Within one of the primary towers of Virtus Leonis, the ancestral palace of House Rhysleon, silence reigned like an ancient rite not to be disturbed. Inside a secluded chamber paneled with black oak and stained glass dulled by the breath of centuries, a man stood still—his golden-blond hair gleaming faintly under the filtered light. Broad-shouldered and upright, he was like a pillar of the palace itself.
He broke the wax seal of a cylindrical tube and pulled out a carefully rolled letter from within.
His gray eyes scanned the page swiftly, yet with measured thought.
“Sir Julius, how are you? I hope everything is proceeding as planned…”
A faint smile curved his lips—not of warmth, but of a man well-versed in reading the truths tucked between diplomatic lines.
“It’s cold here, as always. But I can’t stay still. Observe a little longer…”
Sir Julius nodded to himself and murmured, “He should’ve rested. The political tension here… won’t be held back by resolve alone.”
He re-rolled the letter, returned it to the tube, and sealed it again with fresh wax. Once it was properly secured, he stepped out of the room and descended the marble stairs toward the main floor of the library.
Sunlight poured through the overhead glass, casting a mosaic of light across two-story-tall bookshelves and the white stone floor. At the center, among carved reading desks and lion-crested chairs, sat a young girl. Her chin rested on her hand, but her eyes were anything but idle.
Prishka Rhysleon.
Second daughter of the lion-blooded line—direct descendant of House Rhysleon, one of the five great pillars that upheld the might of Invictusia. Though only ten years old, she was already a student at Regiamagna Middle Academy, where only the most promising noble-born children studied side by side with the kingdom’s future heirs.
Her name was not just etched in the family’s genealogical scrolls—it echoed through royal halls and noble tea parties alike, spoken with admiration not only for her beauty, but for a mind that matured far ahead of her age.
Her hair—bright gold, the unmistakable mark of Rhysleon blood—fell straight past her shoulders, catching the light like strands of sunlight forged into precious metal. And her eyes, a calm hazel, hovered between green and brown—like a shifting season behind a lens.
That afternoon, she sat composed in the family’s private library, surrounded by tomes that most children her age would never touch in their lifetime. Scrolls on Vis Genealogy, Pre-Kingdom Lineage Constellations, and Royal Law lay open before her. For Prishka, the finest game was not swordplay in the courtyard, but assembling metaphors from forgotten histories—and reading truths never written outright.
A deep, steady voice called out behind her.
“What have you discovered this time, Young Lady?” asked Sir Julius, her personal tutor and the trusted military advisor of her father.
Prishka didn’t turn. Her eyes remained on the page.
“Nothing special. A cookbook would be more entertaining. But… reading this makes me sharper.”
Sir Julius gave a faint smile. “If, five years from now, humanity were to face a great cleansing—a storm where the weak are swept away and only the strong remain—what would you say about that, Young Lady?”
The girl paused. Slowly, she turned to him, and her gaze sharpened—like the glint of a blade yet to be drawn.
“That would only happen… if someone designed it to,” she answered quietly. “So tell me, who has the power to create such a storm, Sir Julius?”
The man replied calmly. “Only Nature itself, Young Lady.”
He turned away and walked off, his thoughts drifting:
Still sharp as ever… and even harder to read.
Prishka said nothing more.
To the world, Sir Julius might be the steadfast pillar of House Rhysleon. But to Prishka, trust was not something handed out. It was a currency far too valuable to offer freely—not even to those who had mentored her for years.
Not even to her own family.
From what she had learned, for every victor that rose, someone else had to fall. The world wasn’t fair. It wasn’t balanced. It moved like numbers in an equation—some to be added, others to be subtracted. Like mathematics… and tragedy.
And the more she read, the more she understood:
It wasn’t enough to grasp a single moment. One needed all of them—history, the present, and the shadow of what’s to come. They were all connected, bound to the same current: time.
Environment, people, villages, cities, kingdoms… even places beyond human comprehension. All were rooms within a vast, ever-shifting chamber.
A chamber where we tend to wounds and endure the weight of time. Is this what it means to be alive?
A chamber where we feed those wounds, outlasting time itself. Could such a place ever become beautiful?
