“So—this here is the Library,” Elira announced, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she shoved open the heavy wooden doors with both hands. She half-bounced, half-glided inside, the movement caught somewhere between childish energy and practiced grace.

  Hope stepped in after her, blinking at the sight.

  Towering shelves covered the walls, packed tight with thick tomes, scrolls tied in neat ribbons, and glass cases gleaming under the lanternlight. The air was cooler here, steady, like the whole room was holding its breath. The smell clung—old parchment, dried ink, beeswax polish, and a whisper of dust.

  Elira twirled lightly on her heel, then tugged him toward a stand where slimmer, metal-bound books sat in orderly rows. “Over there’s the dull stuff—histories, laws, all the boring nonsense Mother loves.” She scrunched her nose before her tone shifted into playful intrigue. “But these? Skill manuals. I heard you dabble with Air, brother. Maybe some of these would come in handy?”

  Hope scratched the back of his head, caught off guard by the spark in her eyes. “That, eh… yeah, kinda. Sort of.”

  He leaned closer anyway, reading the titles etched in curling, gilded letters. Most were unfamiliar—‘Foundations of the Earth Gear’, ‘Ice Spike: A Novice’s Guide’, ‘Dash: Movement for the Quickened’—but a few he recognized: ‘Harnessing the Wind: Air Gear’, ‘The Edge of Tempests: Wind Blade’.

  Interesting.

  He reached out and picked the one on Wind Blade.

  The book was heavier than expected, metal corners binding the edges of the cover, faint runes burned into the spine.

  Inside, the first pages opened with diagrams—sweeping arcs of wind etched in blue ink, lines showing the paths a blade could carve through the air. Step-by-step illustrations followed, each figure frozen mid-movement.

  The text beneath was dense. Whole passages on posture, stance, how to breathe in rhythm with the wind itself. Notes scribbled in the margins—by past readers, maybe—argued about whether to slash wide or thrust narrow to maximize the gust. It wasn’t just instructions, it was debate, generations of hands passing the book on, leaving their quarrels in ink.

  Hope turned another page. More diagrams. Then a whole chapter on “air harmonics,” lines and curves describing how one was supposed to “resonate” with the breeze. He blinked at the sheer number of pages still ahead—dozens, easy. All this just to learn a simple skill?

  He whistled under his breath, flipping another handful of pages. A lot of it made sense, sure, and even sparked some ideas of things he might try. But nine out of ten pages? Absolute nonsense—endless debates written by people who clearly just wanted to win arguments for pride’s sake.

  And really… did it all need to be hundreds of pages long? He was sure half these Skills could be explained in a single page—two at most—if someone just showed them instead of rambling in circles.

  With a shake of his head, he slid the book back onto its shelf.

  “What do you think, brother?” Elira asked, tilting her head, watching him with sharp curiosity. “Can you use some of these Skills? I know Active Skills take time, so—”

  “Yeah, I know some,” Hope said with a smile. He had to admit—at least the girl was trying to help. But this whole brother thing still felt… weird. He’d never had a family before, and now here he was, pretending to fit into a noble one.

  “Really!?” Her eyes lit up like lanterns. “Then you must show me!”

  “Uh—now?”

  “Of course, now!” Elira laughed, grabbing his wrist before he could say another word. “Books are fine, but seeing is better.”

  Well… he had to agree with her on that one.

  She tugged him out of the library with surprising strength for someone her size, skirts swishing around her knees as she half-skipped, half-dragged him down the hall.

  They wound through a long corridor lined with tall windows and polished floors before she threw open another heavy set of doors. “Behold,” she declared proudly, “the training hall!”

  The space inside was vast, with high ceilings and reinforced walls. Dummies lined the far end—metal frames, padded torsos. Targets, too—circles of wood and steel set into the stone, charred black in places where past spells had struck. The air smelled faintly of singed leather and old smoke.

  Elira twirled once in the middle of the room, skirts flaring, then jabbed a finger dramatically toward the dummies. “Show me what you can do, brother. I want to see if you’re all talk, or if you’re truly as talented as they say.”

  They say? Was that in the script?

  Hope scratched his cheek, blinking. “...You’re really not gonna let this go, huh?”

  She grinned, folding her arms with mock severity. “Not until you impress me.”

  He sighed, long and resigned—but fine, might as well get something out of it. “Alright. I’ll show you. But if I do live up to your lofty expectations, young lady, then you’ll have to introduce me to the House smith or crafter. Deal?”

  Elira tilted her head, about to nod, then paused, brows knitting. “Smith? Why would you want to meet the smith, brother? Aren’t you a mage?”

  “I… well, I’ve got a spear strapped to my back, don’t I?” Hope grinned, tapping the haft behind his shoulder.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Ohhh.” Her eyes lit up. “Fair enough! Then yes, I’ll show you. But first—go on. Start.”

  She leaned forward, expectant, all eagerness and mischief.

  Hope groaned inwardly. Just great. Entertainment for a spoiled little noble girl. Why did this feel familiar?

  He exhaled, spear sliding into his hands, weight settling steady in his grip. The dummy ahead stood waiting. The book had mentioned something about mixing physical strikes with Air Magika—slashes carried on sharpened gusts.

  Let’s give it a shot.

  The spear whistled free, polished wood sliding through his grip. He rolled his shoulders, feet finding their place on the smooth floor. Air stirred at his call, faint at first, then tugging sharper as he pulled it close.

  Hope exhaled and lunged, spear tip cutting in a clean arc. He swung wide, then snapped his wrist, and a compressed gust hissed out—like a blade of air slashing ahead.

