[sorry for not uploading yesterday. i was busy with some irl stuff. hope u guys r enjoying magus reborn! Normally, his thoughts are being typed in italics, but webnovel can be annoying when it comes to copy-paste option. so it's better if you guys can read from scribbble hub or royal roadddd]
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Amyra always had her eyes on everything that went on in the castle.
Since the day she set foot in the place and Lord Arzan permitted her to live here, she made it her mission to explore every nook and cranny. This was the biggest home she had ever seen, let alone lived in, and she knew she had to make the most of it.
Every time she went outside the room she was given, she grew closer to the people who lived and worked within the castle walls. Claire, the lord's personal maid, had become a good friend to her. The two often spent their afternoons together, with the maid patiently teaching Amyra the ins and outs of the castle's many traditions and responsibilities.
Amyra also found herself bonding with other maids— like Rose, who always had a funny story to share while they folded laundry, and Eliza, who showed her how to arrange flowers in the dining hall. Each connection helped her get to know about things little by little. Even Francis, the stern old administrator who kept a watchful eye over everything, had shown her kindness; a sort of kindness that she hadn't expected. Whenever they crossed paths in the hallway, he would stop and offer her a small treat— a piece of candied fruit or a cookie—his way of welcoming her into the life of staying at the estate.
Her bond with Lord Arzan was something else entirely. Their shared time in the library, crafting golems from raw materials had created a unique understanding between them.
Lord Arzan had a quiet confidence about him, an unspoken assurance that made her feel safe, and valued. The more they spent time in the workshop, her skills sharpened alongside her confidence grew stronger.
Kindness? She wasn't familiar with it. At least, not for a long time. But here, within these walls, surrounded by people who showed her kindness daily, she found herself growing comfortable with it, perhaps even a little spoiled by it.
Maybe it was because of this comfort that, when she heard about the approaching beast wave, Amyra decided to give it her all to help others. She poured herself into her work, crafting a giant golem with the same care that Lord Arzan had shown her. She assisted Claire with her daily duties, her hands moving with the learnt expertise she had developed from watching the young maid closely. And as the refugees began to arrive she was there, helping them settle in, providing whatever comfort and assistance she could.
In a way, she knew she'd do anything to protect this place and these people who had slowly become her family, no matter the cost.
Her efforts bore fruit as she felt herself becoming a real part of this new world. No longer a burden, but someone actively contributing, she began to see herself not just as a stray picked up off the streets but as a person with a goal.
Every day spent helping Claire, crafting more of the golem, and every kind word shared with the maids made her feel like she was growing up. It was a strange, fulfilling sensation like she was finally finding her place in the world.
Her heart swelled with something she couldn't put into words when she thought of it.
As the golem she had crafted "Sentinel" finally moved, she again felt like she had fulfilled her duties, and played her role in the beast wave. But then, when Lord Arzan asked her if she wanted to ignite her Mana heart, her whole world trembled.
The question had been a ghost in her mind, lingering and walking aimlessly.
She knew she had talents— gifts that had been with her since birth. She had been reminded of that by a lot of people, way before she had found herself in Veralt. But all she knew of magic and Mages were memories tainted with fear and bitterness. No good memories existed for her, none except those involving Lord Arzan. To her, he was an exception, not the norm.
After the question was pointed at her, one thing she knew was that she didn't want to be like those Mages she despised, those who had used their powers to hurt, control, and manipulate.
The thought of becoming like them felt wrong, a betrayal of the person she had been working so hard to become. A part of her wanted to accept that this was just her destiny, something inescapable, and yet she found herself running from it. She had decided to stay here, as Amyra, forsaking her full name and everything it represented.
Thinking of it gave her a headache. Three days went by like that, but her head still throbbed.
Frustrated, she moved away from her room, hoping a walk would clear her mind. As she wandered through the castle halls, she glanced out a window and saw a large group of men moving out of the gates.
Claire had mentioned them before— the mercenaries that had arrived recently, men for hire who put their lives in danger for coin.
Lord Arzan had been negotiating with them, binding them to his service with promises of gold and glory, securing their aid for the coming conflict.
Amyra watched them for a while, wondering how useful they would truly be against the beast wave. They were strong, trained, and brave unlike her. Maybe they would be more useful than she could ever hope to be.
Doubt— started filling her chest, but she pushed it aside, reminding herself of what she had already accomplished. She was doing her part, in her own way, even if it didn't involve swinging a sword or casting spells.
Then, with a small sigh, Amyra moved again. Her feet led her to the stairs that wound down toward the training grounds, where the noise of metal clashing and the shouts of instructors filled the air. She had become familiar with the routine: the guards training with so much enthusiasm, and the refugees, those strong and bold enough, being prepared for the upcoming battle.
