Elite, expensive, and meticulous—these were just a few words commonly used to describe magic. The pride of humanity, the force that had allowed a non-magical race to ascend to the highest echelons and contend for dominance among the realms. Yet, the arcane arts were not for everyone. They were a privilege of the select few, reserved for those with boundless resources, an indomitable will, or an inborn, extraordinary affinity. To the common folk, magic was a distant, untouchable dream.

  Septrian Weaver of the Northern Isles had no claim to power, no noble lineage, no extravagant wealth. By all accounts, he was just another lowborn boy, one among many scraping by in the port city. But unlike most, he refused to accept the limits of his birth.

  On the morning of his fifteenth birthday, he walked through the bustling sea market, his eyes scanning the cluttered stalls. The air smelled of salt and fish, mingled with the sharp tang of spices from distant lands. Merchants called out their wares, voices rising above the chatter of buyers. His fingers toyed with the five shards in his pocket—his annual birthday allowance. Officially, this was all he had to indulge in himself. Unofficially, he had squirreled away extra shards from tips and odd jobs, but those were hidden from his parents' scrutiny. The birthday allowance, however, was sacred. Anything he bought with it was his to keep, no need for secrecy.

  "Weaver’s kid, what’re you looking for?" came a rough voice, thick with the Isles' accent.

  Septrian turned to see an old woman behind a stall crowded with misshapen clay works. She was missing several teeth, and her weathered hands were covered in dried earth. The older folk rarely bothered to remember children's names, referring to them by their family name or birth order. In the tightly packed streets of the Isles, young ones were temporary residents, leaving as soon as they could work a ship or settle elsewhere.

  "Morning, Mrs. Potter. Do you have anything… touched?" His voice was clear, youthful, still lacking the weight his elder siblings carried.

  He already had a reputation—an oddity among the young dockworkers. Most boys spent their money on trinkets, sweets, or knives to practice craftsmanship. Septrian spent his on touched objects, mundane items that had once been affected by a spell, lingering with the faintest trace of magic. They weren’t artifacts, nor were they valuable. To most, they were curiosities at best, useless at worst. Yet, he sought them out with an obsession that baffled others.

  Mrs. Potter scoffed, her lips twisting into a half-smile. "Kid, why're you so set on buying useless things? You should be lookin’ for something practical." Then she sighed, shaking her head. "Bah, not my business. I won’t turn away good shards. Got this one a few days ago from a Rikaru ship."

  She reached under the stall and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside, nestled among scraps of cloth, was an old, worn brush. Its carved handle bore a faded symbol, its bristles yellowed with age. But more importantly, it had the telltale aura—a soft, almost imperceptible shimmer that only those who knew what to look for could recognize.

  Septrian’s breath hitched.

  "That’s… amazing. How much?" The words tumbled out before he could stop himself, his excitement blatant.

  The old woman chuckled. "Kid, I can’t bear to take all your shards. Was gonna sell it for ten, but I’ll let it go for six. That’s what I paid, no profit on my end."

  His excitement faltered. "I only have five," he admitted, shoulders slumping. "I can try to—"

  "Bah! Take it for five. Consider it a gift from an elder."

  His eyes widened. "Mrs. Potter!"

  He pressed the shards into her hands, nearly trembling with gratitude. She waved him off, amused, as the surrounding merchants and customers chuckled. Some pitied the boy for wasting his money, but most just shook their heads at his foolishness.

  Clutching the brush as though it were a treasure, Septrian ran to the shore. The waves lapped at the rocks as he settled onto one, holding the touched object up to the light. It was nothing more than an old brush to anyone else. To him, it was the closest thing to magic he could grasp.

  Not far away, a ship docked, and from its deck stepped an old man with a dignified air, his robe fine yet unostentatious. Beside him walked a middle-aged servant, dressed with crisp precision.

  "Master, shall we check into the inn first, or rent a carriage directly to our destination?" the servant inquired.

  The old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze to the beach, where sky and sea met in an unbroken horizon.

  "We are not in a hurry. Let us take a stroll."

  The servant hesitated but said nothing, falling into step beside his master.

  Despite his years, the old man’s senses remained sharp, honed by centuries of discipline. And so, his attention drifted to a boy sitting alone, cradling a simple brush as though it held the weight of the world.

  "Master, should I send the child away?" the servant asked, his voice clipped with disdain.

  "No need. I am curious to see what has him so enthralled."

  The servant scoffed. "It is nothing worthy of your attention, Master. Just a tool with the barest trace of aether."

  "Do I require you to tell me what is worthy?" The old man’s voice was quiet but carried unmistakable authority. "Or do you think me senile?"

  The servant paled. "Forgive me, Master. I—"

  "Silence. Let me speak to the boy."

  Septrian, lost in thought, only noticed their approach when a shadow fell over him. He looked up, eyes widening at the presence before him.

