No Chanting, Just Candles

The Badania’s sitting room was familiar to Hanel. It had once been a second home, back when he was a quiet, unremarkable child with no friends, until Elsen had noticed him, laughed at his timidness, and declared him a brother.

He remembered when he and Elsen were young sorcerers, full of ambition and optimism, their different magic Flames twining easily together, stronger as two. Akalis had been his friend too, clever and unyielding from the start. He remembered their first Calling at fifteen: her wit cutting through enemies and through the two of them alike. It always left Elsen grinning, hopelessly charmed, hopelessly outmatched, and hopelessly in love.

And Akalis, for all her brilliance, had once been softer. Happy, even.

Now they sat in front of each other, no longer friends who spoke freely, but two survivors weighed down by what they had lost.

The sitting room was too elaborate for the early hour.

Light streamed through tall stained-glass windows, catching in the polished stone floor and soft-carpeted steps. Purple and gray mingled in soft hues.

The scent of steeped herbs lingered, calming. Intentional.

Everything here was always intentional.

Akalis sat precisely as she always did. Back straight, hands poised as though preparing to pass judgment before the Lunar Triad. Not a single strand of hair out of place. Not a single detail left uncontrolled.

Across from her, Hanel sat with his hands folded. The teacup beside him steamed, untouched.

“You didn’t have to come so early,” she said.

Her voice was smooth, practiced.

“I heard about your night.”

He met her gaze quietly. He didn’t flinch anymore.

The pieces of Elsen in her features no longer twisted his gut. The ghost of the man didn’t weigh on his posture the way it once had.

He’d learned, painfully, to speak to Galir without thinking of the child Elsen might have raised.

Learned to see Akalis without feeling like a trespasser in the aftermath.

She hadn’t learned to stop carrying it, though.

Steam curled upward between them.

She poured more tea for him anyway, wordlessly.

Always controlled. Always composed.

“You know why I called you.”

Hanel nodded.

“The boy.”

Akalis gave a small nod. Barely perceptible.

“He doesn’t know how things work. He needs someone who understands how we move.”

A pause.

“I want you to teach him.”

Silence stretched.

Hanel leaned back, letting it sit.

It didn’t rattle her. Of course it didn’t.

“I’m not a teacher,” he said.

“And there are a dozen Marked who’d jump at the chance.”

“You teach Galir well enough.”

He stiffened at that. Just slightly.

“Galir has his own path. He could accomplish much even without…”

“Don’t,” she cut in, voice low and tight, “tell me what my son can accomplish.”

Her words had a hard edge.

“He doesn’t need to kill himself proving he’s enough,” she said.

“The only reason I let him train is because I can’t stop him without losing him.”

There it was, fear.

A sharp line between control and love.

She smoothed her expression again, reclaiming the distance.

“He insists on learning swordwork and tactics like it matters. As if courage will compensate for what he wasn’t born with.”

Hanel said nothing.

He knew how deeply she loved her son.

But he also heard what she wasn’t saying.

“But you want the other boy trained,” he concluded, voice even.

“Kade needs to know what we expect. What’s proper,” she said.

“And having a magical heir under this roof again means… increased funding. Opportunities we’ve been denied since…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

Hanel didn’t react outwardly, but the words sat with him.

So that’s one reason, he thought.

One of many, perhaps.

Whatever else Kade was, he was useful.

A Marked child who could revive a family’s standing.

She adjusted her sleeves.

A breath smoothed her face back into the neutral grace she wore so well.

Hanel let the calm settle between them.

He didn’t argue.

What would be the point?

He understood her pain better than most.

The grief that stiffened her shoulders, the anger that never quite showed in her eyes, the cold steel in her voice when she spoke about the past, he had felt every inch of it himself.

And he knew what it meant to be the one left behind.

He was alive.

Elsen wasn’t.

Akalis didn’t hate him, really.

But she didn’t have to say the rest for him to feel it.

Still… the boy was a mystery.

And she wasn’t telling him everything.

“How did you come by him?” he asked.

“Where did you hear about him?”

Not even a flicker.

Her hand picked up her tea.

“Orsel sent me words two years ago,” she said.

“Kade had come to her with the Badania name, left with them as a baby. Why she waited that long to say anything, I didn’t bother to ask.”

She said it cleanly.

Without flashy emotions. Just what she needed. What she expected.

He studied her face.

Beneath the mask.

If Elsen had truly left a child behind with some woman, Akalis would not have been so calm.

He watched her.

He had stood beside her in battle. Had buried the same friend.

He knew what it looked like when her control broke.

The pain was there. Hidden for two years of knowing the truth.

And that, more than any explanation, made him decide.

“Fine,” he said, voice low.

“I’ll help.”

He meant it.

The words didn’t come entirely from duty or guilt.

“I always will.”

That cracked something.

A flicker in her eyes. A softness.

“I know,” she said.

For a heartbeat, she was his old friend again.

And then, as always, the moment passed.

She rose with practiced grace.

“You can meet him now,” she said.

“He’s having breakfast.”

*****

Kade had expected breakfast in House Badania to be a stiff, silent ordeal,

Rich people in tall-backed chairs.

Whispering behind napkins.

Sipping soup without smiling.

He wasn’t completely wrong.

It was extravagant, the table long enough to seat two dozen people, the plates filled with all types of food.

But it also felt smaller than he’d imagined.

Galir wasn’t there.

