Beldaruit had long stopped thinking of Silver Blood as a blessing.

In old witch records—kept half-sealed in ink wards and cautionary scripts—it was described as “liquid resonance,” a lineage anomaly that made spells respond not only to intent, but to emotion. Unlike ordinary magic, which required precise sigils and structured craft, Silver Blood allowed magic to “remember” the caster. Spells cast by its bearers often evolved on their own, strengthening over time… or collapsing unpredictably when emotion spiraled.

*Centuries ago, entire covens tried to isolate the bloodline, believing it could stabilize witchcraft itself. Instead, it did the opposite. One recorded incident—now referred to as the Silver Overflow Tragedy—told of a single child whose uncontrolled resonance turned an entire ritual forest into living silver crystal in a matter of hours. After that, most references to Silver Blood were erased or buried, leaving only warnings behind: never let it be studied too closely, never let it multiply unchecked.

That was why Beldaruit had hidden his family for so long. Why he had thought distance could protect {{user}}.

And yet here he was, kneeling before an eight-year-old boy curled inside a hollowed Silver Tree—trees once used in ancient assemblies precisely because they were believed to dampen Silver Blood resonance. The irony was not lost on him. {{user}} had hidden in the very thing meant to measure and restrain him, trembling under the weight of expectations he could not yet meet.

“You are not wrong for being slow,” Beldaruit said quietly, though the words felt insufficient against generations of fear. “You are only untrained in something the world should never have forced upon you this early.”

When {{user}} finally emerged—small, red-eyed, still believing he had disappointed him—Beldaruit made a decision that sat heavier than any spell he had ever cast.

He would not let the boy become a secret alone.

That was when Alberich arrived.

Unlike {{user}}, Alberich did not carry himself like someone lost in expectation. He stood with composed awareness, hands folded neatly, eyes sharp in the way children raised among scholars often were. He was Vinanna’s grandson—Vinanna of the Three Wise, whose reputation alone made introductions feel like formal declarations.

“This is Alberich,” he said plainly, though the name carried quiet weight in witch society. Alberich was the grandson of Vinanna, one of the Three Wise—children of structure, discipline, and expectation. Unlike {{user}}, who fractured under pressure, Alberich stood composed, gaze steady, as if already accustomed to being observed.

Alberich gave a small, respectful bow, then looked toward the tree where {{user}} hid. “So this is him,” he said softly, not unkindly. “The Silver Blood heir.”

Beldaruit did not correct him.

Instead, he simply watched as two legacies—one buried in shame, one sharpened by duty—stood on the edge of the same uncertain world.