Mind Over Magic

The knock came just after noon—three short taps, one long. Clean. Rhythmic. The kind used by trained messengers who didn’t want to startle anyone, but weren’t afraid of being heard.

Alaric didn’t move right away. He’d been staring at the sealed book for the better part of an hour, waiting for it to open again. It hadn’t. The clasp eye stayed closed now, like it was sleeping—or watching without blinking.

He finally stood and walked to the door. When he opened it, he found a girl no older than twenty standing in the entryway. She wore silver-trimmed blue, the quiet uniform of the Church’s outer agents—polite, clean, not yet the type who carried swords.

"Seraphine Veyron," she said without looking at him. "You’re requested for a containment evaluation by the Chaplaincy’s Resonance Department."

Alaric narrowed his eyes. "She’s not a mage."

"That’s not the concern."

"Then explain."

The girl hesitated. "Her proximity to the... incident at the manor may have left residual traces of unstable thought-energy."

Seraphine stepped out of the study behind him, brow raised. "You think I caught something?"

"It’s just a check," the girl said quickly. "Nothing invasive."

Alaric crossed his arms. "Where’s the royal seal?"

"We were told this is a soft request. Voluntary."

"Voluntary but urgent. Of course it is."

The girl looked uncomfortable now, but kept her voice level. "If refused, the Chaplaincy may escalate it to a formal summons."

Seraphine rolled her eyes. "If they’re this polite, they’re hiding something."

"You’re not going," Alaric said.

"Yes, I am," she said. "Because I want to see what they’re so afraid of."

He turned to her slowly. "You know it’s bait."

"Obviously," she said, already tying her hair back. "But if I refuse, they’ll just start knocking louder."

The messenger blinked. "So... you’re coming?"

"Sure," Seraphine said, brushing past her. "But you tell your handlers something for me, alright?"

"What is it?"

"If they touch me without asking first, I’ll consider it an invitation to rearrange their internal organs."

---

Alaric didn’t follow them down the street. He didn’t have to.

He already had a thread.

Mind Trace—a gentle, passive stream of emotional signature. He tuned into Seraphine’s unique mental scent: a mix of guarded sharpness and restless focus, like someone who never stopped preparing for things no one else noticed. freewebnσvel.cøm

He tracked them from a distance, through alleys, rooftops, narrow lanes that normal guards didn’t even bother to patrol.

They weren’t heading for the main cathedral.

They weren’t going to a Church wing of the Academy.

They were heading underground.

---

The girl led Seraphine to an old guardhouse with no signage, unlocked a back panel, and lifted a trapdoor sealed with iron latches. She gestured calmly, almost too calmly.

"This way, please."

Seraphine stared down the steps, frowned, and said nothing as she followed.

---

Alaric reached the site three minutes later. The back door had already been sealed. No chalk marks. No noise. Just... gone.

He placed one hand on the wall.

Closed his eyes.

Veil Pierce—to feel what magic couldn’t see.

Behind the wall, far below:

Voices. Slow. Controlled.

> "Her exposure was direct."

> "How close was she to the origin point?"

> "She was chained within six feet of the sealed object. Her mind may still be entangled."

> "Prepare the divider spell. If it’s bonded to her—we cut."

> "And if she doesn’t survive?"

> "Then we burn the contamination."

Alaric opened his eyes.

The stone around the doorway cracked in his grip.

---

Underground, Seraphine stood still in a narrow chamber. The room looked like a clinic—walls bare, torches dim, chairs bolted to the floor.

Two white-robed attendants moved slowly around her, laying out instruments that didn’t look magical. Not wands. Not scrolls.

More like metal rods shaped to channel memory.

She glanced around the room and smiled without humor.

"No windows?"

"Unnecessary," one of them muttered.

The girl from earlier had vanished.

Of course she had.

Seraphine turned to the nearest robed man.

"You’re not here to check my pulse, are you?"

"We’re here to confirm your status," he said.

"My status as what?"

He didn’t answer.

Just turned toward the table and reached for one of the rods.

Seraphine moved first.

One twist of her arm and a dagger slid from her sleeve into her palm. The chair between them flipped with a single kick. The second robed figure stepped back fast, startled.

"You touch my head without asking," she said calmly, "I start slicing."

---

Above, Alaric didn’t wait any longer.

He stepped back from the door.

Cracked his neck once.

Then punched through the wall.

Stone shattered inward.

Dust and light exploded down the stairwell.

And his voice echoed through the hidden hall like thunder.

> "If any of you touch her—"

"I tear this place down."

The ceiling groaned. Dust rained from the old stone joints. And then came the second crash—louder, sharper.

Alaric landed inside the chamber.

The wall behind him still crumbled from the force of his entry. Smoke and crushed stone filled the air, but his presence hit harder than the damage.

The two robed figures froze mid-step.

Seraphine didn’t even flinch. She looked at him like he was late.

"I almost stabbed someone," she said.

"You still might," Alaric replied.

The first robed figure recovered quickly. "You have no jurisdiction here."

Alaric stepped closer, slow and quiet, like a rope tightening.

"You invited my sister into a sealed room without royal clearance. You locked her below the estate without a recorded scribe. And you thought you’d test her with mental tools you don’t even understand."

"We were ordered—"

"Then your orders are garbage."

"She may have been exposed to forbidden mind-echoes—"

"She’s fine."

Seraphine stepped beside him. "Tired. Irritated. But not cursed. Trust me—I checked."

The other figure finally found his voice. "We’re under Chaplaincy protocol. You can’t just walk in and—"

Vector Grip.

Alaric’s hand twitched. A chair flew sideways and pinned the man against the wall with a loud bang.

"I can do more than walk in," he said flatly. "I can end this room."

The man gasped under the pressure but didn’t move. The other priest stepped back, hands raised.

