The Mage Reincarnated

A young woman slowly opened her eyes, feeling the damp morning cold brush against her skin. Her hair, a shiny black hue, was disheveled, framing an oval and pale face marked by deep dark circles, evidence of heavy, restless nights. Her faded brown eyes conveyed an endless fatigue. Her slender, almost skeletal body bore clear signs of malnutrition. She wore a dirty, yellowed rag, more like an improvised cloth than actual clothing, barely covering the bruises and scars left by whippings she had endured long ago.

Her bed was nothing more than a wooden plank lined with a filthy, rough sheet, nearly as dirty as her rags. Beneath the plank, vermin seemed to thrive, and the air around her was unbearable, filled with the stench of urine, rodent droppings, and decaying wood. At night, the subtle rustling of rodents moving through the cracks in the dilapidated walls was a constant presence.

This was Layla's life.

She rose slowly, discomfort rippling through her back and arms, her teeth clenched as she felt the scars of her punishments. She almost cursed the gods for allowing her to breathe another day. "Another day in hell," she muttered in her dark thoughts as she yawned and made her way to the door.

The corridor outside was no better sight. A row of rooms, if they could even be called that, identical in their misery, led to other squalid spaces, cells where other enslaved women spent their nights. Muffled feminine voices, whispering or grumbling in hushed tones, leaked through every crack in the doors. Layla sighed, empty and almost emotionless, as she began to shuffle forward, dragging her feet as though carrying her own body was a burden.

Doors creaked open, revealing the same despair mirrored in the faces Layla passed.

She knew what the day held: washing filthy, stained clothes and sheets, a chore she had grown to deeply despise. To make matters worse, she would likely be sent to fetch water from the spring—a punishment for her defiance. Yet, despite her disdain for the task, the prospect of solitude at the spring offered her rare relief. There, she could steal a moment for herself, away from watchful eyes.

From the many predatory eyes.

Looking ahead, she caught sight of a familiar figure: Gonny, a short woman with a nearly exaggerated appearance. If not for the signs of age, spots and wrinkles, she could have been mistaken for a youthful girl. However, Gonny exuded a liveliness that stood in stark contrast to the surrounding poverty and anguish.

— Good morning, my dear — said the older woman with a surprisingly cheerful tone.

Layla lifted her gaze, almost smiling. Gonny was the only person there with whom she felt somewhat at ease.

— Good morning, ma'am — Layla replied, her voice weary. — You're always the first to rise, aren't you? Are you sure you're not made of iron?

Gonny offered a smile brimming with ironic satisfaction.

— It's habit, young one. What do you say we head to the table before anyone else? I've prepared some tasty potatoes to start the day!

Layla hesitated briefly but eventually agreed, following the elderly woman. As Gonny headed to the kitchen, Layla allowed her eyes to wander down the corridor once more. She noticed a subtle, almost translucent gray layer surrounding the others. It wasn't the first time she saw such a thing. Since childhood, she had observed these peculiar layers surrounding certain individuals, and as she grew older, they had become increasingly common. Whether in her former home or here in Qohor, it was ever-present, like some kind of curse.

"That must be it," she thought, shaking her head to dismiss the notion.

— Layla, aren't you coming? — Gonny called out, impatiently crossing her arms over the rag barely covering her thin frame.

Layla snapped out of her thoughts, sighing as she always did when something unsettled her. Her muttered reply was as low and resigned as the expressions she carried.

— As if rotten potatoes and moldy bread could fill anyone's stomach…

Gonny, as if she had overheard, raised a hand to her forehead in an exaggerated gesture of exasperation.

— Stop complaining! Hurry, or it'll get cold.

Before Layla could argue, Gonny grabbed her arm, pulling her through the miserable house toward the kitchen. The smell of boiling potatoes, mixed with the usual stench of decay, filled the air, churning Layla's stomach.

Even so, she followed the old woman, her heart heavy with sorrow but slightly lightened by the brief comfort of someone who, in some inexplicable way, made that hellish existence just a bit more bearable.

…

The space resembled an improvised combination of a bathroom and a warehouse, with its rough walls and mold stains evidencing years of neglect. The low ceiling made the environment oppressive, saturated with the penetrating smell of stagnant water, damp fabrics, and a faint aroma of rust. The floor, made of cold, uneven stones, displayed stains accumulated over time from spills and neglect. In a remote corner, a disordered pile of iron and clay pots and pans seemed ready to collapse at any moment.

