Fiona's delicate fingers curled around the porcelain teacup, her pink eyebrows slightly raised as she took a slow sip, savoring the floral aroma before swallowing with practiced elegance. She set the cup down onto its matching saucer with a soft clink before leaning forward ever so slightly, her canid ears twitching in curiosity.
"That is good. Now, Mikoto, tell me of yourself." The pink-haired girl requested kindly, her lips curling into a smile that was sweet.
Across from her, Mikoto exhaled through his nose, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the eerie white mask covering his face. His other hand reached toward his coffee but hesitated before grasping the cup, as if weighing whether it was worth the effort.
Before he could answer, a presence approached, light footsteps tapping against the wooden floor. The waitress had returned.
She appeared to be around eighteen, with strikingly lime-green hair cascading over her shoulders in thick waves. Her uniform was an elaborate shade of deep emerald, adorned with lace and embroidered details that made her look like she belonged in some exotic noble's manor rather than a simple café. She was expressionless, carrying an air of professionalism that bordered on complete indifference.
Without a word, she placed a delicate set of treats brimming with fragrant scent in front of Fiona, then set down another plate before Mikoto.
"Thank you," Fiona said with practiced politeness, inclining her head ever so slightly.
"Thanks." Mikoto's response was gruffer, more casual, but still appreciative.
The waitress didn't acknowledge their words, simply turning on her heel and gliding away, as silent and ghost-like as she had arrived.
Mikoto watched her leave for a moment before turning his attention back to Fiona, who had settled back into her chair, one delicate finger tapping against her chin as if deep in thought.
"So, anything specific you want to know?" Mikoto asked, tilting his head slightly. The mask made it difficult to read his expression, but his tone was expectant.
Fiona's lips curled into a smirk. "Hmm… I suppose I am rather curious about your homeland." Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. "But, if I were to be honest, I would say I am far more interested in your family." She propped her elbow onto the table, resting her chin in her palm. "I happened to catch a glimpse of a certain picture on that strange device of yours."
Mikoto blinked behind his mask before realization hit him. "Right, my phone." He scratched the back of his head, shifting slightly in his seat. "Well, I guess I can tell you about them."
He took a sip of his coffee, letting the bitter warmth sit on his tongue before continuing.
"There's my mother—the best woman in the world and one hell of a mom." A genuine smile tugged at his lips behind the mask, his tone carrying an unmistakable fondness. "I love her more than anything."
Fiona arched an eyebrow. "I find it surprising how openly affectionate you are about your mother."
"What's so surprising?" Mikoto asked, the mask tilting slightly as he gave her a sidelong glance.
"Oh, nothing." Fiona waved a hand dismissively, though her smirk suggested otherwise.
Mikoto gave a slight shake of his head before continuing. "Then there's my little sister, Hinata. An annoying little snot, but… even so, I love her." He exhaled, drumming his fingers against the table. "She's kind of a brat most of the time, but… I can't help but be overprotective of her."
Fiona chuckled, her ears twitching slightly. "Ah, so you have a sibling as well." She mused, swirling her tea absently. "And she sounds like quite the character."
"She is." Mikoto leaned back slightly. "But I bet you have plenty of interesting family stories yourself."
Fiona hummed, setting her cup down once more. "Perhaps, but I imagine my upbringing was quite different from yours."
Mikoto hesitated before asking, "Dunno if this is an inappropriate question, but your ears—I noticed your father didn't have them." The moment the words left his mouth, he mentally slapped himself. That was stupid, wasn't it?
Fiona didn't seem offended, though. Instead, she let out an amused exhale through her nose. "My mother was a Solkari. Their children take after them upon birth, hence my distinct physiology."
Mikoto mulled over that for a moment. He had noticed the absence of her mother at the mansion, but… that wasn't a subject he was going to touch.
Instead, he chose another question. "Speaking of the mansion—it's huge. But I didn't notice any servants while walking around. Yet, the place is always… spotless."
Fiona let out a soft chuckle. "Well, it's all thanks to magic, dear Mikoto." She said it so matter-of-factly that he suddenly felt like an idiot.
("Of course. Everything absurd in this world can just be attributed to bullshit magic.") He thought with a shake of his head.
Just as he opened his mouth to respond, a third voice cut into their conversation.
"Oh, Fiona? It is you!"
