The Creighton estate had become familiar in a way that felt almost unsettling. The structured elegance, the pulse of mana woven through its very walls, the weight of history pressing in at every turn—it was a place of immense power, yet oddly comfortable now. And I was leaving it behind.
Rachel and I stood before the grand entrance, bags packed, the morning air crisp with the scent of pine and faint traces of ozone from last night's residual magic experiments. Alastor Creighton, the legendary archmage, stood before us, arms crossed, his usual composed expression tinged with something unreadable.
"I assume you've made all the necessary preparations," he said, though it wasn't a question. His piercing blue gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than it should have, as if peeling apart my intentions with surgical precision.
Rachel, standing beside me in travel gear that was somehow both practical and regal, smiled. "Of course, Father."
