The knock echoed softly against the wooden door.
For a breath, nothing moved.
Then—
A faint scrape of chair legs against stone.
Measured footsteps approached from within.
Kel stood motionless before the door, posture straight yet relaxed. Reina stood half a step behind him, her silver eyes calm, observant, assessing even through solid wood.
The latch clicked.
The door opened inward.
And there he stood.
Not a towering archmage.
Not a battle-scarred elder wrapped in layered robes.
But a boy.
Seventeen. Perhaps eighteen at most.
He was slightly taller than Kel but carried the unfinished edges of youth—shoulders not yet fully broadened, jawline still sharp rather than heavy. His hair was dark chestnut, falling loosely over his forehead as though cut without care for symmetry. His robe—deep indigo trimmed with silver thread—was elegant in design yet wrinkled at the sleeves and collar.
Ink stains marked the cuffs.
A faint smudge crossed one side of his jaw, as if he had brushed his face absentmindedly while thinking.
His eyes, however—
His eyes were not young.
They were deep amber, steady, sharp, and quietly burdened.
"Yes?" he asked.
His voice was calm, neither commanding nor timid. Simply direct.
"Who are you?"
Kel inclined his head slightly.
"My name is Heral."
He gestured subtly toward Reina.
"She is my assistant."
Reina bowed her head minimally, composed.
"We waited at the receptionist desk," Kel continued evenly, "but no one was there. We asked a mage about it. He informed us the position is currently vacant."
A faint flicker crossed the boy's expression.
Kel's gaze did not waver.
"So we came directly to meet you here, Tower Master."
There was no sarcasm in the title.
No mockery.
Just acknowledgement.
The boy blinked once.
Then exhaled softly.
"Oh…"
His hand moved reflexively to the back of his neck, fingers brushing against his hair in a gesture almost sheepish.
"I am sorry you had to wait."
His shoulders lowered slightly.
"We currently have very few employees working at the tower."
His lips pressed thin for a moment.
"And because no one has brought a proposal for the past three years…"
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his face.
"We did not bother hiring a receptionist."
He paused.
Then suddenly blinked again, as if realizing something.
"Oh."
He stepped aside abruptly.
"What am I doing? I am asking you questions at the doorway."
He moved fully out of the frame.
"Please, come in. We can speak properly inside."
Kel exchanged a brief glance with Reina.
Then stepped forward.
The office was large.
But cluttered.
Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows behind the desk, illuminating motes of dust suspended in air. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves stacked unevenly with tomes—some upright, others piled horizontally in precarious arrangements.
Scrolls lay scattered across the floor near the desk.
Stacks of parchment covered nearly every flat surface.
The desk itself—massive, carved from dark wood—was buried under documents, diagrams, half-open books, and ink-stained drafts. Several wax seals lay broken beside rolled scrolls that had clearly been opened and reopened multiple times.
This was not negligence.
It was overwork.
Reina stepped inside silently, her eyes sweeping across the room in a single glance.
No hidden guards.
No concealed attendants.
No luxury furnishings.
Only books.
Notes.
Research.
And responsibility.
Arna closed the door behind them and moved quickly toward his desk, brushing aside a stack of parchment to clear minimal space.
"Please, sit," he said, gesturing toward a small seating arrangement opposite the desk—a dark leather sofa and two chairs positioned around a low table.
Kel walked toward it without hesitation.
Reina followed.
As they sat, Arna moved behind his desk and sank into his chair. The movement was not lazy—it was heavy. Like someone who had been awake far longer than intended.
Up close, the faint shadows beneath his eyes became clearer.
Not exhaustion from sleep deprivation alone.
But from constant thinking.
Constant pressure.
He folded his hands lightly atop a cleared section of the desk.
"Forgive me for not introducing myself properly."
His posture straightened slightly.
"My name is Arna Marlet."
His gaze met Kel's directly.
"And I am the Tower Master of the Twin Magic Tower."
There was no arrogance in the declaration.
No attempt to inflate his presence.
Only a simple statement of fact.
Kel observed him quietly.
His aura.
Steady.
Deep.
Controlled.
Despite his youth, his mana density was impressive—condensed tightly within his core, disciplined rather than scattered.
Reina sensed it as well.
She shifted subtly but did not speak.
Arna leaned forward slightly.
"You mentioned a proposal?"
"Yes," Kel replied calmly.
"I am an alchemist."
Arna's brows lifted faintly.
"And you wish to?"
"Offer a potion formula."
Arna's fingers tightened slightly on the desk's edge.
"In exchange for?"
"A royalty percentage on its sales."
Silence lingered briefly between them.
Arna studied Kel carefully now—not dismissively, but analytically.
"You are young," he observed.
"Yes."
"And yet you approach directly with a contract proposal."
"Yes."
Arna's gaze flicked briefly toward Reina, then back to Kel.
"You understand that the Twin Magic Tower is not currently operating at full capacity."
"Yes."
His tone did not shift.
Arna's lips curved faintly.
"Word travels quickly, it seems."
Kel did not respond to that.
Arna leaned back in his chair slightly, one hand reaching absently to push aside a stack of papers.
"May I ask," he said slowly, "why you came here?"
Kel held his gaze evenly.
"Because this tower still stands."
Arna blinked once.
"Many institutions stand," he replied carefully.
"Yes," Kel said. "But few still hold their integrity."
The air shifted subtly.
Reina noticed it.
Arna's expression did not change dramatically.
But something in his eyes sharpened.
"You speak as though you know us."
"I know enough."
Silence settled again.
Arna glanced down briefly at the papers on his desk.
Some bore rejection stamps.
Others were letters half-written and never sent.
"Three years," he murmured faintly, almost to himself.
Then he looked up again.
"You said royalty."
"Yes."
"Not upfront payment."
"No."
"Which means you are confident in the formula."
"Yes."
Arna's gaze deepened.
"Why offer it here?"
Kel did not hesitate.
"Because this tower needs output."
Reina felt the weight of the statement.
Arna did not flinch.
He did not deny it.
He simply asked—
"And you believe we can provide that?"
"Yes."
A faint exhale left Arna's lips.
He leaned back again, folding his arms lightly.
"For three years," he said quietly, "most proposals have been attempts to buy influence."
His eyes flickered faintly.
"Or to test whether we would accept unfavorable terms."
Kel remained silent.
"You are the first in some time," Arna continued, "to ask for royalty instead of acquisition."
Kel's voice remained steady.
"Ownership limits growth."
Arna's gaze held his.
"You speak like someone who understands institutions."
Kel did not smile.
"I understand decline."
The words were simple.
But heavy.
Reina watched Arna carefully.
For a fraction of a second—
The mask of composed Tower Master slipped.
Only slightly.
Just enough to reveal something raw beneath it.
Burden.
Frustration.
Resolve.
Arna straightened again.
"If you are serious," he said calmly, "then I will hear your proposal."
His fingers brushed absently against a stack of scattered parchments before pushing them aside entirely, clearing the desk more deliberately this time.
The gesture was subtle—
But symbolic.
He was making space.
For possibility.
Kel leaned forward slightly.
The spiral within his spine rotated quietly, unseen.
Balanced.
Prepared.
Across from him sat the boy who would one day rival the greatest mage in the Empire.
But today—
He was simply Arna Marlet.
Seventeen.
Burdened.
Determined.
And still standing at the summit of a tower that refused to fall.
Kel met his gaze evenly.
"Then let us begin," he said softly.