Chapter 7
In a world where the stars whispered names and the earth remembered footfalls, power flowed like bloodlines, and Houses were not just families—they were legacies carved into time.
There were Major Houses, born of the primal elements, towering in age and status.
The House of Caelanar, airy and high, governed the winds and the minds that soared with them. The House of Myrradin, deep and quiet, whispered with the sea and the secret songs of tides.
The House of Thanduril, stone-bound and steady, held the old bones of the earth close.
And the House of Solithar, burning and bold, kindled the world's flame through its fiery heirs.
Around them circled the Lesser Houses, no less magical, only less rooted in politics.
Some whispered in shadows—like the House of Umbrethil. Some bloomed with wild roses, like Miravelle. Others crafted with metal, sang with starlight, or wept with silence.
Together they made the great, trembling tapestry of the realm's magic.
Each child, upon the awakening of their power, might be courted by a House. Some joined by blood, others by bond. The rarest were claimed by Major Houses—chosen like stars chosen by the dawn.
---
A soft pulse of light shimmered across the wooden floor of the sitting room.
Zorya glanced up from her book, the same moment a faint hum rippled in the air—like wind chimes inside a dream. The scent of iron and roses followed, curling through the house like a ribbon.
Then—a portal opened.
It bloomed like a slow, sideways mirror in the middle of the room. Light bled from its edges, golden at first, then brightening to a clean, opalescent white.
A boy stumbled out, tripping over his own boots, followed by a string of muttered curses.
"—for the love of wind and doorways, finally—"
He stood up straight, brushing dust off his green jacket, and blinked. "Is this… Vair's house?"
From the stairs above, Vair appeared, arms crossed and a slow grin playing on his lips. "Took you long enough."
Zorya blinked at the boy. He had hair the color of dried wheat and eyes like a storm before it breaks. A satchel hung from his shoulder, and the scent of distant rain clung to his coat.
Marcus, Vair's friend from the academy. The boy with the portal gift.
"I've been trying to get here all week," Marcus groaned dramatically, waving his arms. "Do you know how many wrong addresses I walked into? I popped into an old lady's bathtub. Twice."
Vair laughed. "Maybe try writing the glyphs in the right order next time."
"I did! But your house is… weird. It's like it doesn't want to be found."
"It doesn't," Zorya muttered, arching a brow.
Marcus turned, startled. "Oh! You must be Zorya. Vair talks about you all the time. Usually when he's losing at practice matches."
"That's a lie," Vair said.
Zorya gave Marcus a dry look. "Charmed."
The portal behind Marcus gave a final flicker before sealing itself like a silk curtain folding away into air. The living room fell quiet again, as if nothing had happened at all.
Marcus turned to Vair with a grin. "Ready to head back? We've got the new term schedule and I heard the east tower is finally open."
Vair nodded, adjusting the straps on his bag. "Let me say goodbye first."
Zorya followed them both to the door. For a moment, just a moment, she wished she could walk through that glowing light too—into a world where powers sparked and trees whispered spells, where destinies chose boldly and magic didn't hide.
Instead, she waved.
And the portal shimmered again, swallowing her brother and his friend like a sigh from another world.
The house had settled into a softer kind of silence.
Vair's laughter no longer echoed from the roof, and the sound of Marcus's boots clattering through the halls was already a memory. The portal had vanished, but a faint shimmer of magic still clung to the corners of the room, like stardust left in the air.
Zorya sat in her usual spot, the little nook by the arched window, a place shaped by time and comfort. The old wooden chair creaked under her gently, its cushions faded from years of evening light. A porcelain cup rested in her palms, warm and pale as moon-milk, steam curling like ghosts into the amber dusk.
Outside, the garden yawned with sleep. The mythical tree in the neighboring yard—the one with blue and purple petals—swayed gently in the breeze, its blossoms rustling like whispers. She'd never named the tree, but it felt like it should have one. Something secret. Something sacred.
The sky was still lit, brushed with soft pinks and honey gold. A last breeze stirred her long, dark blue hair, which spilled over the back of the chair like a curtain of twilight.
She sipped her tea. Chamomile and lavender, her favorite. It tasted of calm, of childhood, of her mother's hands.
She exhaled, resting her cheek on her palm.
"I wonder if it's lonely," she whispered, eyes lingering on the tree. "Being different. Blooming in a place that doesn't know its name."
She wasn't sure if she meant the tree… or herself.
Without powers, without a House, without the spark that lit up the lives of everyone else, Zorya felt like a shadow beside a fire—close enough to feel its warmth, but never to join its flame.
She thought of Vair, laughing and strong, wielding two gifts like he was born for greatness. Of little Thalassa, who'd accidentally filled the living room with flowers before she could tie her shoes. Of students getting courted by noble Houses and stepping through portals that shimmered like dreams.
And she was still here.
Just Zorya, with her scarlet eyes and her sea-dark hair and no spark beneath her skin.
The tea warmed her fingers, but not the hollow ache beneath her ribs.
Somewhere in the distance, the sea began to hum its nightly song. Waves touching rocks, pulling away, whispering secrets.
Her mother's words returned to her then.
"When you're lost, talk to the sea. It listens in ways people forget."
So maybe she would. Tomorrow.
For now, she sat quietly in the fading light, letting the dusk wrap around her shoulders, and the tea soften her breath.
Not magic.
But still something close to peace.
----------
Something stirred.
It was soft—like the brush of wings, or the sound of a page turning in a locked book. Zorya felt it, not with her hands or eyes, but with the part of herself that had always lived in quiet places. A shiver, not of fear, but of knowing. The air shimmered faintly around her, and for a breathless moment—
—time folded inward.
And she was there again.
Sitting by the window, tea cooling between her palms, the sky painted in the soft melancholy of dusk. Her hair spilled like ink over her shoulder. The petals on the strange tree outside swayed in slow motion, as though caught in a memory trying to bloom.
Had she dreamed all that had passed?
Or had something—just now—reached back?
The scent of lavender still hung in the air. But something had shifted.
She wasn't alone in the silence anymore.
Not quite.