It came one stubborn breath, one trembling line, one second chance at a time.
And tonight, that second chance led him into the garden.
The courtyard had always felt abandoned, like the rest of the estate—a cracked basin of stone and dead roots, forgotten by seasons and servants alike. But tucked near the far wall, past a low crumbling archway, life clung stubbornly to a shallow pond.
Small, but still breathing.
His mother knelt there now, hands deep in the soil beside a cluster of pale herbs. She wore no jewels, no fine silks—just a simple linen dress stained at the knees with dirt. A wide straw hat shielded her hair from the last threads of sunset.
Leonel crossed the stones quietly, boots brushing weeds.
She didn't look up when he stopped a few feet away.
For a moment, he just watched.
The way she worked—delicate, deliberate—like she believed something fragile could still be coaxed into surviving.
Not much different from what he was trying to do.
"Mother," he said, voice low.
Lady Varnhart lifted her head, brushed a strand of silver hair from her cheek. Her eyes were soft but sharp—steel wrapped in silk.
"Leonel," she answered, smiling faintly. "You're late for supper."
"I wasn't hungry."
She didn't press. Never did.
Instead, she rose slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth at her belt. The scent of mint and damp earth rose with her.
"You're not here about food," she said.
"No."
She studied him then, the same way she used to study injured birds brought home by servants—measuring whether the thing before her could still fly.
"I need a merchant," Leonel said. "Someone reliable."
Her smile thinned, not cruel but sad. "Your father will not help you."
"I'm not asking him."
Lady Varnhart tilted her head slightly. "And what are you selling?"
Leonel reached inside his coat. Produced the wrapped prototype like an offering.
He uncapped the pen with a twist of his fingers. Leaned down. Found a flat patch of stone dusted with moss.
In one swift, fluid motion, he drew.
A perfect, glowing mana circle unfurled across the surface—clean, sharp, alive. No sputtering. No bleeding edges. Just smooth, controlled light.
Lady Varnhart's hands stilled at her sides.
Her breath caught—but only once. Only for a heartbeat.
Then she nodded, slow and graceful, as if acknowledging a truth the world had forgotten.
"Vennor & Company," she said after a long pause. "In town. They used to buy enchanted goods from your uncle, before..." A slight gesture toward the manor. "Before our house became something people whispered about."
Leonel capped the pen carefully. "Will they deal with us now?"
"If you make it worth their while." Her voice was level. "Vennor cares for coin, not reputation."
He nodded once, crisp and certain.
No promises. No declarations.
Just action.
Lady Varnhart reached out, brushed dust from his sleeve—a mother's touch lingering over burns and grime—and then turned back to her herbs without another word.
Leonel left the garden as the stars blinked awake overhead.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
Morning tasted of iron and cold resolve.
Leonel hitched a rented cart himself—no guards, no banners. Thirty finished pens packed neatly into oiled cloth, each paired with a refill vial. A contract scroll, hand-drafted and double-checked, tucked inside his coat.
No fanfare.
Only necessity.
The road to town twisted through fallow fields and stubborn hedges, past crumbling mileposts that marked how far House Varnhart had fallen.
By the time he reached the outer gates, the city was already alive with noise—shouting vendors, creaking wagons, the clatter of hooves on stone.
Vennor & Company's office squatted on a side street near the trade district, its sign faded but legible. A pair of guards leaned against the wall outside, eyeing him without much interest.
Leonel tied the cart loosely to the post and shouldered the crate.
The inside smelled of old parchment, melted candlewax, and dust.
A bored clerk sat behind the counter, flipping through a ledger, the quill tapping a slow, impatient beat against the wood.
Leonel approached, crate balanced carefully against his hip.
The clerk didn't look up. "Name?"
"Leonel Varnhart."
That got a reaction.
A flicker of amusement. The kind that didn't reach the eyes.
"Of course it is," the clerk muttered, scribbling lazily. "What's the purpose of your visit, Lord Varnhart? Looking for a loan? Or just a place to sell your father's debts?"
A few chuckles floated from the corners of the hall—merchants, scribes, apprentices pretending not to listen too hard.
Leonel said nothing.
Instead, he set the crate down. Unwrapped a single pen. Rolled out a blank sheet of enchanted parchment from the tray at the counter's edge.
The clerk barely glanced—until Leonel uncapped the pen.
With one smooth stroke, he drew a mana circle across the sheet. Complex. Precise. Without a shimmer of hesitation.
The lines glowed steadily. The ink held.
The clerk's quill stopped tapping.
The room went quiet.
Leonel slid the pen across the counter, meeting the man's wide-eyed stare.
"I have thirty units ready for distribution," he said, voice calm but edged with iron. "Each comes with a refill vial. Customizable engraving available upon request."
The clerk licked his lips. "What... exactly is this?"
Leonel didn't smile. Didn't gloat.
"Control," he said. "In your hand."
Silence thickened.
Then, in a rush of movement, the clerk disappeared through a side door. Murmured voices filtered back—a higher-pitched voice, urgent; another, deeper and slower, questioning.
Minutes later, a man emerged.
Older. Broad-shouldered beneath a merchant's fine vest, spectacles perched low on his nose. He didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Show me again," the man ordered.
Leonel did.
Two strokes. A rune set perfectly on enchanted parchment.
The man adjusted his glasses. Leaned close. Studied the lines.
"This pen stabilizes mana output?"
"Yes."
"Refillable?"
"Yes."
"Repeatable across alloys?"
"Depends on the purity. Eighty percent success rate on merchant-grade material. Higher with noble commissions."
The merchant's jaw shifted slightly. Calculating.
Leonel unrolled the parchment scroll between them.
"Thirty percent to your house," Leonel said, tapping the terms with one ink-stained finger. "Seventy percent to mine. I handle refills. You handle distribution. Focus on nobles outside the Elvar province first."
The merchant's eyes flicked up.
"You think your house can handle that kind of expansion?"
Leonel didn't flinch.
"My house doesn't have to. I will."
Another long pause.
Then the man nodded once, sharp and clean.
A handshake followed.
A signature.
The first spark caught.
Leonel stepped out into the sun, the crate lighter under his arm, the city noise washing over him like a tide.
Behind him, in the shadowed hall, the merchant still stared down at the pen—like he'd just shaken hands with the future.