When Itsuki first awoke, he noticed that everything was far too loud.

  Not in sound—though there was plenty of that—but in weight. The air pressed against his skin, heavy and restless, as if it were alive and breathing back. Every breath filled him with something warm and tingling that made his chest ache and his head feel light, like he was swallowing sunlight that burned on the way down.

  He didn’t have a word for it yet. Only the feeling.

  It began the moment the ground vanished beneath his feet.

  One moment, the four?year?old was holding his mother’s hand in a place filled with glass doors and bright lights, heading toward his second day of school. She had squeezed his fingers and told him to be brave. The next, the world twisted like wet paper, and the sky cracked open in colors he didn’t know how to name.

  He remembered screaming.

  Then silence.

  When he woke, he was lying on cold stone.

  High ceilings arched far above him, carved with symbols that hurt to look at for too long. The air shimmered faintly, like heat rising from pavement. His chest hurt. His skin burned, then chilled, then burned again.

  He cried.

  Not because he understood what had happened, but because everything in him felt wrong.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Three other children lay nearby, scattered like dropped toys. One was older—maybe six or seven—curled tightly into himself and shaking. Another stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes too wide. The smallest sobbed without sound, her lips trembling.

  Adults rushed in soon after. Armored figures with polished boots and capes the color of deep wine. Voices echoed, sharp and urgent, using words Itsuki couldn’t understand.

  Hands lifted him.

  The moment he was touched, something spilled out of him.

  A pale shimmer—unseen by most—pulsed beneath his skin. The adults stiffened. One of them swore. Another shouted for a mage.

  Itsuki screamed again, because the pressure inside him suddenly had nowhere to go, and colors flooded his vision—blues and greens and pale white blurring together until the world went dark.

  *****

  The first thing Itsuki learned in this world was pain.

  Not the sharp, immediate kind that came with injury, but the slow, creeping pressure that wrapped around his chest whenever mana drifted too close. It felt like breathing water—heavy, suffocating, wrong. He learned very quickly that the glowing motes everyone else barely noticed were poison to him.

  He was five years old.

  They kept him in the west wing of the royal castle, a place deliberately cut off from the rest of the palace. No grand halls. No banners. No nobles wandering through. Just wide windows, thick stone walls, and wards layered so densely the air itself felt muted, like the world was holding its breath.

  It was called the Otherworlder Wing.

  There were five children in total.

  The wing had once been meant for honored guests. Now it was filled with small beds, low tables, toys carved by hand, and attendants trained to smile gently while watching for signs of collapse. Soft rugs covered the floors to cushion falls. Plants were brought in and replaced often, because the children liked them, even if most didn’t survive long.

  Itsuki shared his days with children who spoke different languages, cried at night for parents who would never hear them again, and flinched whenever the castle bells rang.

  They were all the same in one way: none of them belonged to this world.

  Some had arrived with blessings—divine protections that gifted them language, resistance, even minor skills.

  Itsuki was not one of them.

  Mana pressed into his body like an invading tide, and if he stayed exposed too long, he would seize, cough blood, or simply lose consciousness. Because of that, his bed was closest to the warded walls, where mana density was lowest.

  Despite that, he smiled more easily as time passed. His mother had always told him to smile when things were hard. He hadn’t understood what she meant then, but here, surrounded by children just as lost as he was, he decided smiling was better than frowning.

  They became his family.

  Mio was the loudest.

  She had short brown hair and a laugh that echoed off stone walls. Her aura shimmered yellow, bright and restless—curiosity and energy that refused to sit still. She was always asking questions, even when she didn’t yet have the words to ask them properly.

  Harlan was quiet and observant, his aura a soft green tinged with blue. He liked helping the attendants water the plants brought into the wing and always noticed when someone hadn’t eaten.

  Selene barely spoke, but when she did, people listened. Her aura was pink, gentle and warm—empathy and emotional sensitivity. She often sat beside crying children without saying a word, small hands folded neatly in her lap.

  Bran was older than most at ten, his orange aura flickering with a protective edge rather than aggression. He stood between the younger kids and anything unfamiliar, even guards he didn’t recognize. He had arrived before the others and greeted every new child with the same careful smile.

