After a short eternity smothered in his mother’s warmth, Vichtor was finally released—gasping for air as if he’d been held underwater the entire time.
His cheeks still burned, though the worst of the embarrassment had faded to a dull ache. The crushing weight of her affection slowly lifted.
“Come on, Vicky,” she cooed, her hands lingering on his shoulders as though she wasn’t quite ready to let go.
Vichtor followed behind her, his gaze fixed on the twin moons rising into the sky. Only timid stars and the garden’s lamp posts offered light now, bathing the dusk in a gentle glow.The air was crisp and clean—just right for a quiet retreat.
They entered a long hall of marble and stone. After a five-minute journey, they reached its end. There stood a massive oak door, aged and worn, dark burn marks scarring its surface where thin streaks of wood had been reduced to charcoal.
The door opened with a long, protesting creak.
Behind the door awaited a room far more equipped than it had any right to be.
White stone walls framed an oak counter, its surface pristine enough to disguise its true age.
Resting atop it stood a metal box reminiscent of a microwave from the modern world. Runes replaced buttons, etched cleanly into its side. Above them was stamped a simple mark—an A, pierced by a star: A&, Alexisz of the Morning Star.
In this world, runes were made from crushed elemental gems that were further crafted into runic paint. Draw the proper symbol, and even an ordinary stone surface could mimic the workings of a modern stove—an improvement Alexisz had made upon the already familiar stone stoves of the realm.
Yet the room was not defined by his creations alone. It held many other tools as well, most crafted by the artisans, woodworkers, and clay masters of this world: whisks, spatulas, silverware, measuring cups, and more besides.
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The woman opened a cupboard and retrieved a glass cup along with a small container of dark powder. She poured warm water inside, added the dust, and sealed it with a lid. At the bottom of the cup, a light-blue rune shaped like a tiny tornado had been painted. After a single shake, it lit up, pulsing with life, and began to spin the liquid smoothly.
The resulting elixir was often called a lesser revitalization potion. Alexisz, however, insisted on a simpler name: coffee—a name he forced upon nobility.
She handed the cup to her son.
Vichtor took the cup, then reached for two canisters.
“You still don’t like bitterness, do you?” she asked gently.
“Of course not. It’s awful. How does anyone drink it like that?”
The mixture was bitter by design. Sugar and milk dulled its edge, but taste mattered most to him.
He took a cautious sip, his gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the twin moons hung quietly in the sky, the night serene and still. For a brief moment, calm settled in.
Then he frowned and coughed.
“Still bitter,” he muttered, reaching for the canisters again.
The second sip finally brought relief, easing the weight of today’s defeat. He leaned back, his gaze returning to the stars now shining in full.
After a brief display of her skills, the woman finally sat down—though not before covering the table with food.
Vichtor set his half-empty cup within reach and stared at the spread before him. Freshly cooked fish paired with boiled vegetables. A bowl of red soup, dotted with white grains and crunchy bread cubes. And finally, buttered potatoes, steaming, their fluffy insides barely contained.
Vichtor feasted with a smile.
The coffee had cooled by now, its sweet chill doing nothing but heightening the warmth of the meal. In less than ten minutes, it was all gone.
“Don’t hurry, dear. The food isn’t going anywhere,” his mother said, resting her chin in her hand.
Even when he tried to slow down, the dishes still vanished quickly. It really was that good.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, stopping at just those words. He wanted to say more—but didn’t.
She noticed.
“Do you have plans for tonight, dear?” she asked, the question an open invitation.
“Yes. I’ll study the bestiary and look for a minion’s weakness. I want my first victory soon. I swear I’m close.”
The words lingered in the air, heavier than he intended. Even as he spoke them, doubt crept in. He loved adventuring. He loved adventurers. But reality was hard to ignore. An adventurer with no victories at sixteen was laughable—and he would reach that age within the year.
“Dear…” She stopped him just as he reached the door. “Your father didn’t win his first battle until he was sixteen either. After that, he began winning—and never stopped. You still have time.”
Vichtor smiled, thanked her softly, and stepped through the doorway.
Night had fully settled.
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