Mikoto saw the exact moment Fiona's face morphed from relaxed amusement to sheer, barely concealed annoyance. Her pink brows twitched, her lips pressing into a thin line before she forcibly smoothed her expression into an eerily blank mask.
The approaching footsteps grew louder, and then, appearing before them was—
A girl, slightly older than Mikoto, with dazzling golden ringlets cascading down her shoulders. She had a delicate, doll-like face with a button nose and strikingly brilliant blue eyes that shimmered with a mischievous glint. She was dressed in an elaborate Victorian-style gown of deep royal blue, embroidered with golden thread, making her look like she had stepped straight out of a noble's portrait.
"My, my," the blonde girl began, a smirk playing on her lips. "When I heard that you had returned to the capital, I could hardly believe it."
Mikoto could almost feel Fiona rolling her eyes.
"Your father was quite worried during your absence," the girl continued, her smirk widening, "but worry not! I kept him company. We had a splendid time conversing and savoring fine tea."
Fiona's expression did not change. "That is swell, Victoria. But I fail to see how any of that concerns me, as I do not recall ever asking."
"Oh, come now, Fiona, dear." Victoria's voice carried the kind of theatrical lilt one might expect from a noblewoman accustomed to getting her way. "There's no need to be so… heh… moody." She then tilted her head, her smirk curling. "Or perhaps the correct term would be jealous?"
Fiona's chair screeched against the floor as she abruptly stood up, her eyes blazing.
Mikoto, sipping his coffee, internally braced himself.
Then, Victoria's gaze flickered toward him, and her lips curled into something even more amused.
"My, my…" She pressed a hand to her lips, eyes glinting. "Is it really possible? Has someone finally managed to court Fiona von Achenbach?"
"No, you fool!" Fiona's voice practically echoed through the café, earning a few startled glances.
Victoria merely giggled behind her hand. "No need for a scene, Fiona, dear."
Mikoto, watching all this unfold, thought to himself:
("What. The. Hell.")
"I was merely surprised, is all."
If looks could kill, then the blistering, red-faced glare that Fiona leveled at Victoria Eizenberg would have reduced the blonde to dust on the spot. The sheer heat radiating from her stare could have melted through steel, left a crater in the earth, and possibly ignited a small wildfire.
Victoria, however, was utterly unfazed—no, worse than that—she seemed amused.
"But I neglected to properly introduce myself. My apologies." The blonde's voice was smooth, airy, and laced with the kind of aristocratic self-importance that made Mikoto want to physically recoil. She turned away from Fiona with a graceful pivot, her silken dress flowing dramatically as if she had rehearsed this motion a hundred times in front of a mirror.
She set her sharp, glittering gaze back onto him.
"I am known as Victoria Eizenberg, daughter of Duke Victor Eizenberg." Her tone carried the effortless superiority of someone who expected her name alone to part seas and halt wars. "Charmed, I'm sure."
She extended a delicate, gloved hand toward him—not in a gesture of greeting, not for a handshake. She expected him to kiss it.
Mikoto stared at the hand. Then back at her face.
("Is this girl an idiot?")
He was wearing a mask.
Could she not see it? Did she expect him to phase through it like some kind of spirit? Was he supposed to telepathically press his lips against her hand through sheer willpower?
He exhaled slowly, resisting the very deep, very real urge to sigh into oblivion. Instead, he reached out and grasped her hand firmly, giving it the most plain, uninspired, dead-fish handshake imaginable.
The moment of contact was brief, fleeting, deliberately awkward.
Victoria's face twitched—just a fraction—but Mikoto caught it. The faintest downward tug of her lips before she forced them back into an immaculate, practiced smirk.
"Mikoto." His introduction was curt. No embellishments, no titles, no unnecessary flair.
Victoria withdrew her hand with calculated poise, shaking it off slightly like he'd just committed some kind of mild social offense. Then, like a switch flipping, she let out an exaggerated sigh of delight, placing a hand over her heart.
"What a charming name!" she sang, as if she had just been gifted the most delightful trinket. "I quite fancy it."
Mikoto simply stared at her, unblinking.
("This is the most painfully insincere person I have ever met.")
Fiona, meanwhile, was glaring daggers at Victoria with enough intensity to cut through stone.
"Was there something you wanted, Victoria?" Fiona's voice was acidic, dripping with hostility. "Or were you just so insufferably bored that you decided to waste my time?"