In the center of the room, there was a dark-colored iron basin filled with murky water covered in soap bubbles. Around the basin, various pieces of clothing hung on improvised ropes, dripping slowly and creating small puddles on the floor. To the right, a deteriorating wooden cabinet stored more clothes and some cleaning items, while to the left, a stone shelf held empty jars and other aged containers.

The place was illuminated by a faint light coming through a crack at the top of the wall, allowing a fragile beam of light to highlight the dust and grime of the environment. The incessant sound of dripping water reverberated, interspersed with the occasional movement of unseen rodents scurrying here and there. The atmosphere of the place seemed to resonate with the exhaustion of laboring hands and bodies burdened by the weight of an existence confined within those walls.

Layla, in a crouched position, was washing sheets and other garments in the same basin. The clothes exuded a strong odor of low-quality wine and bodily secretions, making the task even more unpleasant. Her hands, damp and wrinkled from the prolonged work, ached from the relentless effort. The cold water tickled her skin but failed to alleviate the endless fatigue. To make matters worse, the intense stench challenged her endurance.

The sound of hesitant footsteps on the uneven stones behind her broke the rhythm of her movements. A new figure appeared, draped in white fabrics that, despite their wear, retained signs of dignity.

—You're going to fetch water from the fountain again today — declared the intruder, her voice carrying an authority that sounded artificial or feigned.

Layla resisted the urge to look up. "If I could, I'd strangle her right now," she thought, biting her lower lip. Her morning, already a wreck, worsened with the arrival of one of Jorvihan's "dogs," as Layla preferred to call them, more irritating than the rats that occasionally nibbled at her toes during the nights in her bed. Ignoring the woman, she returned to her task, scrubbing the clothes with harsh intensity.

— Hey, are you deaf? I'm talking to you! — the woman's voice rose, now sharper.

As Layla's silence persisted, the stranger approached. Her thin, angular fingers gripped Layla's hair, yanking it forcefully.

— The master demands that you do it! And it must be done now!

~Aaagh!!

Layla let out a groan, her head thrown back, but in an impulse, she turned and shoved the woman. The latter lost her balance and fell clumsily onto the slippery stone surface.

— You…! — the woman exclaimed, her eyes blazing with anger as she tried to rise, her dress now slightly soiled and wet.

— You what? — Layla retorted, lifting her chin. Her fists clenched, her body tense, ready for a fight.

As expected, just another day in her life.

The woman's lips moved as she ran her hands through her dark hair, a nearly inaudible murmur escaping her, accompanied by a glare of disdain directed at Layla.

— If you hate doing this so much, maybe you should kneel before the master and try to please him. Perhaps then, he'll reward you instead.

Layla let out a bitter laugh, involuntarily. It wasn't the first time someone like her had said something like this, as if it made any difference. She would never let herself be swayed by people of this kind. The master's submissive servants, like the woman before her, were in no way figures that could make her kneel.

— To do what you and the others did? Put me on my knees? — her voice was laced with disdain. — No, no! No way… NO! — She shifted her gaze from the woman's face to the ragged white fabric she wore and continued — I don't think so! I'm not the type to willingly spread my legs for a man like that for scraps like you do.

The woman faltered, her expression hardened further, her words caught in her throat as she struggled to find a fitting retort to Layla's cutting statements. Finally, she hissed, her tone dripping with bitterness:

— I'll ask the master to punish you, fish! 

The insult, though brief, cut like a knife, intensifying Layla's fury at being called that. She shot a furious glare at the woman, but before she could react, a familiar presence emerged.

Gonny, like an older woman, had a face that bore the marks of time and displayed a stern expression, like a protective mother or a jaguar defending its cubs.

— Young Qhali, do you really believe that just because you warm the pig's bed, you have any control over us? Do you think you have the authority to spit nonsense? — Gonny shot her words, sounding more like mockery toward the woman. Her tone remained calm, but sour, like spoiled milk.

The words struck Qhali like a slap, causing her to step back, one step and then another, her face turning pale.

— You old…! You… you're nothing but… You're just rats! — Qhali stammered, but her voice faltered. Clutching the rags she wore tightly, she averted her gaze and walked away, muttering in indignation.

Gonny watched the woman retreat, letting out a sigh of disappointment before shaking her head.

— How are you, girl? — Gonny asked, reverting to her usual caring demeanor. — All right? 

Layla nodded, though her face still betrayed her bitterness.

— Thank you, ma'am — she replied, her voice unsteady.

Gonny offered a kind smile, a rare sight in that place.

