
Canjiro frowned. "Enforcers?"
Sophie nodded. "You'd call them what the old texts used to call Peacewardens. Not soldiers, not guards—mediators with teeth. The usual N.E.S.T. requirements are waived given your extensive practical experience."
Bran grinned. "Waived the National Entrance Screening Test? One of the hardest exams in the Empire? Sounds pretty cool."
Mrs. Corbin folded her arms. "And what business does Parliament have, sending invitations through birds at supper?"
Sophie met her eyes respectfully. "Because, madam, these three aren't just citizens. They are symbols. Parliament believes their service shouldn't end with the war."
Affice's stomach sank. He'd known something like this would come eventually.
"What's so desperate about it?" Alina asked practically. "The war's over."
Sophie and Zaalim exchanged a heavy look.
"Is it?" Sophie asked quietly. "Many of Varkthar's loyalists escaped capture during the final battle. They've gone to ground, and they fear Affice Rayne in a way they never feared anyone else. Even Varkthar himself. But that fear is making them desperate."
Affice felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What do you mean?"
"Word has spread through their networks like wildfire," Sophie said, consulting a small notebook. "They know you defeated Varkthar and his nine Deathbringer Generals. They know about the Wand of Ruin. But more than that—many of them were there that night in the Royal Palace. They saw the Kalahasta change masters. They saw it acknowledge you." Her voice dropped with something approaching reverence. "It was an event so rare it is considered a near-myth—a wand rejecting its master not through defeat, but through a mystic way that no one is able to understand and even believe it's beyond any logic. To them, Affice Rayne isn't just the Boy Who Survived anymore. You're beyond their understanding—an enemy they believe cannot be defeated by conventional means."
The hall fell silent except for the ticking of the mantel clock. Affice wanted to sink through the floor. This was exactly what he'd been dreading—being turned into some kind of mythical figure rather than just being allowed to be human.
The anger flared hot in his chest, mixing uncomfortably with the confusion. They were making him into a story. A legend. Something to frighten children—or in this case, grown wizards—in the dark. And the worst part? He did want to help. He wanted to stop the attacks, wanted to protect people. But not like this. Not as some untouchable myth.
"Three captured Varkthar loyalists have requested immediate transfer to maximum-security prison rather than risk being questioned by you," Zaalim added. "One tried to hex himself unconscious when he heard you might be visiting the holding cells."
"But... how did they hear?" Canjiro asked, his voice sharp. "Who told them that?"
Sophie's professional mask slipped for a moment, revealing her own frustration. "That's the most worrying part. We don't know. The information spreads through their ranks almost instantly, like a ghost in the system. We haven't found the source."
Mrs. Corbin's hand flew to her mouth. Aldric's jaw clenched visibly, and even Uncle Jonas had set down his teacup with a sharp clink.
"That's not necessarily a good thing," Bran said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically strained. "We helped after the war to catch Varkthar's loyalists, but we're not in touch with any parliamentarians. How would word even get out?"
"It is if we use it properly," Sophie said firmly. "Your reputation alone has already prevented several planned attacks. The mere possibility that Affice Rayne might respond is enough to make them think twice."
Use it properly. The words made Affice feel sick. They wanted to use his name, his trauma, the deaths of everyone he'd loved, as a tool of intimidation.
"But the ones still free..." Sophie continued, her voice grim. "They can't face you directly, so they're lashing out at anyone they can reach."
"What do you mean?" Canjiro asked sharply.
Sophie's expression grew darker. "The situation is unstable. The remnants—the silent loyalists of Varkthar-the-Reborn—are re-emerging. Attacks on villages. Disappearances. Strange sigils burned into fields. People tortured with curses we haven't seen since the war." She paused, as if gathering herself. "When we arrive at these scenes, the attackers are always gone. But they leave graffiti on the walls. We've traced half a dozen incidents to the same message: 'Varkthar vs Affice didn't end here.' And 'We will have revenge.' They're taking out their fear and anger on innocent people because they can't get to you."
Alina gasped softly. Aunt Ruth's face had gone pale, and Mr. Corbin's hand tightened on the armrest of his chair.
