After ging out of his sweaty clothes, Mirac moved silently through the castle's corridors, heading toward the royal library.

  It had been seven years since he st set foot in the library, and the memory of its location had faded, reduced to a colle of hazy fragments. The only thing he remembered clearly was that it was on the sed floor of the castle, just like his bedroom.

  “It should be around here somewhere, if I’m not mistaken…”

  He advanced cautiously along the corridors, trying to recall the route he had taken as a child.

  After a few minutes of searg, Miraoticed a door that stood out slightly from the others.

  Looking more closely, he reized several familiar details: the golden hahe intricate woodwork design, and its spatial pt within the castle.

  “This must be it! Let’s give it a try,” he murmured to himself, a faint smile curling his lips.

  Before hesitation could take root, Mirac grasped the handle and tur decisively.

  A soft creak filled the air as the door swung open, revealing a faint golden glow that seemed to greet him like an old friend.

  But before he had time to examihe room—beyond the closest shelves he entrance—a deep, authoritative voice, charged with ued vigor, shouted:

  “Damn it! Before entering, you knock!”

  Mirac spun sharply to his right, his heart pounding from the sudden reprimand.

  At the wooden ter to the right of the entra an old man, draped in a long bck robe of shiny, silky fabric, adorned with intricate golden pattering are symbols. The cuffs, colr, and a sash ed around his torso were embroidered with gold thread, lending him an almal air.

  The skin of his face, thin and wrinkled, bore the marks of a life spent among scrolls and fotten volumes, each wriestament to the passing years. His white beard, coarse and flowing down to his chest, iwined with strands of sparse, silvery hair peeking out from beh a medieval linen cap adorned with small embroidered details.

  ‘It’s him! The librarian from seven years ago! Or at least I think so..’ hypothesized Mirac, a spark of astonishment mixed with a shiver running down his spine.

  However, uhe first time he had seen him, the old man’s meticulous attention was not focused on the book he held firmly in his hands. On the trary, his gaze was fixed on Mirac—pierg and annoyed.

  His eyes, the color of aged bronze and framed by bck, round gsses, gleamed with an inquisitive light. His silvery eyebrows, furrowed in a stern crease, heightened his scrutinizing expression, making every move Mirac made feel like an invisible interrogation.

  “Wait a moment!” the old man began, his eyes widening in surprise. “You, you are...”

  The words hung in the air, as though the thought itself had slipped away.

  Sensing the moment of uainty, Mirac decided to take trol of the situation.

  “I am Mirac Strongold!” he procimed with a voice both firm and youthful, pride resonating in every word. “Son of King Arthur Strongold and Prince of the Kingdom of Ardorya!”

  There was no real need for him to introduce himself so formally. Simply stating that he was the Prince would have sufficed.

  But the thought of making such a theatrical decration amused him, as if it were a small rehearsal for future official ceremonies.

  However, notig the librarian’s irritated expression, Mirac quickly added:

  “ht! I almost fot… I apologize for not knog and for any disturbance I may have caused.”

  To further emphasize his words, Mirac modestly bent his torso in a bow, attempting to soothe the old man’s irritation.

  The tter, the gesture, seemed to calm his anger.

  A simple huff apanied his response.

  “Hmph! Apology accepted, young Prince…” he said indifferently, before turning his attention back to the book in his hands, its yellowed pages worn with time.

  On the ter beside him y a bronze mos surface catg the light of the setting sun, and an ink-stained quill, clear symbols of a life spent in ceaseless pursuit of knowledge and wisdom.

  “Uhm…” Mirac begaantly, searg for the right words. “You’re the librarian, aren’t you?”

  The old man tore his gaze from his book, rolling his eyes with a clearly irritated expression.

  “Yes, exactly… You guessed it. I’m Matthew P, the royal librarian.”

  His voice was dry, his ck of enthusiasm almost tangible.

  Once again, Matthew plunged bato his reading, flipping the pages with the fervor of someone who lived in a world of words.

  ‘I see his obsession with reading hasn’t ged o in seven years...’ Mirac reflected, a hint of irritation rising as he watched the man wholly absorbed in his book.

  Struggling not to sigh and maintain his posure, Mirac simply shrugged, trying to igthew's distant and absorbed demeanor. Frustration simmered inside him, but he forced himself to remain patient and polite.

  “Umm, excuse me...” he resumed, careful not to sound too intrusive, his voice dropping slightly. “May I e in and have a look at the books?”

  For the umpteenth time, Matthew broke from his avid reading and fixed the young Prih a gaze that throbbed faintly with annoyance.

  "I remind you that you are the Prince! You enter wherever and whenever you want..."