But today, something was different.
Her eyes widened as she saw her golem standing tall amidst the men, now draped in armour. A few guards were busy fitting it with plates and pauldrons, making adjustments under the keen eye of Balen, the blacksmith.
Amyra's heart fluttered with a mix of pride and joy. Sentinel, a creation she had worked tirelessly to build, was going to be part of the battle. It would serve a purpose, perhaps even take her place on the front lines. Maybe if the golem proved itself useful, she wouldn't have to be a Mage after all. Yes, that would be enough. There was no reason for her to—
Her train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a voice calling out to her.
"Amyra!"
She turned to see a girl around her age approaching with a bright, curious smile. She had blonde hair, neatly combed, falling just below her ears, and her eyes were a striking shade of green, wide with youthful excitement. She wore simple training robes, but there was a strange energy to her. She could feel it in her aura.
"Hello, I'm Rhea," the girl introduced herself cheerfully. "Knight Killian told me about you. Are you going to be my fellow apprentice?"
Amyra's eyes widened in surprise. It took her a moment to process Rhea's words, but then understanding dawned. This girl was like her— an unawakened Mage. And from the way Rhea was looking at her, shifting from foot to foot in anticipation, it was clear that she was eager to start her training under Lord Arzan's guidance and start a friendly companionship with her.
While she, herself had been grappling with her fears and doubts, Rhea seemed thrilled at the prospect of learning magic. A mixture of emotions welled up inside Amyra— envy for Rhea's unclouded enthusiasm, fear of what the future might hold for both of them and a tiny, flickering spark of hope.
Amyra took a moment before responding, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. "I don't know," she admitted.
Rhea tilted her head in confusion, her brow furrowing slightly. "Why not? Knight Killian said you have potential. Lord Arzan said so too."
"Yes, I have potential," Amyra said, nodding slowly. "But I don't know if this is the path for me."
Rhea's expression shifted to one of earnest curiosity. "Why wouldn't you want to be a Mage?"
Amyra glanced away, searching for the right words. Before she could speak, Rhea continued, "I don't want to be useless. I want to be useful. Lord Arzan is the most useful person around. Everyone says so. I want to be like that— to feel like I can change things, to have some agency."
"But magic is dangerous."
Rhea shrugged. "Being powerless is dangerous too." She paused, then added, "My father used to say that death comes for everyone, no matter what. It came for my parents too. It's going to come for me too. I don't want to stand there, helpless, not being able to do anything when it comes for me."
Amyra was silent, her eyes locked on Rhea as she absorbed the girl's words. They were oddly grim for her age but were spoken with enthusiasm.
Rhea broke the silence, her voice a bit lighter. "Lord Arzan is going to train me this evening. He told me to rest before the awakening, so I came here to watch the training. But there's not much for me to do until then." She glanced around, her energy shifting restlessly.
Amyra thought over her words. She didn't know what to respond with. Maybe awakening wouldn't be as half as bad as she thought it to be, but again— becoming a Mage meant selling her soul to become something she never thought she would be. Her thoughts bubbled up like a hot churn as she stared at the pair of trees.
Her only distraction was Rhea's occasional finger tapping against her elbow, trying to get her attention.
Moments passed like that.
Seeing that Amyra had nothing more to say, Rhea sighed and turned away. "Well, I guess I'll see you this evening if you've made your decision by then." With a wave, she moved off to speak with a group of guards, leaving Amyra standing alone with her thoughts.
Amyra remained rooted in place, her eyes distant as images flickered through her mind— visions of death, blood, and flames, mingled with the memory of an evil smile and the cold, unyielding bars of a cage. Each image was a jagged shard of her past, like a stab at her heart. Then, almost as if by a force of will, the dark visions gave way to a warm, healing light, a memory of gentle hands and soothing magic that had once saved her.
Her heart was in turmoil. Magic— it was both destruction and healing, pain and relief. She knew she needed to choose what she wanted it to mean for her, and what path she would take.
As she struggled with her thoughts, a voice echoed in her mind, a haunting echo from a time long past:
Amyra, you must bear the purpose of our existence, to become something beyond what anyone has ever seen and face your fate with determination. You are pitiful to be given such a purpose, but in truth, we all are. It would be even more pitiful if you failed to fulfil it.
She frowned at those words. They were heavily layered with expectation and a cruel kind of hope. But as she recalled them, something shifted inside her.
A decision settled in her heart.
***
The jagged peaks of the mountains were visible in the distance from the valley below. Towering pines and hardy shrubs clung to the rocky slopes, their roots winding through cracks and crevices. In this harsh terrain, nestled against a sheer cliff face, lay the camp of the Lombards Clan.