— Don't mind Qhali. She's not bad. This place… it does that to people. These days, she doesn't even remember how to put herself in someone else's shoes. Even when those people are in the same situation as hers. 

Layla remained silent; she had no interest in hearing the touching story of the woman called Qhali, nor did she feel any compassion for her. Her gaze wandered down the empty hallway where Qhali had disappeared. 

— I'll be going... — she said, her voice carrying an exhaustion that seemed heavier than her almost skeletal frame. 

Gonny let out a soft laugh, tinged with sadness. 

— That pig. He thinks he's a king!

She glanced at the basin, filled with a pile of fabrics, sheets, and garments that seemed to reek just by being seen. She reflected for a moment before moving her hand. 

— Don't worry, I'll handle it… I'll take care of this. 

Layla's eyes widened, alert, and she shook her head in refusal. 

— Really?! That's not necessary! I can deal with it later… You shouldn't... 

However, Gonny raised her hand, cutting her off with a determined smile. 

— Don't worry, Layla. Even though I'm older, I can still handle this. How about we make a deal? I'll take care of the clothes, and you help me prepare breakfast tomorrow. What do you think? 

The elderly woman gently stroked Layla's arm in a gesture reminiscent of maternal affection. 

Layla leaned slightly forward, took a deep breath, and whispered: 

— Th-thank you. I'll be… I'm always here to help whenever you need… 

She lifted her gaze and gave Gonny a soft smile. Rarely did Layla show genuine smiles, but somehow, Gonny managed to bring out fragments of the young woman she once was. Perhaps because Gonny reminded her a little of her family… her mother. 

— Alright, alright. Now off you go! I'll take care of this…!

Leaving no room for protest, Gonny gave Layla a gentle push, guiding her toward the hallway. Layla relented and allowed herself to be led but not without casting one last glance at the fabrics in the basin. 

[...]

If she could, Layla would go back to the past and help her mother and father more with the manual labor. Back then, life seemed hard, but now, looking back, she realized it was a gift that would never return. Ever since she was torn from the North and taken to Essos, enduring the humiliation of Slaver's Bay until she was purchased and brought to Qohor, her existence had become a repetitive hell. Far from home, crushed by the weight of invisible chains and the disdain of men who thought themselves gods. 

The weight of the jar in her hands already threatened her balance, and when it was full of water, it would double or even triple, but she had to endure it. When she left the place she was in, she had to take a deep breath to face the task. 

Every step had to be calculated, attentive to the loose stones and hurried bodies around her. One misstep, and if the jar broke, Jorvihan, that wretched man with his twisted smile, would have a reason to use the whip again. He really didn't need reasons to do it. Layla knew that all too well. 

He was a man who found pleasure in others' pain, and something about her seemed to provoke him even more. 

Maybe it was the defiant look in her eyes. 

No matter how much she tried to hide it, the flame of defiance shone there, revealing a strength he wanted to crush. And that was why Layla didn't dare try to escape. 

Where would she even go...? 

Everything beyond Qohor was unknown and frightening. Far more than she cared to admit!

As she walked, her mind wandered: Small sparks around figures hidden under cloaks seemed to carry them like invisible lanterns. 

Why her? 

Could anyone else see this? Or was she truly losing her mind? 

Why had it never been this vivid back in Westeros? 

Maybe it was a defect in her eyes since birth in the frozen lands? Or perhaps it was something else? 

Something beyond her understanding...? 

Layla crossed the streets, choosing narrow and quiet alleys. She wanted to reach the fountain quickly, her little sanctuary, where the flowing water seemed to wash away, if only for a brief moment, the invisible marks of her enslavement. 

Even in these emptier places, though, there were traces of life. Street vendors shouted their offers, some carrying skewers that made her mouth water. The spiced aroma awakened a hunger that went beyond the physical. How she wished, just once, to taste something other than moldy bread and rotten potatoes! But the thought of stealing was far too risky; she no longer had the strength to endure more punishment. 

That was the problem with still being human. Sometimes, she woke up begging to be a damned snake, so she could slither away and escape unnoticed. 

Lost in these thoughts, she didn't notice the figure suddenly appearing before her. Her body collided with the stranger, and a low gasp escaped her lips. Her hands clutched tightly to the jar, protecting it as if it were something far too valuable. 

~Mhh

She raised her gaze, alarmed, her heart racing. If it was someone dangerous, someone who might punish her for her distraction... there would be no escape. 