  Although he didn’t possess the world's divine protection, he did possess a special skill called Soul Reader. Though the palace mages hadn’t heard of this ability before, it didn't seem to be dangerous. So far, the only thing it allowed him to do was see the colors people had around them.

  He decided to call them auras.

  His own aura was harder to read. Mostly white, thin and pale, layered faintly behind a deep, unstable blue—wisdom and patience struggling to exist inside a body that could barely contain mana at all.

  There was something else, too.

  A thin black outline clung close to every child in the wing, including himself.

  None of the adults had it.

  Their main caretaker was a woman named Maribel.

  She was not a mage, nor a noble—just a palace attendant with tired eyes and steady hands. Her aura was green, soft and warm, the kind that wrapped rather than pushed.

  She braided hair, wiped tears, sang softly when nightmares took hold, and sat beside beds during the long nights when breathing became difficult. When children died, she stayed until the end, even when she was told she didn’t have to.

  “You’re still here,” she told Itsuki once, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. “That means today matters.”

  A guard often accompanied her.

  His name was Ser Caldus.

  He was young, barely old enough to grow a proper beard, and clearly out of place guarding a wing full of children. His aura burned orange, but gently—protective rather than warlike. When he wasn’t on duty, he carved small wooden animals and left them on the tables as gifts.

  Itsuki trusted him.

  *****

  The empress visited weekly.

  She wore no crown in the Otherworlder Wing. The only sign of her status was the way servants bowed without thinking, and the way the room seemed to steady when she entered.

  Her aura was green, deep and unwavering, layered faintly with white.

  She knelt to speak with the children at eye level, held their hands when they shook, and never flinched when mana reacted to her touch.

  The first time she hugged Itsuki, he broke.

  “You’re hurting,” she said in broken Japanese, arms warm and solid around him.

  He nodded, tears soaking into her sleeve.

  After that, she personally adjusted the wards.

  She often brought the first prince and princess with her.

  They sat on the floor and played like ordinary children, chasing carved animals across rugs and laughing when Mio made up games with rules that changed halfway through. For a little while, the wing felt almost normal.

  Itsuki liked those days best.

  *****

  Aislin arrived a month after the children.

  Tall, armored, she had long blond hair and bright blue eyes, always carrying herself like a warrior, she stood out even among otherworlders.

  She had been summoned to be a hero.

  Unlike the children, Aislin possessed divine protections. She spoke the world’s language fluently, resisted mana naturally, and wielded power that unsettled the castle’s mages.

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  But she refused to stay away.

  She came to the wing whenever she could, teaching the children the common tongue with patient repetition, gestures, and smiles. She knelt to speak at eye level and never raised her voice.

  Her aura burned gold, layered over red—conviction and resolve sharpened by the willingness to bleed for others.

  Itsuki adored her.

  Not because she was strong.

  But because she chose them.

  *****

  The day Selene collapsed, the wing fell silent.

  It was the first death of one of the otherworlder children since he had arrived. He had been told about the possibility, seen others collapse and had himself a few times, but many times they woke up, just in pain or really tired.

  Selene's eyes continued to stay shut, her body unmoving except for ragged breathing. One day went by, then another, then a third. Maribel tried to prevent us from seeing her, but we all knew she wasn't well. Itsuki watched as her once vibrant pink aura faded by the day. One night after all had fallen asleep, he snuck into her room, Maribel asleep by her side.

  When his eyes landed on her almost unmoving form, he found only a slight trace of her former aura around her, and screamed when he grabbed her cold hand on his own. For the first time in days she opened her eyes, she smiled at him as she tried to talk and was interrupted by her body seizing as she coughed up blood. Her eyes closed once more, as Itsuki shook her, trying to keep her awake.

  Itsuki watched, and froze, as Selene’s pink aura flickered… and faded.

  Maribel's tears mixed with the boy she held in her arms as he refused to let go of Selene's hand.

  They buried her beneath her favorite tree in the garden.

  Aislin stood rigid, her golden aura fractured with grief. Maribel wept openly. Ser Caldus removed his helmet, trying to hide his tears behind a brave face for the children around him.