She closed her book slowly, rolled up a marked sheet of parchment, and slipped it into her small leather satchel. Then she stood.
“I should return to the palace,” she murmured. “I rather enjoyed today. First weeks are always free of lectures.”
“I must prepare now. My training session starts soon.”
Her steps were measured, graceful as she left the family library and walked toward the central halls of Virtus Leonis.
Along the corridor, maids bowed with respect. A gardener nodded and stepped aside. And as always, Prishka returned their gestures with a polite nod, a faint smile, and a simple phrase spoken with calm dignity:
“Thank you for your hard work today.”
She was known as the most well-mannered of all Rhysleon’s children. Never raised her voice. Never uttered an insult. Every word she spoke felt like a line pulled from some ancient book—one she had interpreted herself.
Yet beneath it all…
She was still a ten-year-old girl.
Sometimes, in the quiet corners of her mind, she imagined a boy—handsome, talented, intelligent—dashing across the royal courtyard, kneeling before her and saying:
“Let me be yours, for life and beyond.”
She knew such fantasies were common. In every tale, there’s always a girl waiting for her hero. But Prishka was different.
She had once been offered a betrothal—by one of the most prominent noble houses. She declined. Not out of anger. Not out of disdain.
“I don’t think we’re a match,” she had said. Brief. Firm. Cold as the snow that lined the royal staircases.
The dice may have been cast,
but Prishka had already flipped the board.
A bold move—for a girl her age.
Perhaps she didn’t fully understand the world yet.
Or perhaps… she understood far too much.
And that was exactly why—she chose to act.
From a distance, she spotted Barin tending the royal gardens at the heart of the palace. The fountains danced gently around him, reflecting the evening light onto the massive lion statue that towered in the center—stone carved into a roar that never faded, a symbol of Rhysleon’s courage carved into permanence.
Barin didn’t notice he was being watched. To him, it was just another day of watering roots and sweeping fallen leaves. But Prishka saw more than routine.
She knew—Barin was a father. A husband. A leader of a family that lived thousands of miles away from the capital. And every month, from the two gold coins he earned, one was sent home. Never late. Never less.
“Hello, Barin. How’s your first day back on duty?” Prishka asked gently.
Barin turned swiftly, instinctively bowing low. He masked his surprise with an earnest smile.
“Ah, Young Lady Prishka... Quite well, for a gardener.”
“At least no roots have rebelled—yet,” he added with a light chuckle.
Prishka offered a faint smile. “Good to hear.”
Barin’s eyes lingered on her uniform—a crimson blazer sharply contrasting a pure white skirt, the emblem of Regiamagna glowing subtly on her shoulder.
“Your new uniform… suits you perfectly, Young Lady. Elegant and commanding.”
Prishka gave a small nod—poised, as if the gesture had been practiced since birth.
Barin raised his head slightly.
“Young Lady… if I may, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”
Prishka turned to him slowly, a quiet motion of permission.
“Regarding your help last week,” Barin continued, voice trembling slightly, but sincere. “Most wouldn’t have noticed what happened… but you did. And it meant more than I can express.”
Just before she turned to leave, Prishka paused. Her voice, soft and nearly a whisper, felt like a verse crafted to be remembered:
“It’s not the lion in the courtyard that makes the flowers bloom.
It’s the hands like yours. I won’t forget that.”
And with that, she walked away. No glance back. No added smile.
But Barin remained there, motionless, his breath heavy—
as if those words held more weight than his monthly wages ever could.
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And Prishka understood—
A world like this was built on hands history never bothered to name.
She would not forget a single one of them.
She opened her bedroom door with care. The air inside was warmer than the hallways, laced with soft hints of lavender and vanilla. The high ceiling bore golden carvings shaped in the sigil of House Rhysleon, while the tall windows opened toward the inner gardens. Sheer curtains swayed gently with the wind, casting dappled light onto polished marble floors.
On the right side of the room stood rows of bookshelves—sorted by cover color and page thickness. A bed with white lace canopy dominated the center; burgundy sheets blended with pillows embroidered with a golden lion—the unyielding bloodline of nobility, stitched into fabric. Beside it, a small table bore a cup of tea untouched since morning.
