Chapter 7
In a world where the stars whispered names and the earth remembered footfalls, power flowed like bloodlines, and Houses were not just families—they were legacies carved into time.
There were Major Houses, born of the primal elements, towering in age and status.
The House of Caelanar, airy and high, governed the winds and the minds that soared with them. The House of Myrradin, deep and quiet, whispered with the sea and the secret songs of tides.
The House of Thanduril, stone-bound and steady, held the old bones of the earth close.
And the House of Solithar, burning and bold, kindled the world's flame through its fiery heirs.
Around them circled the Lesser Houses, no less magical, only less rooted in politics.
Some whispered in shadows—like the House of Umbrethil. Some bloomed with wild roses, like Miravelle. Others crafted with metal, sang with starlight, or wept with silence.
Together they made the great, trembling tapestry of the realm's magic.
Each child, upon the awakening of their power, might be courted by a House. Some joined by blood, others by bond. The rarest were claimed by Major Houses—chosen like stars chosen by the dawn.
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A soft pulse of light shimmered across the wooden floor of the sitting room.
Zorya glanced up from her book, the same moment a faint hum rippled in the air—like wind chimes inside a dream. The scent of iron and roses followed, curling through the house like a ribbon.
Then—a portal opened.
It bloomed like a slow, sideways mirror in the middle of the room. Light bled from its edges, golden at first, then brightening to a clean, opalescent white.
A boy stumbled out, tripping over his own boots, followed by a string of muttered curses.
"—for the love of wind and doorways, finally—"
He stood up straight, brushing dust off his green jacket, and blinked. "Is this… Vair's house?"
From the stairs above, Vair appeared, arms crossed and a slow grin playing on his lips. "Took you long enough."
Zorya blinked at the boy. He had hair the color of dried wheat and eyes like a storm before it breaks. A satchel hung from his shoulder, and the scent of distant rain clung to his coat.
Marcus, Vair's friend from the academy. The boy with the portal gift.
"I've been trying to get here all week," Marcus groaned dramatically, waving his arms. "Do you know how many wrong addresses I walked into? I popped into an old lady's bathtub. Twice."
Vair laughed. "Maybe try writing the glyphs in the right order next time."
"I did! But your house is… weird. It's like it doesn't want to be found."
"It doesn't," Zorya muttered, arching a brow.
Marcus turned, startled. "Oh! You must be Zorya. Vair talks about you all the time. Usually when he's losing at practice matches."
"That's a lie," Vair said.
Zorya gave Marcus a dry look. "Charmed."
The portal behind Marcus gave a final flicker before sealing itself like a silk curtain folding away into air. The living room fell quiet again, as if nothing had happened at all.
Marcus turned to Vair with a grin. "Ready to head back? We've got the new term schedule and I heard the east tower is finally open."
Vair nodded, adjusting the straps on his bag. "Let me say goodbye first."
Zorya followed them both to the door. For a moment, just a moment, she wished she could walk through that glowing light too—into a world where powers sparked and trees whispered spells, where destinies chose boldly and magic didn't hide.
Instead, she waved.
And the portal shimmered again, swallowing her brother and his friend like a sigh from another world.
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The morning began softly.
Zorya woke to the scent of the sea and lavender, the curtains shifting in the breeze like silk ghosts. The absence of Vair's usual rooftop hammering made the house feel too quiet. He had left just two days ago, the hum of Marcus's portal barely faded from memory.
She rose slowly, brushing her long dark-blue hair and weaving it into a loose braid that still fell past her waist. Her scarlet eyes lingered on the empty room across the hall—Vair's tools carefully arranged, his coat folded, the spare gear he'd left behind humming faintly.
Downstairs, little Thalassa was already singing to her plants in the courtyard, her high voice mixing with the coos of morning doves. The potted basil was already blooming out of season.
Zorya smiled faintly and moved to the kitchen.
She made tea—too sweet, again—and toasted thick slices of her father's herb bread. He had already gone to the workshop, likely hunched over some humming, half-finished invention. The clang of a cog hitting the floor echoed faintly as if to prove her right.
After breakfast, she swept the floors. Dusted the shelves. Watered the windowsill herbs.
She read a chapter of The Sky-Farer's Atlas, then set it down unfinished.
By midday, she was at the market. The vendors recognized her by now—she was the quiet Cinderfall girl, the one with the haunting eyes and no magic. They nodded kindly, offered her sweeter fruits, better cloth. She bought flour, paper, and a tiny glass vial of saffron for Thalassa's experiments.
She passed the cobbler's yard and paused, as always, before the Mirathiel tree. Its blossoms glowed faintly in the sunlight, as if lit from within.
She whispered to it.
No one noticed.
In the afternoon, she stopped at the library. The old librarian gave her a warm smile and told her a new shipment had arrived from the capital. She checked out a book on star-mapping and another—half by accident—about old fairy tales where time folds like lace.
Back home, she helped Thalassa re-pot a climbing vine that kept sneaking up the kitchen chairs. Her father emerged for dinner, his goggles still on, his fingers stained with ink and copper dust. He talked about gear ratios and balance cores. Thalassa talked about naming her new vine Sir Wiggles III.
Zorya laughed. Not a big laugh, but a real one.
The sun set behind the hills. They had soup and bread. Her father dozed by the fire.
That night, Zorya returned to her room, opened her window, and listened to the ocean.
She wrote in her journal:
> "Today was still. Quiet.
I miss Vair.
I wish I knew where I belong.
I wish I knew what's waiting."
She closed the book.
And that was all.
A simple, unremarkable day.