Nicolas switched from one wand to another in rapid succession, but Mary had yet to find the one that felt right.
Standing nearby, her parents were breaking into a cold sweat. Several times they moved forward to intercede or offer advice, but Nicolas—as if possessing the ability to peer into the future—would cut them off with a sharp glare, signaling them to stay out of it.
At that moment, Nicolas was thoroughly enjoying the hunt. Better than anyone, he understood that when a mage or witch found their perfect focus, their efficiency and energy output reached staggering heights. No sorcerer could refuse a wand that was both versatile and powerful. Conversely, forcing a connection with an incompatible wand or magical artifact invited a violent energy backlash. He took great pleasure in nurturing a budding talent; it had been decades since he'd seen a mage with any real potential, aside from those two old codgers, and thinking of them made him feel he ought to pay them a visit soon.
A famous historical anecdote illustrated this danger: during a clash between British and German mages in Austria, a talented German wizard accidentally snapped his wand during a duel. In a panic, he fled and snatched a random wand from a bystander, then returned to challenge the British mage once more. However, the moment they prepared to cast, the stolen wand backfired so violently that the German wizard was killed instantly. The story became a legendary cautionary tale about the importance of wand-matching, and the unfortunate wizard was mocked by the magical community for three hundred years.
Breaking his train of thought, Nicolas brushed his fingers against a slightly dusty wand tucked away in a corner he rarely visited.
"How about this one?"
Nicolas hurried back, full of anticipation, and handed the wand to Mary. As soon as her fingers closed around it, glowing circuits erupted from her palm, racing up to cover half of her body. Initially, these lines were a deep, void-like black, but they gradually shifted into a soft, dreamlike pink. Suddenly, a crest in the shape of a flower manifested on the back of her hand.
Nicolas's eyes widened. He grabbed her hand, scrutinizing every circuit and the newly formed floral mark. While Mary stood there in a state of confusion, her parents' mouths hung open; their previous worries now seemed entirely redundant.
"The Flower Crest!" Nicolas shouted in amazement. "Praise be to Merlin on high!"
He raised his hands above his head, chanting unintelligible phrases of gratitude. Mary's expression grew more bewildered by the second; she opened her mouth to speak, but the words felt stuck in her throat. Her father, however, rushed forward the moment he heard Nicolas's exclamation. Nicolas stopped his prayers and looked at the father with a knowing, mischievous grin.
"Congratulations to you both! Your daughter has been blessed by Lord Merlin himself. To be honest, even at my age, I haven't seen anyone of my generation possess the Flower Crest."
Mary's father scratched his head, struggling to follow the ramblings of the eccentric old man. Fortunately, his wife stepped in to explain it to the dazed duo.
Long ago, as the Age of Gods began to wane, the deities returned to their realms and ceased intervening in human affairs. However, in ancient Britain, because the era hadn't fully ended, individuals born of mixed blood between humans and mystical creatures were common. Humans at the time harbored deep hatred for non-human races and sought to drive them out. At an uncertain point in history, a mage named Merlin appeared out of nowhere, suppressed the malice of humanity, and protected the non-human beings. He was also a brilliant strategist who helped King Arthur ascend to the throne and provided tactical guidance in wars against foreign invaders. Yet, at the height of his glory, Merlin vanished, leaving a massive mystery for future historians.
According to records in the Encyclopedia of Magic, Merlin was the most powerful mage of his era. Ancient texts describe him as the son of an incubus and a royal nun, giving him an incredibly attractive appearance and a reputation as a notorious flirt. His magic, reconstructed from ancient ruins, was categorized into two types: "Elegant" and "Exceedingly Elegant."
It was written that wherever he walked, flowers would bloom in his wake, adding to his immense charm. His magic was closely tied to the dream realm and dazzling, instantaneous effects, leading people to nickname him the "Flower Mage."
After hearing the mother's story, the father and daughter nodded as if they understood, though their glazed eyes suggested otherwise. Nicolas chimed in to clarify.
"Actually, it's because Merlin had a Flower Crest on his right hand. Whenever a mage is born with this mark, they are known as 'Little Merlins.' You might not know this, Mary, but possessing this crest means your mana and spells are significantly boosted whenever you are surrounded by nature. More importantly, as long as you are within the borders of Britain—whether in Sub-Space or the Primary World—you will always receive that blessing."
Mary's eyes sparkled with excitement. "So, if I use magic, will it be super powerful?"
She blinked at Nicolas, who nodded and gave her parents an admiring look before patting her father on the shoulder. "Well done, brat. Even if your own magic is a bit weak, at least you've got good genes."
The father's face darkened as he scratched his head. "Mr. Nicolas, please don't say such things in front of my child."
"Haha, my mistake, my mistake!"
While the two men laughed, Mary leaned over to her mother and tugged on her skirt. "Mom, what does 'flirt' mean?"
Her mother's smile vanished instantly. She patted Mary's head and spoke in a stern, instructional tone. "Mary, that is a grown-up word. Children shouldn't worry about such things."
"Yes, Mom."
After Nicolas explained a few more tips on how to handle the wand, the family bid him farewell and moved on to other shops to finish their errands.
By the end of the day, everything was ready. Mary's father was laden with bags and boxes, while Mary walked beside her mother, fiddling with her new wand. Her mother kept a constant watch; if Mary accidentally flicked the wand, things could go south very quickly. Fortunately, by the time they were ready to leave, Mary hadn't cast a single spell, only gently rubbing the smooth wood of the wand.
"Phew, finally done. Let's head home." Her father panted slightly as he stopped. "Hold on tight to me, everyone. We're going back."
Mary and her mother complied. The mother gripped his shoulder, while Mary grabbed onto his trouser leg. Her father began the incantation:
"O wind that brought us to this place, O sacred flame that weaves the truth, at the end of the path of light filled with sin and desire—[Open the Place of My Return]."