  The empress held the prince and princess as they cried for a friend they had played with only days before.

  That night, Itsuki sat alone by the window, staring at mana drifting harmlessly through the air beyond the wards.

  For the first time, he didn’t pull away.

  Far beyond the capital, something ancient stirred—its aura vast, suffocating, and wrapped in black.

  Itsuki looked up.

  And somehow, impossibly, he understood.

  I know that pain.

  4 Years later

  The invitation arrived three days early.

  Maribel turned it over in her hands as though it might vanish if she blinked too hard, fingertips tracing the deep emboss of the royal seal. The thick cream paper felt heavier than it should have, important in a way even the children clustered around her could sense.

  “A banquet,” she said at last, lips curving into a fond smile. “In the Grand Hall. To welcome Lady Aislin back from her mission.”

  For a heartbeat, the Otherworlder Wing was silent.

  Then everything happened at once.

  Mio let out a delighted gasp and clutched her hands to her chest. Bran straightened as if he’d just been knighted on the spot. Harlan’s eyes went wide, already shining with a dozen imagined stories.

  “A real banquet?” Mio asked. “With music and desserts?”

  “And Aislin?” Bran added quickly. “She’ll really be there, right?”

  “She will,” Maribel said, nodding. “Properly and officially. Which means clean clothes, combed hair, and”—her gaze slid pointedly to Bran—“exemplary behavior.”

  Bran scoffed. “I always behave.”

  From his post near the doorway, Ser Caldus cleared his throat.

  “That is a bold claim,” he said dryly.

  Harlan snickered. “You’re just grumpy because tomorrow we get to call the empress Auntie again.”

  “No,” Caldus replied at once, turning serious. “Tomorrow, you will not.”

  Groans rose instantly.

  “But she lets us!” Mio protested.

  “She does when she visits here,” Maribel said gently. “Tomorrow is a formal occasion. You’ll address her properly, speak in the common tongue, and remember your etiquette lessons.”

  Bran stuck out his tongue. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Maribel said seriously, “but I’m confident it was meant as an insult.”

  “And if it continues,” Caldus added calmly, “I will suspend your swordsmanship lessons.”

  Bran froze.

  “That’s unfair.”

  “You know the rules.”

  Harlan leaned over, grinning wickedly. “You just want more time to be all lovey-dovey with Miss Maribel.”

  For a rare moment, both adults faltered, color creeping into their cheeks.

  The room dissolved into laughter.

  Itsuki laughed too, though he had to breathe carefully as he did. Excitement stirred something deep in his chest—mana responding to emotion the way it always did. He focused on Maribel’s steady presence, grounding himself before the pressure could sharpen into pain.

  Aislin was coming back.

  *****

  The wing buzzed for the rest of the day.

  Attendants brought out garments reserved for festivals and celebrations, soft fabrics dyed in gentle hues and tailored with careful precision. Nothing scratched. Nothing pinched. Every detail spoke of consideration.

  Maribel helped Itsuki into a pale blue tunic, silver thread embroidered so finely it shimmered only when the light caught it just right.

  “You look very handsome,” she said, adjusting the collar.

  Itsuki ducked his head, warmth blooming in his cheeks.

  Nearby, Mio spun in her dress until Caldus gently caught her by the shoulders before she toppled over. Bran studied his reflection with intense concentration, while Harlan smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his sleeves.

  It had been nearly seven months since Aislin had left.

  Tonight, they would see her again.

  *****

  The walk to the Grand Hall felt like stepping into another world.

  The corridors widened, ceilings rising high above them as stained-glass windows cast colored light across polished stone. Scenes of victories and legends, Itsuki didn’t recognize watched from the walls. With every step, mana thickened in the air, prickling against his skin and making his head swim.

  Maribel stayed close.

  Ser Caldus walked ahead, posture relaxed but alert, one hand never far from his sword.

  When the doors opened, sound washed over them.

  Music. Laughter. The clink of cutlery. Warm light reflecting off gold and marble.

  At the far end of the hall stood the royal family.

