"Father, I need to talk to you," Cecilia declared, pushing the door to her father's office open with more force than necessary. The heavy oak slid into place behind her, the soft hiss of its magnetic seal punctuating her entrance.
Quinn Slatemark, seated at his immaculate desk, barely glanced up from his tablet. "Cecilia," he said, his voice measured, "manners."
"I checked. There's no one here," she replied crisply, folding her arms under her chest. "This is important."
Quinn set his tablet aside, steepling his fingers as he regarded his daughter with a faintly arched brow. "Very well. What is it?"
"I need training," Cecilia said, her voice firm.
"You already receive training," Quinn replied, his tone faintly puzzled.
"I need more." Her lips pressed into a tight line, her determination blazing in her stormy gaze.
Quinn leaned back in his chair, studying her with the clinical curiosity of a man accustomed to reading between the lines. Cecilia was rarely so direct. "Go on," he prompted, gesturing for her to continue.
Her frustration boiled over. "I'm weak."
The declaration hung in the air, stark and unyielding.
It wasn't true, of course. By any reasonable standard, Cecilia Slatemark was a prodigy. At only eighteen, she was close to high Integration-rank, her mastery of magic dazzling even seasoned mages. She was a rising star destined for Ascendant-rank before her twenties, an accomplishment most could only dream of. The Radiant-rank wasn't a distant ambition for her—it was a near certainty.
But for Cecilia, it wasn't enough.
"I need to be stronger," she said, her voice quieter now but no less intense. "I can't stay like this."
Quinn's expression softened, though only slightly. "You are already extraordinary, Cecilia. Few your age—few in general—possess your talent."
She shook her head vehemently, her frustration spilling over. "Not extraordinary enough."
Her father regarded her in silence for a moment, then leaned forward. "This isn't about you, is it?" he asked quietly.
Cecilia's shoulders stiffened, but she didn't deny it. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories, each one sharper and heavier than the last.
Arthur.
The name was a weight, an anchor, and a flame all at once.
She had fallen for him because of the way he moved through the world, unrelenting and unyielding. Arthur Nightingale, with his piercing eyes and terrifying resolve, wasn't just a man aiming for the top—he was a force of nature consuming everything in his path. His growth was staggering, his strength already eclipsing the brightest talents of their generation.
And she was being left behind.
Rachel, with her healing magic and unmatched intellect, had a unique place in Arthur's life that Cecilia couldn't replicate. Seraphina, with her swordsmanship and stoic presence, had carved her own path to stand by his side. But Cecilia? She was powerful, yes—but not enough. Not yet.
"I don't want to stand in his shadow," she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. "I want to stand beside him."
Her memories stung: Arthur fighting Drake Namgung alone, protecting her, Rachel, and Seraphina when they were all too weak to help. Arthur facing down a low Ascendant-rank cultist during their second-year field trip, while she could only watch from the sidelines, powerless.
It was unbearable.
"I can't let that happen again," she whispered.
Quinn regarded her, his expression inscrutable. Then, slowly, he stood, walking around his desk until he stood before her. "Cecilia," he said, his voice softer now, "strength comes from more than just training. It comes from purpose, from knowing what you fight for."
"I know," she said, meeting his gaze. "That's why I need your help."
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. But understand this—this path won't be easy."
"I don't care," she said fiercely.
"Good," Quinn said, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "Because neither do I."
"So you agree?" Cecilia asked, her eyes narrowing, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "I thought you didn't like Arthur."
"I don't," Quinn replied smoothly, the faintest flicker of a smile playing on his lips as he tapped a finger rhythmically on the polished table. "But having a stronger daughter benefits everyone, doesn't it?"
Cecilia's lips pursed, suspicious. She knew her father too well to trust his words at face value.
Quinn leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to one of command. "Cecilia, you will join the Tower of Magic. Train under Archmage Charlotte."
As he spoke, a letter materialized on the desk beside her, sealed with his personal crest—a mark of his will as a father, not as the emperor of the Slatemark Empire. Cecilia caught it deftly, her eyes scanning the elegant script and unmistakable seal.
"You can't train me yourself?" she asked, a trace of disbelief in her voice.