Victoria, ever composed, simply tilted her head, regarding Fiona with mock innocence.
"There's no need to be so harsh, Fiona." Her words were silk-wrapped poison. "I merely wished to greet an old friend."
Fiona's scoff was immediate, loud, and filled with pure, undiluted skepticism.
"But I must say…" Victoria continued, her gaze sliding back toward Mikoto with a glint of something he did not like. "Your mysterious friend here has piqued my curiosity."
Mikoto felt her gaze rather than saw it. A slow, deliberate, analytical stare. One that lingered just a bit too long.
("Yeah, I hate that.")
She smiled. "But I suppose my curiosity will be sated at a later date."
Then, with a flourish of golden curls, she turned on her heel, waved elegantly, and drifted away like she had just performed a grand orchestral piece and was awaiting applause.
There was a moment of silence.
Then—
"What an insufferable prat." Fiona barked, flopping back into her chair like she had just run a marathon of sheer annoyance.
Mikoto, still staring after Victoria's retreating form, finally turned back to Fiona, crossing his arms. "...I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you don't like her?"
Fiona let out the deepest, most exasperated sigh known to mankind.
"'Dislike' does not begin to express the calamity-level detestation I feel for that brat."
Mikoto blinked. "...That bad, huh?"
Fiona scoffed. "That bad? That worse. That horrific. That a 'if she was hanging off the edge of a cliff and I had a free hand, I would use it to wave goodbye' kind of bad."
Mikoto snorted.
Fiona, still radiating pure, primal fury, crossed her arms, ears twitching erratically in residual irritation.
Mikoto leaned back, tilting his head slightly. ("Hmm… seems like there's some history between them.")
Obvious, sure. But not his business.
("Still…") He flicked a glance at Fiona. She was still glaring at nothing in particular, tail swishing aggressively, muttering something under her breath about "braindead aristocrats" and "if only I had a sword."
Her entire mood had darkened considerably.
("So much for getting to know each other.")
Not that he minded. But…
He glanced down at his coffee.
…He did kind of prefer the version of Fiona that was bantering with him, rather than the one that looked like she was mentally committing murder.
____________________
Even after a week, the sheer vastness of this city still caught him off guard. The streets twisted and stretched, an endless labyrinth of towering ivory spires, arched bridges, and sprawling plazas, each corner offering some new spectacle, some work of stone and glass that seemed to defy the laws of reality itself. Galadriel, the so-called Crown Jewel, stood as a masterpiece of civilization—an overwhelming expanse of architecture, magic, and life that never failed to leave a lingering impression.
And yet, it wasn't home.
Mikoto exhaled quietly, standing near a wide avenue, watching as the last rays of sunlight painted the city in hues of deep amber and violet. He could hear the soft hum of the people—merchants closing their stalls, lovers strolling along the bridges, armored knights clanking as they made their evening patrols. The distant ringing of a bell tower echoed over the rooftops, marking the approach of night.
Despite the beauty of it all, something about staying too long in one place suffocated him.
Fiona had left in a foul mood, her temper still frayed from that unwanted encounter with Victoria. She had barely said a word before storming off back to the mansion. Mikoto had considered following her at first, but in the end, he let her go.
The mansion was grand, yes—far larger than anywhere he had ever lived before—but big did not mean comfortable. If anything, those extravagant halls felt confining, like an elegant prison of velvet and gold. The walls whispered of an existence too lavish, too unfamiliar, too… artificial.
He needed space. A change of scenery.
The sky above was a vast ocean of deepening blue, the first stars timidly flickering into existence as the city's lanterns began to glow.
("I guess I still have some time before I need to attend that academy.")
His gaze drifted toward the distant castle, its silhouette sharp against the twilight. Soon enough, he would be pulled into the routines of the academy—lessons, politics, endless expectations. But for now, he had freedom. And freedom, for Mikoto, meant experimenting.
Not with people. Not with diplomacy. Not with the nonsense of noble society.
With magic.
A low hum resonated from deep within his body, a pulse of mana, warm and potent.
And in the next instant—
—he was gone.
To the outside observer, it must have seemed like he had blinked out of existence, the space where he had stood now eerily vacant.
To Mikoto, however, it was a mere shift in perception. The city blurred, twisted, then reassembled around him in the span of a heartbeat. The streets were gone, replaced by the cracked stone of an abandoned rooftop.
