The Mage

Chpt 1: The Kingdom

(Serenity’s POV)

These sacred halls are eerily silent. Not a whisper of sound bounces off the carved arches and white marble that stretch toward the gold-lined paintings overhead. Intense beams support centuries of work; each stroke, each gilded frame is a promise someone once made to remember. People walk beneath them as if they are just a roof and nothing more. I do not. I like to look up. I want to let the history press against my ribs until I can taste it.

My footsteps are the only sound. I move slowly, pausing to absorb the scene, letting a painting settle into my mind. Each piece emits a light and complexity I don't always understand. When I stare long enough, I start to wonder what it would be like to step inside. What would it mean to jump into this world? Who would I become? One painting caught my eye — of a mountain on fire, with flames erupting at its peak, while the darkness around it seemed to make this beast shrink in comparison. The whole red sphere in the sky cast an eerie shadow across the bare ground. It felt like looking at a horror story. Life was torn from this depicted world. No sign of breath or movement could be seen. Fear prickled down my neck as my jaw clenched.

It puzzles me. We have no mountains or spheres in the sky, only the black screen surrounding our floating city — a flat, endless darkness that has existed for as long as anyone can remember. When I asked Mother about the painting, she smiled with a distant look and said, “This painting was created by one of our greatest fairy foreseers, who can see the future and paint it for us to enjoy. This scene takes place in the distant future, where giant spheres called planets and moons exist. We have not reached that time yet.” Her voice made the future sound like a storybook. It was hard for me to grasp this new world painted with such intricate detail. Will the darkness still haunt us?

Our city, a floating kingdom, is surrounded by an unending darkness. Many fear it, wondering what lies beyond. But ever since I was born, this black screen has never once moved or shown hostility. It simply exists. It was always there, like an inanimate object, mindless. Yet here in this painting, everything is gone; nothing remains. How could this world be our future? Instead, it seems to be the end of everything. My blood ran cold in an instant.

My thoughts unraveled when I overheard my mother, Renata, and my father, Henry, arguing in a nearby room. The tense atmosphere was noticeable, even from my distant corner of the house: "We have to think about who the heir to the throne will be!" My mother's voice responded. A faint hope to listen seeped in, with each syllable reaching out to my father, as if saying; Listen, I am here.

My father, his voice booming with authority, demanded obedience: "We have not a single son! Who will be our heir?" I eagerly waited for my mother's response, but her silence continued. I could see the thin line at the corner of her lips. "Our firstborn, Nanari?" Henry laughs, a brief, sharp sound that feels dismissive. The noise makes something inside me twist. I think of Nanari then: the way she reads, the way water obeys her. She can shape complex forms from a stream and hold them steady in the air. She practices until her hands are confident. She is everything a ruler should be: self-assured, precise, beautiful. Platinum hair that falls like a banner, ocean-blue eyes that catch and hold the light. She’s the kind of person who makes others look up to her.

My magic is a different voice. Plant magic runs wild inside me, a personality that wants to run, tangle, and grow wherever it pleases. When I try to coax a single bloom from a pot, vines lunge toward the windowsill or curl around my ankles. Once, during a lesson, I merely intended to make a sprout. That sprout turned into a tangle that climbed the teacher’s robes and burst into a riot of green before I could stop it. I remember everyone’s eyes shifting away from me afterward, as if I had embarrassed them by being too unruly.

Overcoming the fear of many eyes, I gradually moved away from the fight my parents were having. Yelling was also my least favorite thing. Its tone always seemed to carry more anger than love, making nausea creep into my chest. It made my skin crawl as each word from their lips shot at the other like something sharp, made of deadly steel. I hated it so much that I kept my voice just above a whisper; I would always sound soft, afraid of my own spikes. This is another reason I think Nanari would do better than I would. Her voice was so confident, mighty, yet kind and gentle. She was everything I aspire to be.

I step away from the doorway where my parents’ voices fade and let the paintings surround me again. Landscapes appear on the walls: green trees, jagged terrain, lakes so blue and clear you can see the bottom, and white layers like a pillow covering the ground. The paintings are so vivid I can almost smell them. I could smell the fresh pine, the soft dirt beneath my feet, the scent of crystal-clear glacier water, the winter frost, and how standing in that white-covered meadow made me feel free, as if I could sense its magic flowing through my bloodstream.

Then I found a portrait. Not a landscape this time, but a woman. Pale skin, auburn hair that falls in soft waves, eyes the color of gold. Her face is familiar in the way that Nanari’s is familiar, with the same cheekbones and the same curve of her mouth, but softer and gentler. Her smile is kind and honest. When I look at her, I hear a voice not of sound but of feeling: I see the world not with my eyes but with my heart.

The brushwork around her is unusual: the strokes seem to shift when I blink, as if the painter left a little bit of the future in the paint. The longer I look, the more the portrait feels like a promise rather than just an image.

A whisper, a memory, brushes the back of my neck. I turn, the lamplight flickers above my head as if responding to its cadence, but the corridor remains empty. Only the painting watches me, its golden eyes steady. Flashes of faint visions of her life flicker before my eyes. The way she carried herself — surely, she was an angel, a princess. But just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, leaving more questions behind. I step away, but the image haunts my mind. The silence of the castle presses in again, and I move forward, careful not to let my footsteps echo too loudly. There are other things to do: lessons, practice, and the minor duties that keep the castle running. Still, the portrait stays with me, along with an unshakable question: if the painting is a prophecy, whose life will it someday reveal?