The sight, however, made her words catch in her throat. The stranger was completely covered by a cloak, but something else surrounded him. Something unlike anything she had ever seen before. Before his appearance could catch her attention, something else did: a white glow, bright as moonlight on a clear night, seemed to envelop his form. He was far too short for an adult, but his presence was disconcerting, almost supernatural. A person who scrambled her thoughts. And his face, so serene. 

"A boy" 

Layla shuddered, unable to look away. 

***

The cold winds blowing from the North sang through Winterfell, carrying the scent of forests and ice. The fortress stood as a symbol of Stark heritage, with its moss-covered walls and dark stone weathered by the passage of time. Above its tall, shadowy towers, a thick mist came alive, covering nearly the entire vast sky.

The training yard was a lively place, despite its sobriety. The clanging of wooden swords could be heard, interspersed with distant noises and the whisper of leaves in the oaks.

Jon Snow and Robb Stark were in the midst of their duel…

The sand of the yard shifted beneath Jon's steps as he tried to anticipate Robb's next move. Jon's determination was evident; even in defeat, he never seemed beaten. A fearless boy, that he was.

The wolf pups, still clumsy in their growing bodies, played in the distance. Nymeria tugged at Grey Wind's tail, while Shaggydog rolled in the sand alongside Summer and Lady. Ghost, always more reserved, watched everything attentively.

Leaning against one of the wooden pillars, Theon Greyjoy observed with his usual smile, a reflection of both arrogance and amusement. Perhaps he thought himself superior, even away from his true home.

— Is that all you've got, Snow? — Theon mocked, arms crossed. — I thought the bastard would be craftier. Or, perhaps, just quicker…!?

Jon ignored the remark, but his jaw tightened. Not that he let himself be swayed by provocations — it didn't bother him. Or did it? 

He swung his wooden sword, trying to disarm Robb's sword. The move, though well-executed, was swiftly dodged, and Robb seized the opportunity to counterattack, sending Jon tumbling onto the yard's sand.

~Uuuff…

The impact forced a muffled sound from Jon, but he didn't take long to get back on his feet, a faint smile disguising the slight sting of defeat.

— Impressive, Robb Stark, — said Jon, brushing the sand off his face with a playful tone. — Truly worthy of inheriting Winterfell.

— And you of the kennels — added Theon with a laugh as he stepped closer, but his voice was quickly silenced by Robb's stern gaze.

Robb offered a hand to Jon, helping his half-brother up with a light laugh.

— You're improving every day, Jon, — Robb said in a low voice. — But you're still lacking... — He hesitated, aware of how much the lack of formal training weighed on Jon. — Come on, let's try one more—

Before they could continue, Arya came running into the yard, her face lit by a mischievous smile.

— Jon! I want to fight you! — she shouted breathlessly as she ran toward him. Her light dress seemed to drag along the ground. Not that she cared; it almost seemed intentional.

Jon laughed and crouched to hug her.

— One day, little wolf, — he promised. — But today, it's Robb who's beating me up.

Jon's tone carried his usual habit of tousling Arya's hair.

Arya crossed her arms, her expression of displeasure so familiar that it almost drew another laugh from Jon. She pushed his hand away and took three steps back.

— You're lying, — she insisted. — It's because Mother doesn't let you teach me. I know it!

Jon averted his gaze, unable to deny it. He knew Arya was right. The girl seemed to understand all too well, even at her young age. Still, he couldn't admit it aloud. And before he could lie to Arya again, a young woman with hair like fire appeared.

Her fiery red hair gleamed under the faint daylight. Her posture was impeccable, her eyes carrying a mixture of disapproval and superiority. Almost like Theon's, but more restrained.

— Arya, what do you think you're doing? — Sansa asked, pulling her sister away from Jon. — You're a lady. You shouldn't be getting dirty here!

— I don't want to be a lady! — Arya protested, struggling against Sansa's grip. — I want to fight!

— That's ridiculous! — Sansa snapped back. — Imagine what Mother would say about this! And you… — She shot Jon a sharp look. — You should know better than to encourage such nonsense.

Jon clenched his fist but said nothing. He simply watched as Sansa dragged Arya back into the castle, the little wolf struggling in her older sister's grasp.

The feeling of exclusion was an old companion, and its weight seemed even heavier in moments like these. He rubbed his fingers along the hilt of the wooden sword, adjusting his posture.

— She has a knack for ruining any fun, doesn't she? — Theon commented, leaning over Jon. — But don't worry, Snow. There's always a place for you in moments like these… The stables!

Robb, who had remained silent until then, stepped forward, separating Theon from Jon with a hand that pushed the young provocateur back.