  The empress wore deep green robes threaded with silver like veins of moonlight, her presence radiating calm. Her aura settled the room without effort. Beside her stood the emperor, stern and composed, and between them the prince and princess, barely containing their excitement.

  “You made it!” the princess whispered loudly when she spotted them.

  The prince waved enthusiastically.

  Itsuki smiled before he could stop himself.

  They had barely taken their seats when the herald announced Aislin’s arrival.

  She entered the hall immaculate.

  Her armor gleamed, polished to a mirror sheen, ceremonial filigree catching the light along every edge. Blond hair was braided neatly down her back, not a single strand out of place. She looked every inch the hero returned from duty fulfilled.

  Applause surged.

  Aislin’s eyes found the children instantly, her expression softening as she crossed the hall. She bowed to the empress, then knelt before them.

  “I’m back,” she said warmly. “Did you behave?”

  Mio launched into a breathless explanation.

  Itsuki watched Aislin’s aura—gold layered over red—steady and bright. Whole.

  For the first time that night, the tightness in his chest eased.

  The empress raised her glass.

  “To Lady Aislin,” she declared. “And to the future we continue to protect.”

  Cheers rang out.

  Then the world broke.

  *****

  The roar was not sound so much as force.

  Mana surged violently, crushing the air as chandeliers shattered and stone cracked apart. The floor lurched. Screams tore through the hall.

  “Dragon!” someone shouted. “Ancient—!”

  “Evacuate!” the empress commanded without hesitation. “West corridors! Move!”

  The emperor swept the prince and princess into his arms. Guards formed ranks instantly.

  Aislin was already moving.

  Golden light flared as she raised her blade, a barrier blooming outward to shield the fleeing nobles. She positioned herself at the rear, eyes sharp, stance unwavering.

  “I’ll hold it,” she said. “Go.”

  Smoke poured through the corridors as they ran. Heat followed, the castle groaning like a wounded beast.

  Then the ceiling vanished.

  Itsuki looked up—and felt something inside him go cold.

  The dragon filled the sky.

  Its body eclipsed the sun, wings stretching wider than the castle itself. Scales like molten gold veined with shadow rippled as it moved, towers crumbling beneath each careless shift.

  Aislin struck.

  Her magic roared to life, brilliant arcs of power slamming into the dragon’s hide. Each attack could have leveled battalions.

  They did nothing.

  The dragon did not even flinch.

  Attack after attack followed—steel, spell, will—until Aislin’s breath came hard and her aura flickered under the strain.

  “So this is an ancient dragon…” someone whispered.

  Panic shattered the spell of awe.

  A tail swept through the air.

  Aislin was struck aside like a doll.

  Itsuki screamed her name as debris rained down and the corridor exploded. The force lifted him from the ground, flinging him into darkness as stone and fire swallowed everything.

  *****

  He woke in silence.

  Pain throbbed through him as mana flooded his body unchecked, burning and freezing all at once.

  “Maribel?”

  No answer.

  “Caldus?”

  Nothing.

  Then he saw it.

  The dragon’s aura—vast beyond comprehension. Golden at its core.

  And bound in suffocating black.

  Rage. Pain. Loss.

  The dragon wasn’t choosing this. It was suffering like him. He wanted to take the pain away from everything. Strangely, he wanted to help the dragon.

  “Stop,” Itsuki whispered.

  The world folded inward.

  *****

  He stood within the dragon’s mind.

  A storm without horizon. Instinct tearing itself apart. Black mana wrapped around the dragon’s core like chains.

  A pact, the ancient voice thundered. A bond of burden shared.

  Itsuki swallowed, heart pounding.

  “I can take it,” he said. “The black part. I can absorb it. You’re hurting yourself—and everyone else.”

  Silence.

  You will break.

  “Maybe,” Itsuki said. “But if I don’t, everyone dies.”

  Agreement came like a collapsing star.

  Mana surged, focused and terrible. The black burden tore free and flooded into Itsuki’s body.

  He screamed.

  The pact was sealed.

  *****

  In the ruined capital, the dragon reared its head—and fled.

  Itsuki collapsed beneath the shattered sky, unconscious but alive.