Ten-year-old Seraphina Ravenshade was, by all noble standards, a menace.
Not the messy, loud kind who broke priceless vases during dinner galas (though that did happen last month, and Caelum still blamed the cat). No—Seraphina was the quiet kind. The kind of menace who read ancient grimoires before breakfast and once turned a snooty tutor's robe into sentient whipped cream because he said "magic is best left to the adults."
She stood now in the family courtyard, runes etched into the marble tiles beneath her bare feet, her long silver-blonde hair tied in a messy braid that sparked at the ends.
"Okay," she whispered, mostly to herself but not really to herself. "Five glyphs, clockwise pattern, channel through the wrist, anchor with intention..."
"Or," the system snarked, "you could just blow it up again and call it modern art."
Seraphina rolled her eyes. "I was nine when that happened. Grow up."
"You are me. So technically, you grow up, I grow up. We're a package deal."
She groaned and flicked her fingers. A sharp blue flame spiraled into the sky, before cracking into frosty sparkles midair.
A flawless dual-casting.
Again.
She didn't smile. She never smiled after magic like that. Not when it felt so familiar.
Caelum watched from a nearby tower window, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"She's starting to merge the elemental cores without instruction," he murmured.
Isolde, standing beside him, sipped her tea slowly. "At ten. Yes, darling. I noticed."
"And the system?"
"She calls it her 'imaginary friend' in public. But I can feel its pulse when she channels—it's growing stronger."
Caelum's eyes darkened. "Then the countdown has begun."
Meanwhile, Seraphina sat under the plum blossom tree in the garden, sketching rune variations on parchment like other kids doodled unicorns.
"Hey," she whispered. "Why do I always see flames when I close my eyes? Even when I'm not casting?"
"You remember things in symbols. Fire is pain, power, and memory. You're starting to feel pieces of it, even if you don't fully know yet."
"Why won't you just tell me everything?"
The system was quiet for a long moment.
"Because if I do, you'll break. And I… I don't want to watch that happen again."
Seraphina stopped drawing.
She stared at her hands. Small. Pale. But when she closed them, she could feel the echoes of something stronger. Something older. Like fingers that had once clawed at the dirt, burning, screaming.
She was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
That night, in her dreams, she stood in front of the mirror again.
But this time, the older version of herself looked back—and whispered a name Seraphina didn't understand yet.
But it made her heart hurt.