  With that, he returo his book, as if the only world that mattered was the one tained between its pages.

  ‘Huh! What a grumpy old man...’

  Letting out a deep sigh, Mirac crossed the threshold of the door he had hesitated to pass uhe librarian’s pierg, scrutinizing gaze. With a decisive motion, he closed the door behind him, feeling a shiver of freedom.

  “Well then, I’ll be on my way…” Mirac said vaguely, his words drifting in the silent air as he ventured into the library.

  However, he received no reply from Matthew, who remained engrossed in the pages of his book, as if nothing could distract him from that world of paper and ink. Ign him again, Mirac didn’t wait for an answer and tinued deeper into the vast library.

  As he walked, the air around him grew increasingly saturated with an enveloping st: a blend of a paper, aged leather, and beeswax, which teased his nostrils, awakening the memory of his first visit as an infant.

  The red walls, entirely lined with dark wooden shelves, rose dizzyingly toward the ceiling, so high that they made one feel lightheaded. Massive wooden stairs wound along the tracks, ready to lead anyone who wished to explore the oldest volumes, kept high like inaccessible treasures.

  In every er of the library, heavy oak desks seemed to invite him with their austere elegance, a pce where one could immerse themselves in reading.

  But before doing so, Mirac had to find the right book! The one he had e all the way for.

  “Alright! Let’s begin the search.”

  Irresistibly drawn to the books, Mirac lightly brushed his fingers over a row of leather-bound tomes, their covers bearing the unmistakable marks of time. Their rough surfaces veyed a sense of a wisdom.

  “Marvelous!” he murmured to himself, a smile lighting up his face as he gazed at the immense variety of volumes, eae different in size and color.

  Walkiween the shelves of the "Magic" se, he gently slid his hand along the spines of the books, carefully each possible choice.

  For every title that caught his attention, he began to softly pronous name, as if sav the sound and imagining the secrets eaight hold.

  “Magical Zoology... icle of the Seven Journeys... Runes and Are Languages...”

  After several minutes of exploration, he came across books that told the plete history of the Kingdom of Ardorya, others that delved into the study of potions and alchemy, and still others that covered the geography and biomes of the seven kingdoms.

  But unfortunately, nothing seemed focused on the Chaotid their hunt.

  “Psychology of Magical Creatures... Are Magic...”

  Suddenly, Mirac stopped. His finger nded on a book with a golden cover, its title shining in bright white letters, almost unnaturally vivid despite the turies the volume had behind it.

  With a smooth motion, he pulled it from the shelf and lifted it before him. He stared at it for a moment, rereading the title to ensure he hadn’t made a mistake.

  “CLASSIFICATION of SYNTONIES”

  Mirac sighed, scratg his head.

  “This isly what I was looking for. But, well, I have to start somewhere, right?”

  Quickly, he made his way to a nearby table by the window, not far from the shelf, where the su light gently filtered in, caressing his face.

  He grabbed a chair, sat down on the soft red cushion, and pced the book in front of him. The volume, surprisingly thin, seemed ideal for a quiet and focused read. Taking a deep breath, he opehe first page and dove into the book.

  * * *

  The beginning of the book was a general introdu to Magic, with a vague expnation—simir to what Vi had given him—about the division of Magito the Seves.

  So, nothing new.

  But just a little further in, Mirac came across something he hadn’t learned yet.

  ~ SEQUENCE of SYNTONIES ~

  The Degree of Sintony of an individual—if not also the Magical Power they unleash—depends on their Sintony with their ow. The first stage of the Sintony sequence is purely random, determined by the innate and natural talent of the person.

  Syntony is not just a matter of practice, but an harmonization with the element itself.

  Primary Syntony: An individual cast simple, low-level spells, such as lighting a fire or creating a small gust of wind. At this stage, the Syntony is purely mental.

  Sedary Syntony: The caster begin to manipute the element on a rger scale and bine multiple effects, such as trolling a water current or ereg a wall of earth. At this level, the Syntony resides in the heart.

  Tertiary Syntony: At this level, the wizard bees a master of their element. They gee impressive phenomena, such as firestorms or earthquakes. Here, the Syntony involves the entire body.

  Perfect Syntony: Only a very few reach this level. It allows oo bee oh their element, gaining almost divine powers: turning into pure fire, dissolving into shadow, or being invisible like the air. At this stage, the Syntony involves the very soul.

  Divine Syntony: Only one person in the world for each magical element mao reach this level of Syntony, being loved and chosen by the Gods themselves, who embody and symbolize them. The seven individuals who succeed are known by the title of "Elemental Angels," and work closely with the Seveies.

  * * *

  ‘That's odd... This book doesn’t seem to mention the Chaotics or the Anomalous Syntonies even once.’