— That's enough, Theon, — his voice carried a mix of command and irritation. — We're not children anymore, and this has gone too far.

Theon shrugged, his smile fading for a moment.

— ...I'm only joking. You should know that.

— Maybe — Robb replied, his gaze firm and unwavering. — But Jon is my brother, and you'd do well to remember that!

Theon flinched slightly, taking a few steps back. His gaze shifted from Robb to Jon and then fell to the ground. His only response was to bite his lip in silent displeasure.

Jon said nothing. Instead, he looked at his white-furred wolf, who was now calm, lying in the shadows.

"Maybe I really should go... Like Uncle Benjen…" Jon reflected, feeling the cold wind brush past him. "Maybe there, I'll find my place..."

***

The sun of Qohor reflected off colorful banners and wooden rooftops, creating a play of light and shadow on the bustling streets. The smell of spices, sweat, and burnt coal competed with the aroma of roasted meat. At every corner, a new sight appeared: merchants gesticulating intensely, children running with dirty faces, and people covered up to their eyes, hiding secrets and intentions.

Eigan's footsteps echoed firmly alongside Xhalor, who was chattering as usual. Despite his apparent indifference, Eigan had noticed something about the merchant from the start: Xhalor seemed fascinated by him, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Not that Eigan wasn't thinking the same about this world.

— Hey, don't get distracted back there, boy — Xhalor turned his head quickly, wearing a worried smile. — These streets can swallow you up if you're not paying attention.

Eigan let out a sarcastic laugh, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

— I've been memorizing every corner since we left. Honestly, I don't need a guide to find my way back.

Xhalor laughed, shaking his head as he passed a cart exuding the strong smell of hay and manure.

— Oh, I don't doubt it. You have a… peculiar way of getting by. That, I unfortunately know all too well!

Before Eigan could make a joke about it, his gaze caught something unusual: a small crowd gathered around an improvised stage. At the center, a man displayed fireballs that seemed to dance between his hands.

— What's that? — Eigan asked, stopping beside Xhalor.

The merchant followed his gaze and smiled awkwardly.

— Oh, of course, it's a performance! Nothing but cheap tricks to entertain the less fortunate.

Eigan observed the man for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing.

— Interested? — Xhalor asked curiously, though he already knew the answer.

— No. He's a damn fraud!

Xhalor burst out laughing, but the sound became unsettling when he recalled what he had seen Eigan do. His eyes fell on the young man's hand, now relaxed, but he knew what it was capable of.

— Fair observation... But... can I ask something? Can you do that?

Eigan turned his eyes to the merchant with a mischievous smile. He didn't answer directly, leaving Xhalor even more intrigued.

— Who knows...? Who knows…?

Before Xhalor could insist, the unmistakable smell of roasted meat carried by the wind filled Eigan's senses. He stopped in the middle of the street, lifting his face to catch the aroma.

~Ooh...

Xhalor laughed, already rummaging in his leather coin pouch.

— Sharp nose, huh?! Here, take some coins. But please, don't spend it all on this. I won't leave here, in case you're worried… Well, since you've already memorized the routes. I suppose you don't need me to stay, huh?

Eigan rolled his eyes, taking the coins with a raised eyebrow, surprised at how easily the merchant handed them over.

— You're really giving me this? Just like that?

— Just go. And stay out of trouble.

Eigan smirked before disappearing among the stalls. He followed the scent, weaving through people, until the boots he wore touched the darker ground of an alley. The atmosphere there was different: the stone walls were covered in soot, and the place was filthier than he'd expected.

A sound broke the air. A dry crack. He turned his head and saw a scrawny slave fallen, the rags covering his body as filthy as the ground he lay on. Behind him, a man held a wooden rod, shouting something in a language Eigan didn't understand.

The young man stopped, watching the scene without intervening. He knew this was how the world worked: cruel, unequal, and full of horrors he couldn't change alone. His gaze, however, held something more: a silent, almost cold judgment. There was no pity in his eyes, only acceptance.

Finally, the smell of the meat guided him again, leading to a stall of weathered wood and slightly charred planks. A fabric cover shaded the area from the harsh, hot sun. Standing tall, Eigan pointed at the skewers glistening over the coals. The stall's owner, a man with a grimy beard and narrow eyes, eyed him cautiously due to Eigan's fully covered attire but quickly brightened upon seeing the heavy coins placed on his old wooden counter.