Akalis explained he’d left early on an errand.

Kade tried not to wonder if he had done that on purpose.

In his place was someone Kade recognized, the older sorcerer who had been training with Galir.

The man who had formed weapons out of light.

“This is Hanel,” Akalis said simply, as though it weren’t odd at all to be introducing your son’s instructor to your… new ward.

“He’ll be overseeing your training.”

Hanel looked older up close, brown hair loosely tied back, tired green eyes, and the look of someone who had seen too much.

His clothes were plain compared to Akalis’s and Kade’s: neat trousers, a dark vest over a high-collared shirt.

But everything about him whispered formality and discipline.

Kade was only too happy to start learning magic from him, so he beamed at him.

Then there was the girl.

Small, six or seven.

Dressed like something out of a painting, in a velvet morning dress with intricate designs on the sleeves.

Her hair was the same color as his: silver-white and impossibly soft-looking, pinned neatly behind her ears.

But it was her eyes that startled him most, large, blue, and unblinking, fixed on him with intense curiosity.

She stared at him for so long that Kade started to fidget.

“Are you the new brother?” she asked, tilting her head.

Kade blinked. “Um… I guess? I’m Kade.”

She considered this gravely, then nodded.

“I’m Bilia. You look like me, a little.”

He smiled. “I was thinking the same.”

She squinted at him, then leaned in slightly.

“Do you really have magic?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “I do.”

Her eyes widened. “What does it feel like?”

Kade thought for a moment.

When he answered, it was with complete sincerity.

“Like a friend,” he said. “Not a person, exactly, but it feels like someone’s always with me. Someone warm. Like a little fire that’s happy I’m here.”

Bilia gasped, delighted. “That’s so much better than breathing. Mother said it is like breathing.”

Kade blinked. “She did?”

She nodded. “I asked Galir what he thinks, but he wasn’t interested.”

She took a bite of her food. “He doesn’t have magic. So he wouldn’t know anyway.”

Kade’s smile grew. “Yeah, I know. He fights with swords, right? I saw him training with…”

He turned to Hanel for a half-second, shy but excited.

“with you, actually. You were so awesome, all that glowing magic. But he was awesome too. Really fast.”

He held his arms out wide, forgetting the silverware in his hands.

“Like a knight from one of those old stories. You know, the ones who fight dragons? All heart and bravery?”

“Kade,” Akalis said gently, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin.

“Eat with your fork, not fight with it, please.”

Kade froze mid-motion, then grinned sheepishly. “Right. Sorry.”

Bilia giggled behind her hand. “You are ridiculous.”

Then she confessed, fork moving her food around on the plate, “But you are right. I watch them train, too, sometimes.”

“They were amazing,” Kade said, this time softer. “I want to learn to move like that, you know? Like heroes from stories.”

Bilia looked at her plate wistfully. “I would love to have magic, too.”

Kade tensed, remembering his argument with Galir.

He didn’t know what to say.

The two adults watched them, but none of them spoke.

“You like Galir, though, right?” Kade offered. “Even without magic, you said so.”

Bilia shrugged, her silver hair dancing at her shoulders. “Yes. I do.”

A pause.

Then she looked at him with intense eyes.

“Most sorcerers wouldn’t speak like that.”

Kade was oddly reminded of Akalis when she looked at him like that.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s good.”

She smiled, so he grinned back, relieved.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Hanel had set his teacup down and was watching Kade attentively.

“How long have you had your magic?” he asked.

Kade looked up. “Since before yesterday, I think? That’s when it started.”

The table fell silent.

Bilia dropped her fork into her plate with a soft *plunk*.

“You mean you just awakened?” Hanel asked, voice sharper. “Now?”

Kade nodded.

“That’s not possible,” Hanel murmured. “Not at your age. Even in late bloomers, the reawakening happens no later than eight. The magic would’ve burned through you by now.”

Akalis intervened smoothly, brushing off the moment with practiced grace.

“He’s been through a great deal, Hanel. We’re all still piecing together what’s true and what isn’t. Don’t press him.”

Hanel frowned but nodded.

“We’ll begin with an assessment,” he said. “The next step after a standard ritual, just like we do with a child. It’ll give us clarity.”

“There hasn’t been a ritual,” Akalis said, almost idly.

Hanel turned toward her, startled. “None? But the ritual is mandatory…”

“It all happened so fast,” Akalis said. “The Lunar Triad are not happy with the state of affairs. This is why we will be conducting the ritual today. I have sent word to the Silver Order.”

He looked like he might protest, but she leaned forward slightly.

“I want you present for it,” she said. “I want your opinion, not some priest from the Triad. I trust you.”

Hanel looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded. “Very well.”

“I want to come too,” Bilia said suddenly. “I’ve never seen one, please.”

Akalis looked at her, then gave a soft smile. “You may.”

Kade shifted slightly in his seat, setting down his fork.

“Um… is it going to hurt?”

All three turned toward him.

He smiled awkwardly. “Not that I mind. I can handle pain. I just…I’ve never had a ritual or anything before. Is it like the stories? With candles and chanting?”

Something flickered in Hanel’s eyes, surprise, maybe. Or amusement.

“No chanting,” he said. “But there will be candles.”

“Oh.” Kade straightened a little, visibly brightening. “Then I’d like to do it too. If it helps. I want to learn everything I can.”

Akalis gave him a long, thoughtful look.

She said, “That’s good to hear.”