There was no dizziness. No delay. No disorientation.
("There. As simple as that.")
He sat himself down on the building's edge, his legs hanging freely over the side as he gazed at the city from above. A cool wind drifted past, ruffling his coat, carrying with it the scent of fresh rain, spices from the marketplace, and the distant smoke of forges still burning.
From this height, the world felt smaller.
And yet, it still wasn't small enough.
Mikoto exhaled sharply, reaching up to his mask.
The moment his fingers pulled it away, the shift was instantaneous.
His entire body adjusted, subtly, but undeniably. His frame shrank, just slightly. His skin paled, the already ghostly tone becoming something even more unnatural. His hair shortened, tousled—and then drained of all color, turning a stark, unforgiving white.
A curse. A blessing. A burden. A gift.
Whatever it was, it felt wrong.
"Never going to get used to this feeling…" he muttered, voice softer now, quieter against the empty rooftop. His fingers tightened around the mask before resting it in his lap.
The weight of it was always heavier than he expected.
Time passed. How long? A few minutes? An hour? It didn't matter.
Because despite everything—the training, the wealth of magic at his disposal, the connections he was making—he was making no progress on what truly mattered.
Teleportation. Magic. Combat. These things came so easily that they had lost their thrill. Learning a new spell had become as effortless as breathing, wielding mana as simple as moving a limb. He was strong—absurdly strong, even—but it wasn't enough.
Not for what he needed to do.
Not for where he needed to go.
His home was not here.
Mikoto tilted his head back, staring up at the sky. The darkness deepened, stars scattering across the heavens in a slow, mesmerizing spread.
("I've tried it a hundred times.")
A thousand times.
Envision it. Shape the spell. Picture the location.
Tokyo.
His room. The small, cluttered space that had once been his sanctuary. The old, beaten kotatsu where he used to rest, the worn-out books stacked by his bedside, the tiny window that overlooked the ever-glowing skyline of a world that no longer felt real.
And yet—
Every attempt. Every single time he tried to teleport there—nothing.
Instead, he would find himself somewhere else entirely, as if the universe itself was mocking him.
A random street. A temple. A forest. A battlefield.
Never home.
Mikoto exhaled, bringing a hand to his temple, rubbing at the forming headache.
("C'mon. Think.")
He bit his thumb absentmindedly, his mind racing.
("For all the talk about how 'gifted' I am with magic, I might as well be an amateur when it comes to this. Spells are easy. World travel? That's something else entirely.")
He ran through the sequence again, just as he always did.
How did I get here in the first place?
The incident. That moment in time when everything changed.
It had been—what? A mere second? A shift in the air, a pull at his soul, and then—
He had been here.
("The Blessing of Octavia.")
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Why?
Why her?
Fiona had told him before that Gods chose their Spawn at random. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes it was fate, sometimes it was preference, sometimes it was simply a cruel joke.
But Octavia was not just any deity.
War. Magic. Navigation.
What did she see in him?
More importantly—
("If she was the one who brought me here…")
Then was she the key to getting back?
The thought had crossed his mind before, but never with this much clarity.
If anyone could answer his questions, if anyone could explain the mechanics of world travel, then it had to be her.
But how?
How do you reach a Goddess?
Mikoto's fingers tapped idly against his knee.
Was it even possible? Would she even listen?
Or was he simply a pawn in a game far larger than himself?
The wind stirred around him, carrying whispers of the city below—laughter, conversation, life continuing on.
And yet, here he sat.
A lone figure on a forgotten rooftop, staring into a sky that held no answers.
____________________
[Achenbach Manor]
"You're curious if there's a way to speak with the Gods?"
Fiona's voice carried an air of faint bewilderment, her brows slightly raised as she tilted her head in curiosity. She was seated atop her bed—an extravagant, canopied thing adorned with plush silk sheets and embroidered pillows, positioned perfectly in the center of the room like a throne of comfort.
Mikoto, by contrast, remained near the doorway, his back pressed against the cold, ornately carved wooden frame. Arms folded, one leg slightly bent.
"Yup," he answered without hesitation, his tone steady.
Fiona studied him, her fingers idly playing with a strand of her hair as she considered his request.
"Well..." she began, crossing one leg over the other as she shifted into a more comfortable position. "Even a short answer would be... lengthy."