A repugnant smile spread across the old man's face, revealing yellowed teeth. The coins were certainly too generous for what he sold, but Eigan didn't care. Receiving two skewers, he felt the heat of the seasoning invade his nostrils, promising a brief comfort amid the solitude. He strode away from the stall and the grimy appearance of the old man.

As he bit into the succulent meat, the world around him seemed to fade, and he nearly got lost in his own thoughts. However, the distraction was interrupted by the sudden impact of a body against his. He stumbled, gripping the skewers tighter to keep them from falling.

"Damn it..." He grimaced, steadying himself.

~Mhh...

A weak feminine moan reached his ears. When he looked up, Eigan met her gaze: a woman with hair as dark as a moonless night framing a pale face, slightly taller than him. Her eyes, a deep and mysterious brown, glimmered with a mix of surprise and something else… Fear, or perhaps recognition. 

She placed a jug on the ground with exaggerated care, her movements slow, as if even the slightest mistake might cost her dearly. Then, she lowered her head in a humble gesture, her shoulders slightly hunched, as if apologizing without words. 

Eigan narrowed his eyes. 

— Are you alright? — he asked, his voice coming out gentler than he intended. But he soon sighed, remembering that she probably wouldn't understand his words. After all, the language was different from Westeros. 

Her eyes widened, a quick flash of surprise. It was as if she hadn't heard someone address her in a long time. 

— You... are from Westeros?! — she asked in an almost exaggerated whisper. There was a palpable urgency in her tone that made Eigan frown. 

For a moment, he remained still, realizing the reason for her agitation. Finally, he nodded. 

— I am. And you are too, I see! 

She tilted her head hesitantly, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them again, something had changed: a faint glow, as if the soul that once hid in the shadows had reemerged. 

— Yes!! I am from there too! — she said, her voice still trembling. 

It wasn't just emotion; there was doubt, a forced tone, as if she were testing the words before releasing them. 

In the silence between them, an unexpected sound cut through the air. A deep stomach growl. Not from Eigan, but from her. She instinctively placed a hand on her belly, as if trying to stifle the noise, and averted her gaze, her pale face turning a rosy shade of embarrassment. 

Eigan blinked, surprised, but soon a barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips. He looked at the skewer of meat in his hand, the warm and spiced aroma wafting up to him. 

"Hungry," he thought, his gaze softening once more. As wary as he naturally was, there was something about her that made him hesitate less. Without saying anything, he extended the skewer, his movement slow and intentional. 

— ...Here

His voice was calm, almost cordial, but carried a sincerity even he hadn't expected. The gesture was simple, yet it held something more... A small attempt to break the ice between two strangers lost in a place that offered them little. 

She looked at the skewer hesitantly, and Eigan could see the conflict on her face: desperate hunger battling distrust. In the end, necessity won. She took the skewer with thin fingers, almost reverently, as if it were a gift. 

Still, something in her gaze unsettled him. She didn't look at him like he was just an ordinary boy, but with a curiosity that was deep and frightening—almost supernatural. 

— I'm Eigan... And you? — he asked, attempting to open a door that seemed tightly shut. 

The young woman froze, as if searching the depths of her memory for something painful. 

— ...L-Lay! ...I'm Layla — she answered, her voice so confused and weak it seemed to dissolve into the warm wind. 

Eigan took a step closer, but she took one back, making his eyes narrow. She was also eating too quickly, and soon the skewer was stripped of every bit of meat. He might have found her speed amusing if he didn't recognize the reason for it. 

She glanced toward where she needed to go and then back at him, her lips pressing in indecision. After a brief gesture of gratitude, she said hurriedly: 

— Thank you, but… I need to go. 

She crouched down to pick up the jug with her calloused hands. 

He understood her agitation as he watched her head toward the narrow path. Time was a luxury for those who lived in chains. Yet, as she walked away, she stopped and, with an almost involuntary gesture, turned to face him. Her voice trembled and was muffled, as though she hadn't even wanted to speak. 

— What… what are you? I mean, there's something different about you, around you, a… a dense and clear thing. Not like other people! 

Eigan's eyes widened. She could see? She noticed his aura? The surprise on his face made her flinch. 

— S-sorry… I... I don't even know what I'm saying… 

And with that, she began walking again, disappearing into the dark streets of the alleys. Eigan stood still, his eyes fixed on the spot where she had been, now only emptiness. 

"Magical perception…?" The thought echoed in his head. Were there people in this world capable of detecting his mana? Or was it mere coincidence? Or perhaps something else? He certainly had much to learn about this world. 

A skeptical yet intrigued smile appeared on his face. 

