Dinner had just begun in the modest Rous household. The table was laid with stew, warm bread, and the kind of silence that only came when everyone's thoughts were heavy. Diana and Charles had just revealed their suspicions—someone was watching them, leaking the drawings. The tension was thick, every member of the family chewing more on their thoughts than the food.
"I think someone from inside the academy has been spying on Charles," Diana said, her voice low but steady.
John paused mid-bite. "You're certain?"
"I'm sure," Charles added. "I found a note. Someone knew details only I would know. And Isaac…" He hesitated. "Isaac might just be the middleman. Someone else is pulling the strings."
John narrowed his eyes, and Lucy's spoon trembled slightly against her bowl.
But before anyone could respond, a thunderous bang echoed through the house.
"Open up!"Everyone froze.
Another bang.Then another.
John stood quickly, motioning for everyone to stay seated. "That's the royal guards," he said under his breath, his voice laced with dread.
"The royal guards?" Diana whispered. "Why would they—?"
Before she could finish, the door flew open with a violent crack, its hinges screaming in protest. It shot through the air like a missile—straight toward Charles.
He barely had time to react, bracing himself for the blow. "How unlucky can I be?" he muttered, clenching his eyes shut.
But the impact never came.
When he opened his eyes, John was standing before him, one hand outstretched, the door floating beside him like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. He set it down calmly, as though he'd merely moved a curtain.
Charles stared in awe. "How did you—?"
He had forgotten. Forgotten what high-level users were capable of. John may have lost the ability to fly, but he hadn't lost everything. Not yet.
The guards stepped inside, armor gleaming under the low light. Their leader stepped forward, his voice booming.
"You are in possession of stolen drawings."
Gasps broke out around the table.
"Stolen?" Lucy asked, her voice trembling. "There must be a mistake."
The guard continued, unbothered. "An individual came before the king claiming the Rous family stole original first-tier drawings. He claims he created them himself, and that you are distributing them illegally."
"We—" Diana began, but John raised a hand to silence her.
"We will cooperate," he said calmly. "We have nothing to hide."
He turned to Charles. "My boy, go get the drawings."
Charles froze. "But… they're ours. I made them."
John's eyes met his, firm but imploring. Across the table, Lucy subtly shook her head, warning him not to resist. Her face said it all—don't make this worse.
Reluctantly, Charles stood and fetched the case. He handed it over, his fingers lingering on the edge for a moment too long before letting go. The guard snatched it and gave a sharp nod.
"Good choice. If you had refused, this would've gone differently."
The guards exited as suddenly as they arrived, leaving the house in eerie silence. The broken door hung ajar, and for a long time, no one moved.
---
Later that night, John and Lucy gathered Charles and Diana in the sitting room, the remains of their dinner untouched. The warm stew had gone cold, like the air in the house.
"There's something you need to understand," John began, voice heavy.
"In this kingdom," Lucy continued, "no one is allowed to possess a first-tier drawing without the king's knowledge. All such drawings, by law, are to be handed over to him."
"That's absurd," Charles blurted out. "That's dictatorship!"
The word hung in the air like a curse. John and Lucy exchanged worried glances.
Charles caught himself. "Sorry… I just mean—it isn't fair."
John nodded slowly. "No. It isn't. But fairness doesn't exist in power hierarchies. Not here."
Lucy folded her hands. "The king hoards power. He ensures that no one—no family, no school, no artist—can ever gain enough influence to challenge his rule."
Diana looked down. "That's why first-tier drawings are so rare. He keeps them out of reach."
Charles sat back, mind reeling. In his world, money ruled in whispers. Here, power screamed in laws and iron-fisted traditions.
A memory surfaced—something he'd once overheard in a subway back home. "Money is a silent dictator." Here, that silence had a voice, a name, a throne.
"So even if I create something original, something that could help people…" he said slowly, "it still belongs to the king?"
John's eyes darkened. "If it's powerful enough, yes. And if you resist, you're branded a traitor."
Charles clenched his fists. "But how is anyone supposed to improve? How can magic evolve if everything new is taken and locked away?"
Lucy touched his shoulder. "People don't ask those questions here, Charles. Not unless they're ready to pay the price."
---
That night, Charles lay in bed, unable to sleep. The sketches were gone. His trust had been shaken. And now, the kingdom itself had become an enemy to progress.
He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
He'd wanted to believe that this world, for all its strangeness, had room for justice. That power was earned. That art, imagination, and creation meant something more than control.
But the rules here were written by the powerful. And power, he now knew, didn't care where it came from—only who held it.
"Now am useless, as normal as I can be,how can I help now, "his thought lingered..