"You don’t understand," he said. "She’s not the danger. She’s the mirror."

Seraphine raised a brow. "Mirror?"

The man swallowed. "Psychic contamination doesn’t spread like a spell. It reflects. She was too close to the artifact. That kind of exposure can leave behind... patterns."

Alaric’s eyes narrowed. "You mean memories."

"No," the priest said. "Worse. Imprints. Subconscious pathways. If she’s been marked, then every time you use your power near her, she might mirror it back."

Seraphine looked between them. "You’re saying I could copy him?"

The priest nodded slowly.

"Not control. But repeat. Echo. Like an imprint built into a blank page."

---

Alaric lowered the pinned priest, letting the chair clatter to the ground.

Then he looked at Seraphine.

She met his gaze.

"I don’t feel different," she said.

"Doesn’t matter."

"Why?"

"Because they’re not afraid you’ll copy me," Alaric said. "They’re afraid you’ll trigger me."

---

There was silence.

Even the fire in the wall torches seemed to shrink a little.

Alaric turned back to the second priest.

"Why her?"

"She was inside the room," the man said. "Before you arrived. Before the book closed again."

"She didn’t touch anything."

"She didn’t have to," he said. "It saw her."

---

Seraphine frowned. "So what—you think I’m carrying part of it now?"

"No," the priest said. "We think it is carrying part of you."

---

A long pause.

Then Alaric muttered, "This is getting worse."

Seraphine sighed. "At least it’s consistent."

---

Alaric looked around the chamber once more.

Rods.

Instruments.

No protection spells.

No guards.

Just scientists dressed as priests.

"You weren’t going to hurt her," he said slowly. "Not physically."

The man nodded. "We were going to record reaction patterns. Stimulate emotional feedback. Log the results."

"Because you think she’s connected to whatever was in that rift."

"We know she is."

"And you think it’s still watching through her."

---

The torches flickered again.

Alaric clenched his jaw.

"I want every record of this session erased."

"I don’t have the authority—"

"You do now."

The man backed away.

"Tell the Chaplaincy," Alaric added, "if they try this again without royal sanction, I’ll make their cathedrals echo with my kind of resonance."

---

He turned to Seraphine.

"Let’s go."

She didn’t move right away.

"Do you believe them?"

"No."

"But?"

He met her eyes.

"I believe the book does."

---

They walked out without another word.

No one stopped them.

No one followed.

But as the broken wall closed behind them and the torchlight dimmed, the first priest picked up his writing slate with trembling hands.

He scribbled one final note:

> The girl didn’t reflect his power. She reflected his presence.

> And it looked back.

They didn’t speak for a while after leaving the underground hall.

Alaric walked ahead, cloak moving with every step, eyes fixed straight ahead. Seraphine trailed behind, her hands in her coat pockets, jaw tight. The street was empty. The shadows of the Cathedral’s tall spires stretched over the cobbled road like fingers trying to pull them back.

Finally, Seraphine said, "How long have you known?"

"Known what?"

"That I’m more than just your sister now."

Alaric didn’t stop walking. "I didn’t know. I just guessed. Still am."

She caught up to him. "But you believed it enough to storm a Church chamber."

"I would’ve done that either way."

Her voice softened. "You’re not afraid of what I might be?"

"No."

"Why?"

He glanced at her.

"Because I know what kind of person you already are."

That shut her up—for a moment.

Then she asked, "Do you think they’re right? About me reflecting you?"

Alaric shrugged. "Maybe."

"I don’t feel anything strange."

"Not yet."

"Should I?"

"You’ll know when it happens."

---

They reached the manor just as the last orange light of day disappeared behind the rooftops.

Kaelion was waiting outside the gates, arms folded, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes narrowed as they approached.

"Trouble?" he asked.

Alaric didn’t answer.

Seraphine said, "Nothing we didn’t expect."

Kaelion watched her a moment longer, then nodded.

"Your friend in the cathedral’s library passed along a message. Old archive record. Someone pulled a text from the sealed vault this morning. It was logged under a dead name."

"Whose name?" Alaric asked.

Kaelion handed him a small folded paper. Inside, just one word:

Veyron.

No first name. No initial.

Just the family.

"I’m starting to get tired of surprises," Alaric muttered.

Kaelion cracked a faint smile. "Then you’re in the wrong story."

---

Later that night, Seraphine sat alone on the balcony outside her room, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.

She wasn’t thinking about the priests, or the warnings, or even the book.

She was thinking about the echo.

Because it had started.

Small things.

She could guess what Alaric was going to say before he said it. She reached for objects before realizing she knew where they were. And twice today, she’d heard a voice in the back of her mind—not hers.

It hadn’t said words.

Just pushed thoughts like whispers.

Unformed.

Incomplete.

But there.

---

She closed her eyes.

Let the silence settle.

And then, like a breeze brushing across her thoughts—

A whisper, clear and cold:

> Open the book.

Seraphine’s eyes flew open.

She stood.

She hadn’t touched the book since the rift.

Hadn’t even entered the study.

But her feet were already moving.

---

Down the stairs.

Through the hall.

The door creaked open.

The room was empty.

The book sat on the table.

Chained. Sealed. Silent.

But the eye on the clasp blinked.

Then the chain snapped open without a sound.

---

Alaric, still in his room, felt it the moment it happened.

The air changed.

The pull on his thoughts twisted.

Like someone knocking—inside his head.

He stood up fast.

Ran into the hall.

Too late.

Seraphine stood before the book.

Pages already turning.

And in her eyes—

A shimmer.

Not magic.

Not light.

But reflection.

---

"Seraphine!" he shouted.

She turned slowly.

And said, in a voice that was hers and not hers:

> "Crown Protocol... accepted."