The Mage

Chpt 7: Unveiling Love

(Serenity’s POV)

The castle woke up before I did. Not because of light — there was none, not in a kingdom sealed beneath a black screen — but because of sound. The gentle shifting of guards as they change posts. The distant clatter of kitchen staff preparing the morning meal. The faint hum of the barrier that encased our world, a steady, low vibration that threaded through the stone like a heartbeat.

I hadn't slept. My body remained still, but my mind kept racing. Every time I closed my eyes, Peter’s voice echoed; Would you perhaps like to hang out? My heart fluttered like a trapped bird. I kept replaying the moment, wondering if I had imagined the warmth in his eyes, the softness in his voice, the way he had waited for my answer as if it mattered.

By the time the castle woke, I woke with it, feeling exhausted yet restless. My hands trembled as I dressed, but not from fear — more from anticipation. The day unfolded with simple, familiar routines: morning lessons, quiet practice, the soft clatter of servants preparing the great hall. Beneath everything, a current pulled at me — subtle but steady. Peter’s invitation hummed like a promise I hadn’t yet earned.

I tried to focus on my studies, but the words looked blurry. I tried to steady my magic, but it flickered unevenly, responding more to my heartbeat than my will. Even Nanari noticed my distraction; she watched me with a slight furrow between her brows, though she said nothing. She always knew when something was bothering me, even when I tried to hide it.

When the lamps dimmed to signal evening, I slipped away before my nerves could change their mind. The eastern gardens looked just as Peter described: lamps low, their glow soft and golden; magic lingered heavily in the air, its scent both grounding and sharp; a hush that made voices feel intimate, as if the night itself leaned in to listen. The hedges rose like dark islands, their outlines softened by the dim light. Dew clung to the leaves, catching the lantern glow like tiny stars — our kingdom's only stars.

Beyond the gardens, the darkness pressed in — not empty, but vast — a primal nothingness that swallowed sound and memory. The lamps created small circles of safety, their glow flickering as if the void were breathing against them.

Peter was already there, leaning against the low stone wall. His cloak was damp from the night air, and his hair curled slightly at the edges, touched by mist. He looked up as I approached, and the smile spreading across his face made the world seem warmer.

“Princess,” he said, my title soft on his tongue. For a while, we discussed small things — training drills, the quirks of court life, the way the lamps made the hedges look like islands floating in a sea of shadow. The conversation soothed me, and I allowed myself to laugh, surprised by how natural it felt. Peter listened the way few people did, with his full attention, as if every word mattered. But the book under my pillow was a weight I could not ignore. Each time I opened my mouth to speak of it, the words tangled and retreated. The secret pressed against my ribs like a second heartbeat.

Finally, Peter’s expression changed. He slowly and deliberately crossed his arms, and his face grew serious. The light in his eyes sharpened and focused. “We’re searching for the same thing, Princess,” he said. “Answers.”

My throat tightened. “How did you know I was looking?” I asked because the truth felt fragile and might shatter if I didn't hold it carefully.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a shy, awkward gesture that made him look younger than the soldier I occasionally watched train. “Nanari told me,” he said. “She mentioned you pacing the halls, studying Magdalene’s pieces. I thought it was worth looking into.”

Relief and embarrassment clashed. Of course, Nanari would have noticed. She was steady and observant in ways I wasn't. The thought that she told Peter, bridging the gap between my secret and his curiosity, made me both grateful and foolish.

Peter’s face grew serious. “I’ve been asking discreet questions,” he said. “Researching old texts to uncover ancient history. There are gaps, names that stop mid-sentence, faces that go still. People remember Morgan, but they don’t like to say why. There is something hidden here.” He said it like a man who had learned how to listen in rooms where people preferred not to speak. “I have a talent for history,” he added, offering a small, almost apologetic smile, “so I can see things others might miss.” But something about the way he said history felt too smooth, too rehearsed. He didn’t specify what exactly. Didn’t describe the area he examined. Didn’t reveal anything traceable. The lie, or the half-truth, slipped between us like a shadow.

The words hit me hard, like a stone in my chest. I imagined a sister my father never mentioned, a woman adored and then made to disappear. The idea that someone could vanish, that her name ended up in places it shouldn't have, felt worse than any wound.

“Why would they pretend she never existed?” I whispered.

Peter’s jaw tightened. “That’s the question. Records fade. Names disappear. It’s either a cover-up or something much darker. Either way, it’s suspicious.” My hands found each other and clenched. If Morgan had been erased, what would have happened? If she had been loved and then made to vanish, what was so vile that it couldn't be spoken of? She was a valuable person, a member of the royal family, and she would've received at least a headstone in the castle's graveyard. But I have not seen one like this.

I asked the question that had been curling in my chest since the library. “What does this have to do with the book?”

Peter’s smile appeared then, but it was not the warm, easy smile I had seen in the practice yard. It was sharp, like a flash of something that made my skin go cold. “Magdalene writes of a vessel,” he said, “The Black Book. Of spirits that do not die, only wait. I’ve looked at where people usually hide things. I haven’t had reason to scour the castle until now. If the book is here, it will answer questions about Morgan.” He paused, studying me with an intensity that made my breath catch. “I have a feeling,” he said quietly. “Nothing more. Feelings are dangerous, but sometimes they point the way.” He spoke, sounding like a man who trusted instincts as much as facts. There was a confidence that comforted me, and a restlessness that made me watch him more closely.

His fingers brushed my sleeve, barely touching, yet a small, hot current shot up my arm. It was a touch that meant nothing and everything all at once. I had to remind myself to breathe. Then he reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded scrap of paper, with a name and a date scrawled in cramped handwriting. He didn’t hand it to me; he left it sitting between us like a silent question.

“If the book is as vessel as Magdalene says,” he murmured, "maybe it will have answers to who Morgan is and what happened to her. If your father left a note, he knows more than he’s letting on. Wouldn’t you want to know what that secret is?” Peter folded the scrap back into his palm as if it were both a tool and a talisman. The gesture was small, private, and strangely possessive — a habit I had started to notice in him. He kept little things folded close, as if they were answers he wasn't yet ready to share.

We left the gardens together, walking side by side along the faint paths. The lamps cast flickering circles of safety around us, their glow pushing back the darkness just enough for us to walk. Beyond their reach, the darkness pressed close — ancient, patient, waiting.

The portrait’s golden eyes lingered in the gallery, as if they, too, were watching to see what would be revealed. The night felt colder than before, but I no longer wanted to run.

Tomorrow, we will start exploring places that have been closed for years. I need to decide how much I am willing to risk to uncover the truth about Morgan, The Black Book, and the memories that have haunted me since the gallery.

Walking back to the castle, the darkness felt less cold because he had been there before. I told myself I was brave for seeking answers; the truth was more straightforward and more childish. The thought made me feel both heroic and foolish. I didn’t know what I would find, but I knew I wouldn’t face it alone.