Prishka removed her shoes with precision, placing them exactly where they belonged. She stepped before a full-length mirror, inspecting her uniform for a moment. She adjusted a small crease near her collar—not out of vanity, but out of respect.
Looking proper was a form of discipline, not display.
The door opened without a knock.
A woman stepped in—her blonde hair pinned in a high chignon, her features graceful and regal, cold and warm in that specific way possessed only by those raised in dignity.
Aveline Rhysleon.
Prishka’s mother.
“How was your academic day today?” she asked, voice calm yet attentive.
Prishka turned while removing her blazer, carefully hanging it on the carved-back chair.
“Nothing special,” she replied with a small smile. “But… I enjoyed it.”
“Where’s your sister, Claire?” Prishka asked next.
“She’s training in the rear courtyard with Sir Julius,” Lady Aveline replied, walking toward the side table and pouring water into a thin crystal glass.
Prishka let out a light sigh. “I’ll catch up with her soon, then. I won’t be joining for lunch… I had a snack earlier.”
“Very well. Ancel and I will be in the family dining hall,” Lady Aveline said softly, adjusting a chair near the study desk before exiting the room without another word.
When the door closed behind her, the silence returned like a living thing.
Prishka looked around her chamber—luxurious, serene, immaculate.
And yet, in the back of her mind, there was always a space far larger...
A place she had never been—
but one she knew, someday, she would find.
She opened the lion-engraved wardrobe and took out her training uniform—an ivory tunic with deep crimson accents at the sleeves and collar, the Rhysleon crest embroidered in golden thread across the left chest. She swapped her skirt for fitted pants with thin leather knee guards, then laced up her tall training boots herself, methodically and without hurry.
She faced the mirror one last time. Her hair was braided behind her head in a simple knot—practical, yet still elegant.
Outside, the palace corridor led westward toward the Rhysleon Training Grounds—an open space surrounded by watchtowers and stone walls four meters high. The midday sun lit up rows of practice gear: tall straw dummies, humanoid stone statues for spell drills, and vis concentration circles etched into the ground. On one end, a long table bore scrolls, core crystals, and the Grimoire of Rhysleonaria—the official training manual of the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy.
The air shimmered.
A faint arc of energy crackled against one of the dummies before vanishing without igniting the straw. At the center of the field stood a teenage girl—tall and poised, her hands forming a runic gesture. Blonde hair gleamed under the sun, golden-hazel eyes locked in steady focus.
She looked almost identical to Aveline.
This was Claire Rhysleon, Prishka’s older sister.
Ten years her senior, and now in her final year at the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy.
Unlike Prishka’s thoughtful, composed demeanor—Claire was morning light incarnate: warm, charismatic, and at times… too bold. Her beauty had made her one of the most admired young women in the entire kingdom, rivaling even her younger sister’s growing reputation.
That was Claire Rhysleon—Prishka’s older sister, ten years her senior, now entering her final year at the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy.
Unlike Prishka’s quiet precision and calculated presence, Claire was morning light incarnate: warm, charismatic, and often too fearless for her own good. Her beauty had earned her admiration across the kingdom—rivaled only by her younger sister’s rising renown.
At that moment, Claire was practicing advanced vis control. A soft glow flowed from her palms, forming a geometric diagram suspended in the air, its lines vibrating with steady rhythm.
Not flashy—but exceptionally precise.
So precise, Prishka thought. She knew—such mastery didn’t come from talent alone, but from relentless training.
Sir Julius stood by the book table, watching Claire with an analytical gaze.
When he noticed Prishka approaching from the side corridor, he gave her a slight nod and said,
“I’ve been expecting you, Young Lady.”
Claire ceased her casting immediately. Her smile lit up the courtyard like the sun itself.
“Hello, dearest sister!” Claire called out, spinning lightly on her heel.
Prishka returned her greeting with a small wave and a subtle smile—formal, but sincere.
“Why aren’t you staying in the dorms?” she asked, calm as ever. “Shouldn’t your final year be used for… more concrete endeavors? Rather than training alone out here?”
Claire shrugged, glancing briefly at the sky as if consulting the clouds.
