The path went deeper into the peach blossom grove, the trees was growing thicker and more ancient as they walked. The petals fell like pink snowflakes, drifting lazily through the air to blanket the ground in a soft, fragrant carpet.
Eiravelle’s soft pink hair that caught the morning light, seemed to blend with the swirling blossoms, as though she were part of the grove itself.
"Master, where are you taking me?" Eiravelle asked, her voice was carrying a note of confusion. She had followed Ragnar without question, as she always did, but the path they were taking was unfamiliar.
The grove seemed to stretch on endlessly, each turn was revealing more trees, more blossoms, more of that soft, ethereal beauty that made the valley feel like a dream.
Ragnar did not stop his saunter, his robes are trailing behind him like a river of pale blue. "I want you to learn how to reflect, Eiravelle. Your heart is clearly full of doubt, and I sense you have been living with a lot of expectations since from the start. They weigh on you like chains, child, and you have carried them for so long that you have forgotten what it feels like to be free."
The frown on Eiravelle’s face deepened, her brow furrowed with confusion and a flicker of old pain showed. She continued to saunter beside Ragnar, her steps are matching his pace, her fingers tightening around the jar of wine she still carrying. She had not expected this, had not come here to be confronted with her own inadequacies.
"Since you were just six years old," Ragnar continued, his voice carried the weight of ancient memory, "I saw a vision. I saw you, Eiravelle, standing at the center of a great gathering. Immortals and Gods surrounded you, their heads bowed in reverence. They came to you, they hovered over you, they worshipped you. You were the one they were honoring."
He paused, his gaze landed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "I knew, from the start, that you would be greater than what you are right now, Eiravelle. That vision has never wavered, never dimmed. It is as clear to me today as it was all those years ago."
Eiravelle’s expression did not shift with surprise or wonder. Instead, her face grew more troubled, her eyes are clouding with the familiar weight of inadequacy that had followed her since childhood. The vision Ragnar described did not inspire hope in her—it only added to her worries, another expectation she could never hope to fulfill.
"I will never be good, Master," Eiravelle replied, her voice was flat and resigned. It was a statement of fact, as she saw it. The words were not spoken with self-pity but with a weary acceptance that had become part of her very being.
Ragnar halted his step and turned around to fully look at her. His expression was grave, his ancient eyes are searching her face with a depth of understanding that made her feel exposed and vulnerable.
"No, Eiravelle," he said, his voice was firm but gentle. "I believe you will be much greater than you are now. You just have to trust yourself because no one will do it for you. The path to greatness is walked alone, child, even when others stand beside you."
He averted his gaze, looking out over the sea of peach blossoms that surrounded them. "The moment I saw you back at the academy when you were just nine years old, I was very happy. You finally chose to take the first step. That was not an easy decision, and you made it despite all the voices that told you to stay small, to stay hidden."
He paused, his voice softened with a note of regret. "For being great comes with a greater sacrifice. That is a truth that many never learn until it is too late."
Eiravelle sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of all her disappointments. "Master, why do you believe that I will become a great mage and have my powers out? Can you not see that no matter how I get into the top academic performer students, I will never be a good mage since I have no supernatural powers?"
The words hung in the air between them, raw and honest. Eiravelle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her hands trembled slightly around the jar of wine. The truth of her words was a wound that had never fully healed, a scar that she carried with her every day.
She had been a top student at the academy, had memorized every text, mastered every theory, excelled in every academic challenge. But none of that had mattered in the end.
The other students had magic, power, abilities that she could never hope to match. They could channel the elements, summon spirits, heal the wounded with a touch. She could only recite facts and solve problems.
In the eyes of the magical world, she was nothing.
Ragnar sighed and looked away, his gaze was unfocused. He seemed to be wrestling with something, some decision or revelation that he was not yet ready to share.
"Do you know why this manor stands here?" He asked suddenly, his voice was carrying a note of mystery. "And why do they call it the Manor in the Clouds?"
Eiravelle’s brows furrowed in confusion. "Huh?"
The question had come out of nowhere, a non sequitur that made no sense in the context of their conversation. She stared at Ragnar, waiting for an explanation.
"It is because before I became someone who I am today, I was also a lower immortal," Ragnar said, his voice was taking on a distant quality, as though he was speaking of memories from another life.
"A beggar on the streets of the Solkanaia divine realm. I had nothing, child. No power, no status, no hope. I slept in alleyways and begged for scraps, and the world looked at me as though I were nothing more than refuse." He paused, his eyes growing distant.
"And I said, I will build a manor in the clouds. At first, it was a metaphor, a way to express my impossible dream. A way to tell myself that one day, I would rise above the mire of my existence and become something worthy." He gestured at the manor behind them, its pale stones were glowing softly in the morning light. "And I did."
Eiravelle’s frown deepened. "I never knew that is what truly happened, Master. You have always seemed so... Untouchable. Like you were born to be here."