…

Eigan walked through the bustling square, his face reflecting a profound serenity and a veiled focus, his gray eyes moving like leaves blown by the wind as they absorbed every detail around him. Upon noticing Xhalor, leaning against a dilapidated stall, his lips curved slightly, forming an expression that resembled a smile but wasn't enough to reveal his true intentions.

He hesitated for a moment, bowing his head and running his thumb across the palm of his hand, an almost automatic act as if organizing his thoughts. In his mind, the image of Layla continued to linger, an unsettling presence. "Mana perception!! I never thought I'd meet someone like her in this world... In the end, I guess it was my mistake to take where I was born as a general vision. Well, at least I found someone who might be useful for something!"

As he approached, he skillfully weaved through the passersby, letting out a soft *tch* when he noticed a boy running towards him, about to collide. With a smooth movement of his body, he sidestepped, muttering, "Is it always this chaotic here?!" while adjusting his dust-covered cloak.

Xhalor noticed his presence from the corner of his eye, pausing his gestures for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line before he abruptly concluded the conversation with the merchants.

— I'll be back shortly — he affirmed, clapping his hands together energetically, the rings on his fingers producing a faint sound as they collided, as though brushing off unwelcome proposals.

He turned to Eigan with a forced smile, his lips twisting asymmetrically.

— You're late... I was ALMOST about to make some unexpected transactions! — The merchant exclaimed dramatically, raising his hands to emphasize the "almost."

Eigan raised an eyebrow, his expression as empty as the tip of an arrow already shot. He slowly touched the back of his neck, pulling his lower lip with his index finger before speaking.

— And wouldn't that be a good thing for you? — Though his tone was harsh, his eyes glimmered with a faint hint of confusion.

Xhalor let out a deep sigh, raising his hands in the air as if trying to clarify an obvious point to someone inattentive.

— Definitely not under unfavorable circumstances! — He raised his voice at the end, rolling his eyes in such a way that his head seemed ready to follow.

Eigan subtly tilted his chin, crossing his arms. His fingers tapped lightly against his forearm, emitting a *tac, tac, tac* sound as his face displayed a mixture of disinterest and seemingly forced patience.

 ~Hahah... 

The short, nasal laugh escaped like a mocking whisper. He leaned slightly forward, his dark eyes locking onto Xhalor's like an eagle sizing up yet another victim.

— I thought you were a good negotiator. You look more like a charlatan. Offering me a roof, clothes, food, and even… — He tossed the last coin he had into the air and caught it again.

His face grew serious as his tone dropped dryly.

— So, what's the reason for all this, my 'friend'?

Xhalor opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, muttering something under his breath.

 ~Bah... 

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and turned his face to the side, his fingers scratching his patchy beard.

— Really, have I not given you any shred of trust yet? 

— No — Eigan blinked at him, a defiant smile gracing his shadowed face.

~Humf!!

Xhalor crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. A little frustrated, but it was as if he expected this. "I think it was like this with Kaled too," a memory cleared in his mind. "Since then..." Finally, he shrugged and shifted the conversation.

— I hope your delay was for something useful!?

Eigan hesitated for a moment, the sparkle in his eyes fading briefly. He tilted his face upward, as if contemplating an image made of clouds.

— Maybe — His voice dropped a tone, carrying a seriousness that felt out of place after the humor. — Let's just say I found something interesting along the way.

The half-answer made Xhalor raise an eyebrow, but before he could press him, Eigan walked past him, his steps light and deliberate as if he knew exactly where he was going.

— I have some questions that need answers — Xhalor said, beginning to follow him.

Eigan took a deep breath before nodding.

…

~krrr… krrr… krrr…

Eigan was sitting on the bed, his nails scratching the wood of the headboard in rhythmic movements that created a low, dragged-out sound. Or scratched. On the floor, lying down and only making soft growls, was Shadow, sleeping without a care about the presences near him.

Eigan had his half-closed eyes fixed on Xhalor, who, in turn, was seated in a nearby chair with one leg crossed over the other. Xhalor's fingers drummed on the edge of the chair's armrest as he gazed at the map spread out on the table beside him, attempting to hide his restlessness.

When Eigan mentioned Valíria, Xhalor raised an eyebrow and let out an audible sigh, shaking his head slightly. His eyes returned to the map, examining the routes drawn on it. He almost laughed, imagining the boy plotting a direct path to the ancient, cursed city.

"Valíria's Ruin? Has he lost his mind?"

That's all the Merchant could think. However, there was something about Eigan that made him hesitate to doubt the young man's actual ability.