At her words, a flicker of hope sparked in Mikoto's eyes. Though he remained composed, a subtle tension in his posture betrayed his interest.
"I've heard tales of the Gods and Goddesses conversing with their spawns in certain ways," Fiona continued, her voice taking on a more thoughtful tone.
Mikoto leaned slightly off the wall, uncrossing his arms. "Certain ways?" he prompted, his curiosity now fully piqued.
"Through dreams," she clarified, her fingers absently tracing the embroidered patterns on the bedsheets. "Or so they say."
Mikoto's brows furrowed slightly. Dreams? That was... disappointingly vague.
"But it's never been proven," Fiona added, noting his skepticism. "The Gods are fickle—some interact with their spawns frequently, while others remain silent for years. And, well... many spawns tend to be quite reclusive. There aren't many reliable testimonies to confirm whether those dreams are truly divine intervention or merely the fabrications of the mind."
Mikoto tapped his fingers against his arm in thought. He had never experienced anything remotely resembling a divine dream—no cryptic visions, no otherworldly whispers, nothing. If the Gods truly spoke through dreams, then he was either being ignored... or he simply wasn't trying hard enough to listen.
"Well, if that's not an option," he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly, "then what else?"
Fiona sighed softly, her expression shifting into something almost apologetic. "Not exactly a better option, but... you could always try visiting a chapel dedicated to one of the Gods. You have noticed how many chapels there are scattered around the capital, haven't you?"
Mikoto gave a slight nod. He had. During his walks through the city, he had seen their grand structures—tall, imposing, built with reverence, each dedicated to a different deity. Some were small, intimate places of worship, while others were towering edifices of faith that commanded awe.
"But what would that do?" he questioned.
Fiona gave a small shrug, her smile turning sheepish. "Who knows? Some people claim that being within a place of divine significance can strengthen their connection to the Gods. Some even pray for days, hoping to receive an answer." She rested her chin on her palm, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Though, somehow, I can't picture you doing that."
Mikoto snorted. "You're right, I wouldn't," he admitted flatly. "I'd rather figure out a more direct method than waste time hoping for some divine voicemail."
Fiona let out a soft laugh at that, shaking her head. "Well, that's all I can offer you on that front. I hope it helps, even if it's not much."
"Hmm... Thanks, Fiona," Mikoto said after a moment. His tone was appreciative, but there was also a hint of something else—something more hesitant.
Fiona caught it immediately. "And...?" she prodded, her lips curving into a smirk.
Mikoto let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "And... sorry."
The smirk faded slightly, replaced by curiosity. "For what?"
Mikoto shifted his weight, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against his sleeve. "For, well... most of our conversations being me asking you for information like you said. I feel like I keep using you as a walking encyclopedia." He gave a small, sheepish smile. "So, yeah. Sorry about that."
Fiona blinked before breaking into a soft chuckle.
"Think nothing of it, Mikoto," she said lightly, her gaze warm. "If I minded, I wouldn't answer. Besides, it's not like I dislike our conversations. I enjoy them."
Mikoto arched a brow. "Even when they're all about magic theories and divine mysteries?"
Fiona placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense. "You wound me, Mikoto. What kind of scholar would I be if I didn't enjoy discussing the mysteries of the world?"
Mikoto rolled his eyes, but there was an undeniable fondness behind it. "Point taken."
A brief silence settled between them—one that wasn't awkward, but comfortable.
"...Honestly," Fiona continued, her voice softening, "I enjoyed our time at the café. It was nice hearing you talk about your family, however brief it was."
Mikoto's fingers twitched slightly at his side. He didn't respond right away.
Fiona tilted her head. "Mikoto?"
"...Yeah," he finally murmured. "That was nice."
There was something subdued in his tone—something distant, almost wistful. Fiona didn't pry. Instead, she simply gave him a radiant smile, letting the warmth of her expression fill the space where words were unnecessary.
Mikoto exhaled lightly and turned towards the door.
"Well, that's good to hear, Fiona-san," he said, offering a small wave. "I'll get out of your hair now. You've helped a lot."
Fiona watched as he moved toward the exit, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"...Anytime, Mikoto," she murmured.
And with that, he left.
But even as the door closed behind him, Fiona found herself staring at it for a long while, deep in thought.