  "Hello, young friend." The old man smiled warmly. "What do you have there?"

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  Septrian scrambled to his feet. He took in the man’s bearing, his clothes, his aura—powerful, restrained, noble. Quickly, he bowed. "My Lord. How may I be of service?"

  The old man chuckled, his gaze settling on the brush Septrian held tight. The boy instinctively stepped back, shielding it, which only deepened the elder’s amusement.

  "You need not fear, young one. I do not take from those who cherish their possessions." The old man said while taking a book out of nowhere, "After all, I have my own treasures."

  The servant, however, was less amused. "How dare you not kneel and beg my master to take that trash?" he spat, stepping forward threateningly.

  "Hand!" A single word, a warning glare, and the servant froze.

  The old man’s gaze returned to Septrian. "Tell me, young friend, do you know that this brush holds barely any magic? Why do you treasure it so?"

  Septrian hesitated, eyes flicking to the book now in the elder’s grasp—a book that seemed to shimmer with an impossible presence.

  "Because," he said softly, "it’s magic. The only magic I can touch."

  The old man’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "I see... Such a pity. If it were a few decades ago…"

  “Because I admire your spirit, I’ll be honest with you,” the old man said, his voice steady but not unkind. “You have some aptitude for magic, but it’s nothing extraordinary. It’s not enough to be adopted into or marry into a noble house. If you had been born into one… Well, no use dwelling on that. What I mean to say is that you can’t—”

  “I know!” Septrian cut him off, his initial excitement fading into resignation. “Everyone’s told me that already. They say I’m foolish to spend all my shards on things like this.”

  “Then why do you?” The old man’s voice carried an unexpected urgency, as though he needed to understand more than the boy needed to explain.

  Septrian smiled, his expression radiating a light that could challenge the sun itself. “Because it’s magic.”

  The old man’s stern features softened. He regarded Septrian carefully, waiting for the boy to elaborate.

  “My Lord, I am the seventh son of a poor family. Since I can remember, I’ve been told that I have no value to my parents. They give me just enough food so I don’t starve. I’ve been working since the dock foreman took me in, trying to repay my parents, and they’ve already arranged for me to join a ship once I come of age. They said the sign-in shards would barely cover what I owe them. If I had been the first or second son, I could have learned my parents’ craft, but this is as far as I will ever go. My future was decided the day I was born.” Septrian’s voice carried the weight of a truth he had long since accepted.

  “One day, while I was working at the docks, I saw a Mage cast a spell. With a simple flick of his hand, he made a thief collapse like a stone. I was so amazed that I couldn’t stop talking about it for days. I kept asking everyone how I could learn to do that. But all they did was laugh. Eventually, someone told me, ‘If you could do that, you wouldn’t be here. You could go anywhere and do whatever you wanted.’” He inhaled sharply, then exhaled with a smile that carried both hope and defiance. “That’s why I love it. Because magic is the only thing that could change my life.”

  The old man watched Septrian in silence, studying him as if trying to unravel something unseen. The boy’s sincerity, his unwavering hope, was something rare. Something valuable.

  “I like your brush, boy.” The old man’s voice took on an exaggerated air of importance. “Let’s make a trade. My book for your brush. Don’t refuse! I am an elder, and you must defer to me.”

  Before Septrian could react, the old man deftly took the brush from his hands, leaving a book in its place. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his long robes billowing slightly as he moved. His servant, Hand, stood frozen in disbelief before hurrying after him.

  Septrian remained rooted in place, staring after the old man until he vanished into the crowd. He felt something warm streak down his cheeks. His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat—words of gratitude too vast to be spoken. He clutched the book tightly, knowing it was something precious, something worth far more than the brush he had lost.

  And yet, he had no idea.

  Had he known, he would have collapsed on the spot.

  Farther away, Hand finally found his voice. “Master… why? Why would you give that boy the Grimoire?” Even as he spoke, he struggled to believe his own words.

  “Why not?” The old man’s voice was light, unconcerned. “He will make good use of it.”

  “But, Master,” Hand pressed, his disbelief mounting. “That book is an inheritance artifact… and that boy won’t even be able to open the first seal…”

  The old man merely chuckled. “So what? Even if he never unlocks a single seal, he will cherish it more than any so-called noble ever could.” His amusement only grew as his servant’s horror deepened.

  “Master, any Mage would kill for that Grimoire—” Hand stopped himself abruptly, realizing he had spoken out of turn.

  “Exactly.” The old man’s voice darkened slightly, though his smile did not fade. “I would rather give it to him than let them take it. Hand, it won’t be long before they come for me. If I had kept it, I would have had to destroy it anyway. But if my life’s work can bring even a little joy to that boy, then I am more than content.”

  Septrian, oblivious to the weight of what he now possessed, clutched the book to his chest, unaware that it was an object capable of shifting the tides of nations.

  Whether he would be allowed to keep it, however, was an entirely different matter.