“For a Diamond-Tier student like me?” she replied with playful arrogance, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ve moved beyond all that. Besides, I’m one of the top in my class. Former member of Astra et Miracle, don’t forget.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Prishka replied flatly.
Claire laughed again—softer this time.
“What I mean is… they might assign me as a substitute instructor, or a squad leader to guide the new recruits. In truth, I’ve already started.”
Sir Julius clapped twice—sharp but not loud. The sound sliced through their conversation like a command.
“That’s enough chit-chat,” he said, voice flat and heavy with authority. “If you’re not here to train, then leave this field. I wasn’t placed here to supervise family banter.”
His eyes paused briefly on Prishka.
“Your father doesn’t pay me to entertain small talk. I won’t repay him with half-measures.”
Silence. The two sisters exchanged glances, but said nothing.
In the stillness, Sir Julius poured himself a small glass of water and drank slowly—more for effect than thirst.
When he finally set the glass down—without even a clink—he spoke without looking at them.
“Channel vis through your hands. I want to see what your training has amounted to.”
There was no protest. Only discipline.
Claire and Prishka stood side by side and closed their eyes.
Their breaths slowed… deep, focused.
And then it began.
The air around them shifted.
At first, it was subtle—like heat shimmer dancing over sand.
Then clearer, like a fine layer of distortion bending the light.
Vis gathered into transparent auras, flowing around them with intention—not light, but motion.
From a distance, the untrained eye would see nothing.
But to Sir Julius, it was everything—vitality and control.
Two qualities that could never be faked. Not without real training.
“The more skilled the caster,” Julius spoke slowly, “the calmer the flow of energy becomes.”
His eyes moved to Claire’s hands—coated in stable vis, elegant, nearly flawless.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“I praise what’s worthy, and condemn what deserves reproach.
Exceptional control, Lady Claire.”
Claire responded with a faint, knowing smile—victory wrapped in modesty.
“I’ve trained until my body was covered in bruises and my hands could no longer move,” she said lightly, though her gaze was sharp.
“No way I’d have poor control at this point.”
Sir Julius nodded slightly, then turned to examine Prishka.
His gaze grew sharper—like a craftsman inspecting fine carving.
“And you, Young Lady…”
He observed the vis coiled around her hands—gentler, but steady.
“Your control has improved drastically. Six months ago, your flow was wild… now, it’s much more refined. You’re progressing fast.”
He lifted one hand.
“Enough. That’s all.”
Immediately, both girls lowered their hands as if a hidden command had bound them. The vis in the air dissolved slowly, vanishing like mist under the noon sun.
Sir Julius stepped between them, arms folded behind his back.
“Training ends here,” he declared. “Not because you’re impressive—but because I’ve seen what I needed to see.”
Prishka turned toward him, brow faintly furrowed.
“That’s it?”
Julius smiled thinly, but his eyes stayed sharp.
“Yes… that’s it.”
He looked between them.
“You both… your foundations are beyond solid. In fact, they’re excellent.
Lady Claire, you’re Diamond Tier. Students of Gold Tier and beyond usually don’t require a mentor’s direct supervision.”
Claire smiled—proud, but not boastful.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to grow stronger, Sir. Even if it means repeating the same drills a thousand times.”
Sir Julius nodded again, turning his gaze to Prishka.
“And you, Young Lady… continue. Learn from your sister—not just her techniques, but her patience.
Study what you need, not merely what you desire.”
A soft breeze drifted through the courtyard, carrying the scent of warm stone and garden leaves.
The sun dipped toward the western sky, casting long shadows between the pillars.
Sir Julius had already left, taking his gear with him.
But for Prishka, the training hadn’t ended.
At that very moment, something took root inside her.
She looked at Claire’s back as her sister walked toward the table.
I’ll absorb everything my sister has learned, she vowed. All of it.
“Claire,” she called out.
Her voice was steady, but resolute.
“I want to train with you. Will you help me improve my vis capacity?”
Claire paused, then turned slowly.
She raised her hand.
A thin stream of vis flowed from her body, wrapping gently around her palm.
“You see this?” she asked softly.
“Yes. I’m watching.”
Claire gazed at the vis energy spiraling around her fingers.