  SHRRRK!

  The wind blade hit the target dummy in the chest, the impact rattling through the air.

  Hmmm… not even a mark. What material are they made of?

  Next to him he noticed some claps. “Bravo, brother! That was really clean.”

  Was it, though?

  Hope smiled but knew his timing was sloppy. The strike had cut air, sure—but the sync between motion and release was off.

  In the end, it was all about pressure. Gather the wind, pack it tight, then shear it loose like dragging a razor across skin. Sure, merging the swing with the skill gave it a bit of an edge, but nowhere near what those pompous nobles in the book bragged about.

  Undisturbed, he slid into stance again.

  His pulse slowed, breath falling into rhythm. He pictured the large bird he’d seen in that vision, wings slicing the sky with perfect ease. The Air answered, rushing to his call, wrapping around his calves and wrists.

  Air Gear bloomed into full form. His clothes rippled in its current, every strand of hair tugged by unseen fingers.

  Hope gripped his spear tighter. This time he didn’t just summon the wind—he bent it, coiling it around the shaft like a second blade, sharpening and compressing until the whole weapon hummed. He felt it vibrate in his bones, building, waiting to be loosed.

  He stepped, weight dropping low, and swung forward with all the force he had.

  FWOOOOSH—KRAAAK!

  The Wind Blade ripped out like a cannon-shot scream, tearing through the air, the pressure wave cracking against his ears. The dummy rocked backward, wood splintering, the chest caving in with a sharp split. Dust puffed out from the floor where the strike carried past.

  Hope’s arms tingled from the release, the last threads of Air slapping back across his skin. He lowered the spear slowly, catching his breath.

  This time… there was silence.

  Hope stared at the girl and grinned. “Does that count?”

  Elira’s eyes were wide, darting from the dummy back to him. For a moment she forgot herself, mouth slightly open. Then, with a quick shake of her head, she tried to recover her noble composure.

  “Well,” she said, voice pitched a touch too high at first before she smoothed it into something properly haughty. “I suppose that was… acceptable.” Her lips twitched, betraying the grin fighting its way through. “But don’t let it get to your head, brother. You’ve still got a long way before you impress me.”

  Hope chuckled under his breath. “Guess I’ll just have to keep trying, huh?”

  She folded her arms and gave a little hum, as if weighing his worth like a miniature judge on a throne. Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But between us… that was amazing.” Her grin flashed, bright and mischievous, before she spun toward the door. “Come! A promise is a promise.”

  Hope sighed, shouldering his spear as he followed. Somehow, he had a feeling this ‘sister’ of his was going to be more exhausting than all the training dummies put together.

  They stepped back into the corridor, sunlight streaming through tall windows that painted the polished floors in pale gold.

  Elira walked ahead with a bounce in her step, turning on her heel every so often to make sure he was keeping up.

  “So,” she said with mock seriousness, clasping her hands behind her back, “would you like to see the smith first? He’s always grumpy, always hammering, but the forges are loud and smoky and very dramatic. Or perhaps the leatherhand—his workshop smells awful, but he does fine boots and armor straps. Or…” she raised her chin a little, her smile sly, “the seamstress. She makes all the gowns and robes. I think she’d love to measure you, brother.”

  Oh… there’s more crafters? Leatherhand, huh? Yeah, he felt leather suited him better than all that clunky metal. Robes? Maybe worth a peek later, but one step at a time.

  “Let’s meet the leatherhand then,” Hope said.

  “Are you sure? The seamstress is much nicer and—”

  “You made a promise, young lady. Come on, lead the way,” Hope grinned, smug as ever.

  Elira let out a dramatic sigh, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “Very well, brother. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the smell makes you faint.”

  They wove through long corridors, past tall windows that spilled light across the polished stone. Servants passed quietly, bowing low, while Elira half-skipped along, humming like she was on a stage. Eventually the hall bent, narrower, dimmer, and the air thickened with a sharper, almost sour tang.

  Hope sniffed. Strong, yeah, but not unbearable. After Rask’s kitchen, with guts and acid and slime, this was nothing. Just hides, salt, and smoke. Almost familiar, in a way.

  The room they entered was long and low, rafters darkened with years of soot. Racks of stretched hides hung from wooden frames, some pale and raw, others dyed deep browns and blacks, glistening faintly with oil. Barrels lined one wall, lids cracked open to show brine bubbling faintly with herbs and something sharp enough to sting the nose.

  At the far bench, an old man leaned over a half-finished cuirass, his back bent but steady, his hands thick and lined with scars. He worked a stitching awl with slow, precise movements, pulling cord through a punched seam, knotting it tight, then smoothing it flat with the back of his knife. Beside him, a boy no older than 12 turned a hide over on a scraping board, working it with a curved blade to shave away the last bits of flesh.

  Hope lingered on that—steady strokes, the scrape of steel over skin, the boy’s arms straining. A hard job. He knew that kind of labor all too well.

  The old man didn’t look up right away. Only after tying off the seam did he straighten, joints creaking as he rose. His eyes, hard as cold stone, landed on Hope. And then, just like that, they softened. He wiped his hands on his apron and bent low, bowing with surprising grace for someone his age.

  “Young master,” he rasped, voice deep and respectful. “Welcome. Forgive this old servant for not greeting you sooner.”

  Hope blinked. Master? Him? Felt really weird. Uncomfortable, even. But trying to push against it would only blow his cover…

  Hope kept his face steady. Selera’s words whispered back—nobles don’t ask, they command. He let that guide his tongue.

  “Leatherhand,” Hope said, tone light but firm, “bring me something to work with. Boots will do.”

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