A river of leather tents and hide-covered shelters sprawled across the valley floor, campfires puffing wisps of smoke into the air. A few warriors sharpened their blades by the fires, and their women mended clothes and cooked meals from afar, and children played with carved wooden toys.
But most of the attention was gathered to the centre of the camp where a large circle formed, a brutal fight taking place.
The air was thick with tension, and the rhythmic chanting of the clan members was loud enough for anyone from miles away to know that there was something ongoing here.
In the middle of the circle, Ragnar, son of Yafgar, stood facing an older, more seasoned warrior in a bout of strength. His face was already smeared with blood, his breathing coming out in huffs and puffs, but his eyes burned with a sense of fierceness to it. They were not ready to give up.
He lunged forward, swinging his axe with all his might, but his opponent deftly sidestepped, delivering a crushing blow to Ragnar's side with a gauntleted fist.
Ragnar stumbled but refused to fall.
Despite the pain and the inevitable defeat looming, he pressed on, knowing that this was the only way to regain the respect of his people. He had lost their trust once, during a failed raid that had left them vulnerable and ashamed. Now, he had to prove himself all over again, and he was willing to spill his blood to do it.
High above the crowd, standing on a rocky ledge overlooking the arena, Yafgar of the Lombards Clan, watched the fight with an unreadable expression. His eyes never left his son, even as his second-in-command, Brugnar approached and stood beside him.
"He's putting up a good fight," Brugnar said, his voice low and rough. "But he won't last much longer. Shouldn't we call it off before he gets himself killed?"
Yafgar shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Ragnar who was getting punched left and right. "He must regain the trust of our people, Brugnar. After his failure, no words or deeds will suffice but this. A bout of strength is a long-standing tradition for a reason. He needs to show them his strength, and his resolve. No more gains from banditry will help him. This is the only way."
Brugnar nodded, though he couldn't hide the concern in his eyes. "I understand, Chief. But still, it's hard to watch. He's your son."
Yafgar's face remained stoic, though his eyes softened for a moment. "A leader must be willing to sacrifice everything for the good of his people, even his blood. Ragnar understands this. That's why he fights."
For a while, they stood in silence, watching the bout below. The clan's cheers grew louder with each passing moment, urging both fighters on. Finally, Brugnar broke the silence again. "And what of the invitation from the Blessed Lord? The call to fight against the beast wave? What will you do?"
"I have been considering it. The beasts are a threat not just to us, but to all who live in these mountains. Joining forces with the Blessed Lord could benefit our clan. But I wanted to hear your thoughts, Brugnar."
Brugnar rubbed his chin thoughtfully before speaking, drawing his finger on the scar on his face. "I think we should send Ragnar and the others who were captured during the raid. They have much to prove, and fighting against the beasts could restore some of their honour."
As Ragnar took another hit, nearly falling to his knees but somehow finding the strength to rise again, Yafgar's jaw tightened.
"Why?"
"The letter from the Blessed Lord mentions that fighting the beasts and saving lives could restore Ragnar's honour. Our young generation has lost its way, led astray by our banditry. This is more than a chance for Ragnar to redeem himself; it's a chance for him to see a different path, a path of true honour and bravery. Aligning ourselves with someone as honourable as the Blessed Lord could also help us rebuild connections and restore our clan's reputation."
Yafgar nodded. "I had considered similar points. Ragnar is the future of our clan, and he needs to experience the broader world if he is to lead us. If we cannot return to our old ways and wish to make this new home our own, forming alliances will be crucial. The Blessed Lord's power and the trust the elements have placed in him suggest he is a force to be reckoned with. I still don't trust the man, but his elements— I'm considering it."
Brugnar gave a curt nod. "I will send back a letter with Ragnar, detailing our decision and our intentions. I will accompany him to ensure he doesn't lose his life in the process."
"Very well," Yafgar agreed. "Make sure Ragnar is protected and guided well. We cannot afford to lose him now."
As the two leaders spoke, the fight in the arena reached its climax.
Ragnar, exhausted and bloodied, finally fell to the ground. His opponent, victorious but respectful, offered a hand to help him up. The crowd's cheer was filled with cheers and sympathetic murmurs. Some were closing their mouths in shock while Ragnar lay there, gasping for breath, his body battered but his spirit unbroken.
He shook his head at the hand that was offered to him and lifted his upper body to cough blood to the side.
A smirk broke into Yafgar's face.
The bloody animal wasn't someone to accept defeat like that. If anything, Yafgar was sure he got that trait from him.
"I'm going down," Brugnar walked from where they were, making the chieftain sigh.
"Make sure he's healed before you all leave for the Blessed Lord's territory and make sure my son behaves himself. If the lord is honourable, so are we."
"I will tell him that."
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