At dawn the next morning, the courtyard of the House of Starcrown was still veiled in a thin mist.

  The flagstone path was faintly damp; the traces left by last night’s watering gleamed darkly in the light, like the softly blurred edges of ink spread on paper.

  The circular clearing at the center of the courtyard had already been swept clean. Pale ring-shaped patterns were etched into the ground, as if traced over again and again, yet deliberately kept shallow—only faint grooves left behind.

  Morning dew pooled within them as tiny beads of water, refracting a silver-blue glimmer.

  Ian arrived first.

  He stood at the edge of the markings, hands clasped behind his back, his toes unconsciously rocking back and forth.

  Morning light filtered through the mist and fell on his silver-white short hair, like flecks of gold dust scattered over snow. A few strands were damp with dew and clung to his forehead; a bead of sweat rolled slowly there, catching the sunlight as it moved.

  He wore a light-colored linen short robe today, the loose neckline tied with a thin blue cord. The hem was creased from a brief run earlier, and his ankles were smudged with a bit of courtyard dirt.

  The edges of his soft-soled shoes were darkened in a wet ring, making a faint “pat” sound each time they touched the stone.

  He lowered his head and began counting the etched lines on the ground.

  Halfway through, he forgot the order, sighed, and started over. “One, two, three… no, wait, again,” he muttered under his breath. His blue eyes looked especially bright in the mist.

  Lorne entered the courtyard a step later.

  He moved quietly, his soles barely making a sound. His coat was neatly fastened, sleeves smooth, not a single unnecessary motion. As the morning fog drifted past him, it seemed to deliberately skirt his outline, letting the light linger on him a moment longer. The tips of his silver-white short hair curled slightly; damp with dew, they clung to the side of his neck, making his skin look even paler. The hem of his robe was soaked through by morning dew, the deep-blue border darkened. His knuckles were faintly white from gripping something.

  He stopped beside Ian. His gaze did not fall on the markings at their feet, but instead toward the colonnade on the other side of the courtyard.

  It was empty.

  Ryan hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Do you think he’ll be late again?” Ian whispered, his voice carrying both anticipation and impatience. As he spoke, he exhaled a puff of white breath that briefly condensed in the fog.

  “No,” Lorne answered quickly, as if he’d already considered the question. His voice was gentle, yet carried an unquestionable certainty. The breath he exhaled lingered in the air a little longer than his brother’s.

  Ian glanced sideways at him, didn’t press further, only nodded and continued rocking on his toes. The dirt specks on his ankles stood out more clearly in the morning light.

  The mist slowly thinned.

  A figure appeared at the far end of the colonnade.

  Ryan · Shattered Light walked with steady steps, the sound of his boots clear and rhythmic.

  He wore the same dark gray-blue outer robe as always, the fabric thick but not cumbersome. Silver-gray sigil lines traced the shoulders and cuffs like condensed morning dew, flickering faintly as he moved. His hair was a bit long—dark brown threaded with a few premature strands of white—tied back in a low ponytail, with a few loose strands blown free to cling to his neck. The planes of his face looked sharper in the fog, his eyes carrying their habitual, lucid focus, as if they could see the patterns hidden behind stone.

  His boots struck the damp flagstones, leaving a trail of shallow water marks. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing a thin old scar along his wrist, the edges faintly marked with residual runes, as though something had once lightly carved there.

  When he entered the courtyard, he didn’t speak at once.

  His gaze paused briefly on the markings on the ground, then lifted to the two children. His boots stopped just outside the circular array, their surface beaded with dew, reflecting a faint glow.

  “Stand inside,” he said.

  Ian immediately stepped into the center of the circle, his movement crisp. Once in place, he couldn’t help rolling his shoulders a little, as if testing whether the ground might move beneath him. The hem of his robe swayed lightly, picking up a trace of mist.

  Lorne followed, standing opposite Ian. Less than two steps separated them. Morning fog drifted slowly around their feet, as though measuring the distance between them. The hem of Lorne’s robe was soaked with dew, the darkened edge clinging to his calves and making him look even thinner.

  Ryan moved to the outer edge of the circle and crouched, tapping a certain segment of the etched line lightly with his fingertip.