“Vis originates from a cellular organelle—Visothelion. And like a muscle, it grows through training. But not just any training… it requires the right technique, practiced repeatedly, with deep understanding.”
She looked briefly up at the sky, then continued,
“The more you know about the world—its structures, its elements, its natural phenomena—the more doors you unlock for magic.”
Claire took a breath and spoke a single word:
“Lux Magi.”
From her palm, light began to bloom.
Not ordinary light—
but compressed vis, radiating softly in all directions.
The air shimmered around it, as if pulsing with a mirage of heat.
The glow wrapped around her fingers, not blinding, but alive—dense, focused, and quietly dangerous.
She held the light for a moment, allowing Prishka to watch.
“This isn’t the same light as the sun or the crystal lamps in the palace,” she said softly.
“This… isn’t photons. It’s vis.”
She raised her hand slightly, letting the gentle gleam ripple outward like rings across still water.
“Light magic—Lux Magi—isn’t about copying real light.
It’s vis, compressed and commanded to mimic the behavior of illumination.
It doesn’t travel at light speed, doesn’t carry electromagnetic waves, and doesn’t obey the laws written by scholars.”
Prishka narrowed her eyes.
“Then why can we see it? Why does it feel warm?”
Claire smiled faintly, as if that were the exact question she had hoped to hear.
“Because we shape it—through intent and understanding.
We know how light behaves—at least on the surface.
We understand it can be seen, it can brighten, it can burn when concentrated enough.”
She closed her palm slowly, and the light vanished without a sound—like it had never existed.
“What we do is give vis an order. We tell it: be light. Be heat. Be sharp, if needed.
Not because we know every secret of light…
but because we know just enough to forge something that feels the same.”
Claire turned to Prishka again, her voice lowering with weight.
“Magic is knowledge… given form.
And Lux Magi is the art of conjuring light—
from something that was never light to begin with.”
Prishka looked down, her gaze searching, then finally asked,
“What about other magic? Fire, water, earth, metal… Are those vis too? Or are they… real?”
Claire gave a small, knowing smile—the kind reserved for questions that mattered.
“A good question,” she said.
She walked slowly toward one of the training statues, placing a hand on its rough, stone surface.
“They all come from vis. But the outcomes… vary.”
“Lux produces only visual and energetic effects.
But fire, water, earth, and metal—those create actual matter.
Things you can touch. That have weight. That can wound and be destroyed.”
Prishka narrowed her eyes further.
“So… they create real objects? From energy?”
Claire nodded.
“You could say that. But it’s not that simple.
A Pyro Magus doesn’t just ‘create’ fire—
they understand thermal reactions, oxidation, ignition temperatures.
A Geo Magus can’t just summon stone—they must know crystal structures, soil density, even the humidity in the air.”
Her expression turned serious now, every word sharp with clarity.
“Magic isn’t a miracle.
Magic is the product of knowledge and will.
And the more complex the thing you wish to form from vis… the deeper your understanding must be.”
Claire tilted her head slightly, as if recalling something long practiced.
“Vis is a blank parchment,” she said quietly.
“But to write upon it… you must know exactly what you want to inscribe.
Otherwise, what you create is not power—but fog. Shapeless. Useless. Dangerous.”
She lowered her gaze, her tone deepening.
“In most cases, vis doesn’t create something from nothing.
It draws from its surroundings—
water from the air, dust from the ground, heat from friction.
But those at the highest levels… can shape it from emptiness itself.
That is the purest form of magic—
and the most perilous.”
She looked Prishka directly in the eyes, as if etching each word into her soul.
“The more complex the form you force from vis, the greater the price.
Your body, your control, even your soul… may fracture.
Many fail—not from lack of will,
but because they don’t know where to stop.”
Prishka lowered her head, fists curling gently at her sides.
Her eyes didn’t blink, drinking in the gravity of every word.
And then, in a near whisper, she asked:
“So… this is the truth of magic?”
Claire didn’t answer right away.
She simply looked at her sister—her expression softening with something like concern.
And when she finally spoke, her voice was clear.
“Yes. This is the truth.”
Scientia est imperium.
Knowledge is power.