  Mirac closed the book with a decisive gesture, his face calm despite the slight disappoihat hovered over his brow. The remaining pages gently folded under his fingers, as if the book itself had resigo his inplete reading.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter!’ he thought suddenly, a determined smile f on his lips. ‘After all, even before ing here, I knew I wouldn’t find the information I was looking fht away. And besides, learnihings about Elemental Syntonies isn’t a waste of time at all. In fact, even though this informatio rete mue, it might still prove useful iure!’

  Even before that f thought crossed his mind, Mirac realized that, from that moment on, he would o tinue his search with determination, not giving up until he found the answers he was seeking.

  If one book wasn’t enough, he would read another, and then another, without stopping, until he had iably gohrough the entire Royal Library!

  Not that he minded reading all those books, actually.

  ‘But... As much as I want to, I ’t e here every day. Not only will I be busy with my studies and swordsmanship lessons, but I also o avoid looking too desperate in my search for answers,’ he thought, as a downcast yet serene expression appeared on his face. ‘I could still e here with the excuse of wanting to study every now and then, but it’s best not to overdo it so I don’t attract the attention of the gossipy servants!’

  The thought made him smile bitterly. The pace rumors spread as fast as a raging river, and he didn’t want to bee aopic of discussion among those who always gathered i to giggle and exge gossip.

  Pulling himself slowly away from those thoughts, he rose from the chair with a deep breath, stretg and yawning, feeling each vertebra of his back rex uhe movement. A small sigh of relief escaped him as the tension in his muscles melted away.

  Then, walkiween the imposing rows of shelves, he made his way toward the spot where he had found the book. His steps, light but determined, seemed to dissolve into the solemn silence of the library.

  He pced the book ba its spot, o many others that, with just a g their titles, had caught his curiosity.

  "Hmmm..." he murmured, refleg. "With this su, I think it's almost time for dinner. If that's the case, it might be better to start heading toward the dining hall to avoid being t-"

  Before he could finish the sentence, a sudden thud made him jump.

  The sound shattered the deep silence of the library like a stohrown into a pond, vibrating the air and breaking the stillness.

  Mirac spun quickly to his left, his heart rag from the fright.

  But there was nothing to worry about: a book had simply slipped off the long shelf, nding with a sharp thud right on the floor, just a few steps away from where he stood.

  "Dammit! You gave me a scare!" he muttered, walking over to pick it up.

  He bent slowly, feeling the wooden floor creak beh him as he reached out for the book. He grabbed it carefully, his fingers grazing the leather cover.

  "How strahough," he thought. "How did it fall on its own?"

  As soon as Miraished getting ba his feet, a shadow caught the er of his eye, prompting him to quickly turn his gaze to the right, down the opposite aisle from the shelf.

  "Damn!" he excimed, a shiver of unease running through him. “I could have sworn I saw someone...”

  He gave a quice around, scrutinizing the opposite aisle of the shelf.

  But finding no one, he shrugged, trying to shake off the useless ahat the unfortable feeling of being watched had caused.

  "Maybe I should get more sleep..." he said to himself with irony, trying to brush off the moment and put a smile ba his lips.

  Most likely, he thought, all the stress from the ret period was starting to take its toll, turning inte tricks of the mind.

  With a deep breath, Mirac refocused on the book he had just picked up.

  It was thin but heavy, ed in a soft burgundy leather cover that faintly reflected the light of the library. The edges of the cover were decorated with golderic patterns that seemed to dand iwine in a py of light.

  At the ter, the title stood out with authority, engraved on the skin in rge elegaers that captured attention.

  "ELEMENTARY MATHEMATICS: Disc Numbers"

  Mirac paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, refleg his disapproval.

  "So it's true that you haunt me everywhere, Math..." he muttered to himself, a mix of irony and annoyan his voice.

  But the book was not doh him yet.

  Right below the title, something smaller caught his eye.

  Anolden inscription.

  "What the hell…?!"

  As he read the words, Mirac’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  A sudden tightness gripped his chest, s that he had to grab the edge of the shelf to keep his bance. He took a step back, his legs shaking, and stared at the title as if he were looking at something profoundly wrong.

  “N-No, it 't be...”

  A cold shiver ran down his neck as he lowered his gaze, almost unwillingly, to the bottom of the cover. There, a small golden inscription gleamed faintly uhe soft library light.

  Mirac held his breath.

  And everything stopped.

  The breath. The thoughts. Almost even his heart.

  Reading that name, his eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and the book began to tremble in his hands.

  “Dave Arangot”

  That was certainly not the name of a publishing house, but of the author.

  Or rather...

  “DAD?!”