  The markings flared for an instant—silver-blue veins of light surfaced from the obsidian powder, like fine threads waking within stone—then quickly dimmed, leaving only a faint afterglow.

  He rose to his feet, his tone even.

  “Today, what you’ll learn is Taki.”

  Ryan took a book from the inner pocket of his robe and showed it to the twins. The cover was old leather, worn at the corners yet well cared for. On the front, a simple container sigil was embroidered in silver thread—like a cup, or perhaps a passageway. He opened the book and pressed his finger lightly to one of the illustrations. It depicted a whale-bone cup, its surface carved with dense runes, surrounded by flowing silver-blue lines.

  “Taki,” he said, “is the skeleton of Araki.”

  He closed the book, his gaze resting on the two children.

  “Without Taki, we cannot guide power in a stable way.”

  “It can be a whale-bone cup, an obsidian wheel, a shell dish, a volcanic glass dagger… anything that can carry your intent.”

  “But what matters most is not its shape,” he said, “but whether it can help you control.”

  Ian’s eyes lit up.

  “Then can I use a shell? The one I picked up yesterday!”

  Ryan smiled slightly.

  “You can. Though some materials are more suitable than others.”

  Lorne said nothing.

  His fingers lightly rubbed the edge of his cuff, his gaze fixed on the markings on the ground. The silver-blue afterglow had already vanished, yet the flagstones seemed to retain a trace of warmth. The cuff of his robe was soaked with dew and clung to his wrist, making his skin look paler still.

  Ryan looked at him.

  “Lorne, where’s the thing you brought back yesterday?”

  Lorne took the fan-shaped shell from his pocket and spread it on his palm. In the morning light, it shimmered with fine iridescence, silver veins inside flowing like a miniature galaxy.

  Ryan crouched to meet his eye level. His eyes looked deeper in the mist, his pupils like dark wells.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “This is a very good start,” he said. “You can begin by making one. Of course, this won’t be what you use to support Araki—it’s too fragile.”

  He turned to Ian.

  “And yours, Ian?”

  Ian fished a small spiral shell from his robe pocket and held it up excitedly. A bit of sand still clung to it; he blew on it, scattering the grains.

  “This one! It’s the prettiest!”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Pretty is good. For now, that’s enough.”

  He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the circle.

  “This ring will draw in mana. You can try making something small.”

  Ryan stepped back half a pace, the toe of his boot leaving the circle’s edge.

  “Don’t rush,” he said. “Feel first.”

  The mist in the courtyard had nearly dissipated. Morning light fell on the center of the circle like a thinly polished sheet of metal. The air grew quiet; even the distant footsteps of servants faded away.

  Ian moved first.

  He placed the spiral shell in his palm, cupped both hands around it—then couldn’t resist peeking through a narrow gap to make sure it was still there. He took a deep breath and, following the steps he’d memorized yesterday, tried hard to focus on “imagining.”

  —In his imagination, there was light.

  Not a clear light, more like a brightness diluted by water, slowly rising in his mind.

  The shell grew warm.

  Ian startled, nearly tossing it away, but forced himself to hold on. He clenched his teeth, his shoulders drawn tight, as if bracing his whole body against that tiny change.

  From the seams of the spiral shell, a thread of pale blue light surfaced.

  It was thin, brief—flaring for an instant before being snuffed out, like a flame pinched by the wind.

  Ian gasped, his cheeks flushing even redder.

  “I—I did it, right?” he asked anxiously.

  “You did,” Ryan said without hesitation. “But your emotions interfere too much.”

  Ian froze.

  “Excitement, happiness, anger—those kinds of emotions come fast and go fast,” Ryan added.

  He turned to Lorne.

  “Your turn.”

  Lorne didn’t move right away.

  He looked down at the fan-shaped shell in his palm. The silver veins lay quietly in the light, unchanged.

  He simply set the shell flat on his palm—didn’t close his hand, didn’t force his focus. He let his thoughts sink slowly, like dropping a pebble into water without watching how fast it fell.

  The circle’s markings lit up.

  Not the shell first.

  The ground.

  Silver-blue light flowed along the etched lines like awakened still water. It didn’t surge; it moved steadily toward Lorne’s feet, then stopped.

  Only then did the shell warm.