Quinn's gaze remained steady, unreadable. "I can," he admitted, "but why settle for me when you could learn from the Zenith of Magic herself? That monster is still growing stronger."
Cecilia blinked at the unexpected compliment—not directed at her, but at Charlotte. The Archmage of the Tower of Magic wasn't merely a Radiant-ranker; she was the brightest spellcasting talent of her generation, a genius who had ascended decades ahead of her peers. A decade younger than most Radiant-rankers, she had broken records and redefined the boundaries of spellcasting, all while standing on the precipice of even greater power.
"She's already poised to become Rank 2," Quinn continued, his voice tinged with an emotion Cecilia couldn't quite place—was it admiration, or something closer to unease? "Once she reaches mid Radiant-rank like Magnus Draykar, even fewer will be able to challenge her."
Cecilia studied her father's expression closely. She rarely saw him unsettled, but the thought of Charlotte climbing so high seemed to chip at his composure, if only for a moment.
"But would she even listen to you?" Cecilia asked, her brows furrowing. The question wasn't impertinent—it was practical. Charlotte might be a citizen of the Slatemark Empire and the Tower Master of the empire's most prestigious institution, but she was infamously independent. Orders, even imperial ones, held little sway over her.
Quinn's faint smile grew enigmatic. "That's why I'm not ordering her," he said simply, his tone giving nothing away. "Now go. I have work to do, and I expect to see you at dinner."
Cecilia hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, tucking the letter into her bag. As she turned to leave, Quinn's voice followed her, softer but no less authoritative.
"Cecilia," he called.
She paused, glancing over her shoulder.
"Prove yourself to her," Quinn said, his eyes meeting hers. "Don't just be strong. Be exceptional."
Cecilia nodded, a spark of determination lighting in her chest as she stepped out of the room.
"To think I would have to call in a favor for my daughter," Quinn mused aloud, leaning back in his chair as the door clicked shut behind Cecilia. A wry chuckle escaped him, though his eyes betrayed a storm of conflicting emotions. "Am I that much of a fool for her?"
He already knew the answer. Of course, he was. For all his power, for all his cunning, he was still a father. That alone rendered him vulnerable in ways he rarely admitted, even to himself.
The chuckle faded, replaced by a sharpness in his gaze that could cleave through steel. "Arthur Nightingale," he muttered, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. "In the end, it always comes back to him."
It was frustrating, maddening even, how the boy had become an unshakable presence in the world, reshaping expectations wherever he walked. Quinn's carefully laid plans to temper Arthur's hubris by pitting him against a peak Ascendant-ranker had only backfired spectacularly. What was meant to be a lesson in humility had instead elevated the boy's reputation to dizzying heights.
Defeating the Vice Captain of the Second Division of Imperial Knights—a warrior who had spent decades honing his craft—should have been impossible for someone who had not even entered Ascendant-rank. Yet Arthur had done it. Not only had he emerged victorious, but the battle had solidified his name in ways Quinn hadn't anticipated.
Ranked 993 on the global rankings after scaling the Fall. For someone his age, it was utterly unheard of. Arthur's meteoric rise wasn't merely a fluke; it was a phenomenon, a force of nature rewriting the rules.
Quinn rubbed his temples, frustration threading through his carefully controlled demeanor. "It may not be possible to keep up with him," he admitted quietly, the weight of the words pressing heavily in the room.
He had seen prodigies before—many of them, in fact. Radiant-rankers, Immortal-rankers, warriors and mages who had carved their names into history. But Arthur was different. He wasn't merely talented; he was relentless, a relentless devourer of obstacles, forging forward with an intensity that made others seem stagnant by comparison.
Quinn's gaze darkened, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. "And yet," he muttered, "even the brightest flames can be extinguished."
There was no malice in the words, merely cold pragmatism. Power like Arthur's was as much a blessing as it was a curse. It drew eyes, envy, and danger from every corner of the world. If the boy faltered even once, there would be no shortage of forces waiting to tear him down.
But for now, Arthur Nightingale remained untouchable. And for better or worse, Quinn Slatemark had chosen to involve himself—and his daughter—in the storm that followed in Arthur's wake.