Xhalor cast another glance at the young man. His furrowed face gave way to a neutral, almost skeptical expression, as Eigan continued murmuring about the preparation needed for the journey. The merchant knew that despite his youth, the boy was no ordinary person. Xhalor, being a merchant, had connections; it wouldn't be hard to find someone who could take Eigan there. After all, Valíria was a place of routes, even for free trade.

— Waiting a few days won't be a problem, I imagine…? — said Xhalor, his voice deep and cordial.

— I'm in no rush. I need some time to organize myself. — Eigan's response was immediate, accompanied by a discreet smile that conveyed more confidence than one might expect from someone so young.

Xhalor looked away, feeling more unsettled by the boy's smile than he cared to admit. He cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward as the chair protested under the movement.

— Tell me a bit about… who you really are... — Xhalor's tone wavered as he spoke, his fingers pressing against the arms of the chair. — What you did to the Dothraki... how can someone fight like that being so...? — He trailed off, his expression becoming serious as he recalled the blazing blades he had witnessed. — Are you some sort of dark sorcerer? Or are you training to become one? Damn it, what *are* you, Eigan? Your body healed so fast! There are no wounds on you...! What *are* you?!

A moment of silence filled the room. Eigan raised his eyebrows, and a smile appeared on his lips, though it did not light up his gaze. It seemed the merchant's kindness was now clear. There was curiosity. Eigan tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing the merchant, relishing the apprehension in his voice.

"What are you?" he reflected in his mind. It was something he had expected to hear sooner or later. Well, he just hadn't anticipated hearing it twice in one day. "That woman… Layla… and now Xhalor… Is this how it's going to be?!" Still, he had no intention of hiding the truth from anyone. 

It was okay to reveal a little, right?

— Wizard — The word was spoken with a disconcerting ease, in a tone that sounded almost honored. — I am a Wizard!

Eigan repeated it, as if to cement in the air what he truly was. He wouldn't accept being mistaken for a dark sorcerer. Being a handsome wizard with incredible abilities and the skills of a swordsman—*that's* how he wanted to be recognized by everyone.

 ~Ahh!! 

Xhalor's eyes widened as he straightened in his chair. He nodded repeatedly, as if still absorbing the revelation. His lack of an exaggerated reaction stemmed from how little he truly understood about this. Or about what Eigan was capable of.

Eigan continued, his fingers still drawing patterns on the wooden surface of the bed.

— Magic has flowed through me since birth. I have the ability to enhance my body and fight in ways most people can only dream of. — His voice was light, almost instructive, but he paused for a moment, as if reflecting on how much he should reveal.

"I don't need to tell him everything… He wouldn't understand!" Eigan thought to himself. Some details had to remain in the dark.

Xhalor, on the other hand, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

Not that he fully believed it just from hearing it, but it made so much sense that it was terrifying.

So beings this powerful existed out there?

And someone so young, capable of defeating a band of men who had spent their lives training to kill?

How scary can that be...?

Could it really be so normal?

— This… I… — Xhalor began, but he fell silent immediately, his eyes widening even further as Eigan raised a hand, conjuring a ball of fire that hovered in the air.

~wooooOOSH!!

A light that rivaled the glow of the candles.

The warm breeze bathed the room, projecting Eigan's shadow onto the walls. Xhalor jerked back, nearly tipping the chair over. It was an involuntary act; surprise, disbelief, and fear.

— W-what… BY THE HEAVENS?! — His shock was so great that one hand went to his chest while the other rubbed his eyes, as if ensuring the scene before him was real and that he wouldn't drop dead from a heart attack.

Ever since he met Eigan, this had been difficult.

He swallowed hard, his hand still clutching his chest, while his other hand hovered, wanting to feel the heat of the flames but unable to proceed. It froze in midair as sweat began to drip down his face.

— This is magic, Xhalor. — The way young Eigan spoke was calm and unsettling, as if conjuring fire from thin air were as trivial as breathing. Of course, for him, it was. — I can create as many of these as I want, until my energy is depleted. I can strengthen my body with this energy. That's how I defeated the men you call Dothraki. Simply because I can!

Finally, Xhalor's hand fell limply to his side. He adjusted himself fully in the chair, taking a deep breath and exhaling in a mix of dread and madness. His turbulent thoughts were like a stormy sea. "Kaled… Truly… This boy isn't human, is he?!" he wondered, his body remaining rigid and his eyes reflecting the flaming sphere that floated calmly in the air.

The majestic ball of fire...

"Magic… This is real magic!"