Chapter 11: The Invisible Elara

“You are getting dirty.”

The voice came from behind him. It was high, refined, and laced with a mixture of confusion and mild disgust.

Arthur didn’t look up. He was busy scraping a layer of calcified moss off the fountain’s nozzle with a small knife he’d brought from the kitchen.

“Dirt washes off, Cousin,” Arthur replied. “Rust, unfortunately, is a bit more stubborn.”

He heard the rustle of silk approaching. Elara stopped a few feet away, careful not to let the hem of her pristine white dress touch the weeds. She adjusted her lace parasol, casting a shadow over Arthur’s work.

“My mother said you might have become a bit… erratic,” Elara said, watching him tap the iron pipe with the handle of his knife. “She said the poison might have affected your mind. I suppose playing in the mud is proof of that.”

Arthur paused. He looked at the diagram in his notebook—a complex schematic of the fountain’s fluid dynamics—and then at the rust on his hands.

Playing in the mud? He suppressed a scoff. He hated nothing more than someone insulting his work. But he remembered his objective: survival. Making an enemy of his only ally’s daughter was bad strategy; it would only accelerate his doom.

He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag, and offered her a polite, practiced smile.

“Good morning to you too, Cousin Elara. I apologize for the lack of etiquette.”

Elara stared at him. She expected him to be embarrassed or perhaps to already be showering her with praises. Instead, he gave her a look that clearly said, If you have nothing useful to say, please leave.

She straightened her back, her pride pricked. She was the genius of House Lunalar. She had awakened her mana core at ten. People usually bowed when she entered a room. Yet here, this crippled boy was treating her like empty air.

“You seem fond of this dead garden,” Elara said, gesturing to a withered rose bush near the fountain. “It is a shame. Ashborn used to be famous for its winter roses.”

“Plants do die without water, I believe,” Arthur said flatly. “It is not a tragedy; it is just logic.”

Elara’s eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps it just lacks a touch of real power.” She stepped forward. A smirk playing on her lips, she raised her hand toward the dying bush.

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Arthur felt the air shift. The hairs on his arm stood up. Is this static electricity? Or perhaps mana?

A soft blue light gathered at Elara’s fingertips. It swirled like liquid sapphire, condensing into a small sphere. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she pushed the mana into the rose bush.

Whoosh.

The reaction was instant. The brown stems pulsed with green. Leaves unfurled in seconds. A single, tight bud formed at the top and bloomed into a vibrant pink rose. It was undeniably beautiful. It was magic.