Affice felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. After everything—after defeating Varkthar, after all the sacrifices—innocent people were still being hurt because of him. Because his very existence made monsters lash out in desperate fury.
But he could help. He would help. The anger crystallized into something harder, more determined. If they wanted to use his reputation, fine—but it would be on his terms. To save people, not to play political games.
"Parliament believes the ideology is reviving," Sophie said simply. "We need experienced Naturals who've faced it firsthand."
Bran gave a short laugh, mostly to mask discomfort. "And you want us to go waltzing into cursed ruins again? Lovely."
"Not yet," Zaalim said quickly. "You'd be working with Parliament teams at first. Guidance, consultation, perhaps direct intervention later if circumstances require it."
Sophie's tone softened slightly. "The Prime Minister expected your hesitation. He said I should remind you that Parliament serves its people—not the other way around. If you join, you do so freely. If you refuse, there will be no repercussions."
The Corbin family was silent. Mrs. Corbin's expression had tightened; Aldric's jaw was clenched. Even Cedric had stopped fidgeting.
Finally, Affice spoke, his voice low but firm. "We'll help. But on our own terms. If Parliament starts using fear instead of justice, we walk."
Zaalim nodded once. "Understood. And respected."
He handed Affice a copy of the invitation document. "The teleportation coordinates for the Parliament entrance are encoded within. You are expected next Lunaday."
"Plenty of time to regret agreeing," Bran murmured.
Alina elbowed him lightly. "You'd regret not going more."
By the time the tea was served, the tension in the room had eased slightly. The talk turned to milder things—travel, teleportation sickness, the absurd punctuality of the crimson sparrows.
"I tried to send our house sparrow this morning to inform Bran about dinner," Mrs. Corbin said, shaking her head. "The prideful creature refused entirely."
Alina smirked. "That's because you tried to send it toward Bran. If you'd addressed it to Canjiro or Affice, I bet the sparrow would have listened."
"The mysteries of house sparrows," Canjiro said thoughtfully. "How do they trace anyone from anywhere?"
Zaalim smiled faintly. "A mystery indeed. Many researchers are still trying to understand it. The birds seem to follow intention as much as instruction."
Eventually, Zaalim glanced at his pocket watch and rose to his feet, Sophie following suit. "We should take our leave. Thank you for your hospitality, and for your agreement to join the program."
The Corbin family began to stand as well, preparing to see their guests off. Uncle Jonas was already moving toward the door, and Aldric had stepped aside to let the officials pass.
Then came a tap—light, but deliberate.
Everyone froze.
Part III – The Third Messenger
A third house sparrow, smaller than the others, was perched on the windowsill. Its feathers were not crimson, but a deep, luminous violet. There was no official seal, just a single piece of parchment tied to its leg.
Bran's voice cut through the quiet. "That's the third house sparrow today. These overly prideful birds are arriving as if they're the normal post."
Everyone in the hall turned at his words. The appearance of another magical bird so soon was deeply unusual.
Sophie and Zaalim, who had been heading toward the door, turned back sharply, their expressions filled with concern.
"A third sparrow?" Sophie said, her voice filled with disbelief. "Three in one day?"
The room fell silent. Everyone stared at the window where the small violet bird perched on the sill.
Zaalim stepped closer, his eyes studying the bird with curiosity, noting its unusual coloring.
Before anyone could react, the violet sparrow dissolved the instant Affice's fingers touched the ribbon, leaving behind only the parchment, warm to the touch.
Affice stared down at the sealed letter in his hand. The wax was a deep purple—almost black in the lamplight—and bore no official seal, no recognizable emblem. Just smooth, unmarked wax.
His heart lurched.
The hall was utterly silent. Everyone watched him, waiting.
"Well?" Bran asked quietly. "Who's it from?"
Affice turned the letter over slowly. There was no name on the outside. No indication of the sender. Just that strange violet wax and the parchment, still warm from the sparrow's touch.
Sophie and Zaalim exchanged an uneasy glance.
"Violet sparrows aren't common," Sophie said quietly. "Whoever sent that is from one of the oldest and biggest magical families."
The silence stretched.
And the letter, still sealed and anonymous, seemed to grow heavier in his hand.