Ragnar smiled gently, a hint of sadness in his expression. "No one is born to greatness, child. They become great through struggle, through sacrifice, through refusing to give up even when the world tells them they are not worthy."
"But you cannot just tell me that and hope I will become something like you one day," Eiravelle said, her voice had a note of frustration. "You are an immortal who has lived for half a million years. You have had time to grow, to learn, to fail and try again. I am just... I am just an omega with no magic, no power, no future. I have spent my entire life trying to be something I am not, and I am tired, Master. I am so tired."
Ragnar studied her for a long moment, his expression became unreadable. He seemed to be weighing her words, considering something, and then he simply nodded.
"I understand," he said softly. His hands moved, and a basket of magical peaches materialized in the air before him. The peaches glowed with a soft golden light, their surfaces shimmered with the unmistakable aura of powerful magic.
He gently handed the basket to Eiravelle and his movements was careful and deliberate.
"But I hope you do not forever think like this about yourself, child," he continued, his voice was a gentle plea. "When you are ready, tell me. I will be waiting. Not as a master, not as a teacher, but as someone who believes in you."
Eiravelle accepted the basket, her hands trembled slightly as she took it. The peaches were warm, pulsing with a gentle heat that seemed to spread through her fingers and up her arms.
"I am not even sure if I still want to go back to the academy," she admitted, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Every time I stay there, I am just making myself the laughingstock of everyone. The other students mock me, the teachers pity me, and I cannot even defend myself because I have no power to fight back."
She looked down at the basket of peaches in her hands, her vision was blurry with unshed tears. "I thought if I worked hard enough, studied hard enough, proved myself smart enough, they would see me. They would see that I am more than just an omega with no magic. But it does not matter how smart I am. It does not matter how many texts I memorize or how many theories I master. In the end, I am still nothing."
She held out the jar of wine to Ragnar, her movements were mechanical, as though she was going through the motions of a ritual she had performed countless times before.
"Thank you, Master Ragnar, for the peaches," she said, her voice sounded hollow.
Slowly, she turned her back and began to walk away, her steps are heavy with the weight of her own doubts. The peach blossoms continued to fall around her, their petals drifted like pink tears, and she looked small and fragile against the backdrop of the ancient grove.
Ragnar watched her go, his expression was troubled. He understood why Eiravelle acted this way, understood the pain that drove her self-deprecation. In the academy, she had never been able to find a proper place for herself.
Without magic or any special abilities, even being a top student was meaningless in the eyes of those who had powers she could never possess.
The other students could conjure fire and summon lightning. They could heal wounds with a touch and command the elements to do their bidding. They were special, chosen, blessed by the Gods themselves.
And Eiravelle was just... Eiravelle.
Ragnar sighed, his ancient heart was heavy with the weight of his own helplessness. He had tried to reach her, tried to show her that she was more than what she believed. But the wounds of a lifetime could not be healed in a single conversation.
He watched as Eiravelle disappeared into the mist, her pink cloak blended with the blossoms until she was nothing more than a shadow in the fog.
"One day, child," he murmured to himself, his voice carried the weight of five hundred thousand years of wisdom. "One day, you will see yourself as I see you. And on that day, you will rise."
The peach blossoms continued to fall around him, their petals drifted on the gentle breeze. Ragnar stood alone in the grove, clutching the jar of wine that Eiravelle had given him, and waited.
He had waited half a million years for many things. He could wait a little longer for this.
Eiravelle made her way down the mountain, her steps are slow and deliberate. The basket of peaches was heavy in her arms, a tangible reminder of Master Ragnar’s kindness, his belief in her, and his refusal to give up on her even when she had given up on herself.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, where the enchanted carriage was already waiting, its silver frame shimmered in the afternoon light. She climbed inside, setting the basket of peaches on the seat beside her, and leaned her head back against the plush cushions.
The carriage began to rise, lifting into the air and carrying her away from the Peach Blossom Valley. Through the window, she watched the manor shrink into the distance, its pale stones glowed like a beacon against the mist.
She thought of Master Ragnar’s words, his vision of her as a great being worshipped by immortals and Gods. She thought of his story, his rise from beggar to immortality, his impossible dream made manifest.
And she thought of herself, of all the ways she had failed to live up to expectations, all the ways she had disappointed those who believed in her. She was not like Master Ragnar. She was not like her sister Arielle. She was not like anyone.
She was just Eiravelle, the plague, the disgrace, the omega who could not even conjure a spark of magic. But as the carriage carried her toward the Arthion manor, she clutched the basket of peaches a little tighter, feeling the warmth of their magic seep into her skin.
And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to wonder if perhaps, Master Ragnar was right.
Perhaps she was more than what she believed. Perhaps, one day, she would find the strength to be who she was meant to be.
And Eiravelle, despite everything, allowed herself to hope.