  There was no blinding glow, no dramatic change—only that the silver veins inside the shell became a little clearer.

  As if wiped clean.

  Lorne lifted his head.

  He didn’t smile, nor did he look surprised. His breathing simply slowed.

  Ryan’s gaze sharpened slightly.

  “Very good,” he said.

  Ian stared wide-eyed at Lorne’s hand, then looked down at his own shell, already cooled.

  “Why does his look more… quiet?” he whispered.

  “Because he has no emotional fluctuation,” Ryan replied.

  He stepped to the edge of the circle and brushed a hand lightly over the etched line. The light retreated at once, like a tide slipping back to somewhere unseen.

  Ryan didn’t leave immediately.

  Standing outside the circle, he took a thin, flat crystal wafer from his belt. It was transparent as water, its edges carved with tiny sequencing sigils. He placed it on his palm and tapped it lightly with a knuckle.

  The wafer glowed with a soft white light.

  “Come,” he said. “Put what you made here.”

  Ian rushed over first, carefully setting the spiral shell on top. His movements were much slower than before, as if afraid of startling something.

  The light on the wafer quivered slightly.

  A pale blue line appeared, circling the shell once before quickly fading.

  Ryan glanced down and nodded.

  “It works,” he said. “It will absorb mana, but you haven’t learned how to structure it into effective runes.”

  Ian straightened at once.

  “Then does it count as Taki?”

  “No,” Ryan answered without hesitation.

  Ian froze.

  Ryan didn’t explain right away, instead gesturing to Lorne.

  Lorne placed the fan-shaped shell onto the wafer.

  This time, the light steadied.

  Silver-blue lines didn’t circle; they spread outward like ripples on water, layer by layer, finally stopping at a fixed radius.

  Ryan stared at that radius for two breaths.

  “Also effective,” he said. “And the structure is cleaner.”

  Lorne looked up at him.

  “But—” Ryan added, “it still doesn’t count as Taki.”

  Ian couldn’t help blurting out, “But they both light up!”

  Only then did Ryan straighten and put the wafer away.

  “That’s exactly the distinction you’re learning today,” he said.

  He stepped lightly into the circle, standing between them. The etched lines showed no reaction beneath his feet.

  “What you’ve made now are tools with magical effects,” he said.

  “They can carry mana, and they can be used.”

  He extended a hand, indicating the two shells.

  “But they are not the skeleton of Araki.”

  Ian frowned.

  “What’s the difference?”

  Ryan raised a finger and drew a line in the air.

  “The difference is—stability.”

  He lowered his hand.

  “A true Taki, one that serves as Araki’s skeleton, must endure repeated guidance, continuous flow, and it must not rebound on you when you make a mistake.”

  “What you’re holding now can’t do that.”

  His tone was calm, without the slightest hint of belittlement.

  “So today’s lesson isn’t about making skeletons.”

  “It’s about teaching you how to make small tools yourselves.”

  Ian’s expression slowly brightened.

  “So later I can make lots of things myself?”

  “You can,” Ryan nodded. “And you should.”

  He looked at Lorne.

  “But there’s one thing you must understand.”

  Lorne listened quietly.

  “When you treat something as Taki, you’re handing part of your control over guidance to it.”

  The courtyard was very still.

  Ian unconsciously tightened his grip on the shell, then quickly loosened it.

  “Then these…” he said, a little unwillingly, “are they just toys?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “They’re not toys.”

  “They’re practice, and they’re the foundation.”

  He turned and walked toward the colonnade, his stride as steady as ever.

  “This afternoon, you’ll learn how to carve basic runes.”

  The stone pillars cast long shadows in the morning light. As Ryan’s boots passed, they left a trail of faint water marks that slowly evaporated.

  The courtyard fell quiet again.

  Ian looked down at the shell in his palm, his silver-white hair swaying gently in the breeze.

  Lorne slipped his shell back into his pocket, his fingers pausing for a moment at the edge of his robe.

  The morning mist had fully cleared.

  Sunlight filled the circle.

  The etched lines no longer glowed, but the flagstones seemed to retain a trace of warmth, as if waiting to be awakened again.

  Etymology: A compound of the fictional roots vae (footstep / to walk with) and luru (the divine realm / the deep abyss).