The evening air was crisp, even though the day was as hot as sumr usually gets around the North. Through the open windows, the much cooler night air was blowing into Galahad's room while he sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed, breathing steady, taking it all in. The electric lamp flickered once on his desk, its dimming light barely reaching the edges of his room, signaling that the bulb was soon in need of a change... but this ti, he ignored it, as his head was already packed to waste any more ti. He had just finished dinner with his siblings and parents—a cherished mont, as always—and now it was ti for his nightly ritual. Sothing his Father had taught him, and it always... helped.
mories of the day cascaded through his mind like an unending flood of a wild river after a storm. All of those snippets were way too vivid and way too many. Every sound, every color, every word spoken was there in his brain, perfectly preserved, an amalgamation that not even a good night's sleep would be able to deal with. They were unfiltered, and it would be too much for any normal person to take it. But as his Mother always told him:
"You are Galahad, the son of the Sovereign. You are not like normal people, so be proud of it!"
He knew his Father had the sa gift, and if he managed to deal with it, he could, too. So, with his help, he ca up with a thod that indeed worked. He sorted them. Every evening. Every day. It also turned out that his little ritual was as good as sleeping, refreshing his spirit, allowing him to essentially skip out on what even his Father needed: sleep. Right now, in his ditative state, his mind was acting like an unseen archivist, carefully placing each event he experienced into its proper category, following Galahad's instructions.
There were three categories Galahad decided on when he first ditated.
There were the important mories. These were usually the monts that he spent with his family: his siblings' laughter and his Father’s proud gaze during dinner after learning that he had aced every subject. Even if he knew he would, thanks to his gift, he was still proud, which felt really good. Then, there was his Mother's delicate hand on his shoulder when she walked past, putting his al down before him before giving him a kiss on his cheeks. All of these went into the vault of his mind, never to be ignored, never to be misplaced.
Then ca the regular mories, like the lessons at school. The chi of the bell, along with their teacher's last warning to not forget their tasks before school starts again in the autumn. Then, there was the scent of fresh bread outside the bakery, sothing that he always liked. Rembering it... always made him feel pleasant. Finally, he sorted through the idle chatter of his classmates.
"Should I go?" he asked himself, eyes still closed, his hand moving rapidly behind his eyelids. But he still hadn't had an answer to give Morgan yet. Maybe tomorrow he would have one. So, skipping over the question and running away from it, he moved on to the last part of that day's mories.
The unimportant ones. Every face of the crowd they had passed on the street. The conversations that his ears picked up in the background while walking ho. The aningless whispers of the wind, dogs barking, the number of steps he took, the number of flowers in the park... all that did not carry any significance.
Still, even the unimportant category was sothing he never forgot. It just made it easier to ignore it when they were in one big pile.
This was always the goal of his ditation. Without it, his mind would overflow with relentless details, suffocating him in a sea of unfiltered recollections, sothing that haunted him while he was still young. Even now, whenever he recalled being born, the first few years were pure chaos. Frightening. He cried, cried, and cried, only remaining quiet when he was in his parent's or siblings' arms, only looking at their faces, ignoring everything else. Seeing them... always helped.
By the ti he opened his eyes, the day was neatly cataloged, and peace settled within him once again so he could start anew.
With that done, Galahad stretched, smiling, his senses now free to engage in sothing that truly excited him—magic formations. He slid off his bed and walked to his desk, where scattered parchnt lay covered in symbols and diagrams, ink-stained fingers a testant to his dedication.
"Oh, " he humd, finally changing the lightbulb to a new one, casting his room in a refreshed, much more brilliant, warm light. "Let's see..." he muttered, reaching for his drawings.
Despite possessing no magic of his own, unlike three of his siblings, he refused to let that stop him. If his Father could develop magic and shape the world with his inventions, then he could do just the sa. Even others, without his gift in the university, were now studying magic formations... He would too.
Getting excited again, his hands moved with precision, drawing sothing new again. He had ideas... many of them, in fact. And whenever he was satisfied with one, he would show them to his parents and wait for their reaction. He once showed it to rlin, too, but... He was too eager. Speaking too much and too quickly! Sorting conversations with him was always... tireso. Spending an hour with him made Galahad feel like he had to sort two days at once. So, if he could... he would avoid the famous Pri Minister at all costs.
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In the palace's indoor training hall, the sound of wood striking wood rang out like thunder, echoing off the stone walls despite being so late in the evening. Under the bright lights, Lancelot stood poised, wearing only a set of pants, his lean muscles taut, his wooden sword raised in a high-guard position. Across from him, his Grandfather, Kalash, who was twice his size, held his own practice weapon with the ease of a man who had spent a lifeti battling man and beasts.
“You’re quick,” His Grandfather noted, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Even though he was considered old in the grand sche of things... he didn't look the part. He was still vigorous, his hair full of color and his eyes lively. Mikan said it had to be the monster at's effect, but for Lancelot, it didn't matter. What was important was that he was the perfect teacher for him. “But let’s see if that quickness holds up under pressure,” Kalash said, his blue eyes glinting.
Without warning, he lunged, his strike nothing but a blur in his peripheral vision. Lancelot barely had ti to react, twisting his body just enough to avoid a direct hit and make him into a unicorn from one of Luna's novels he once read. His own sword snapped up in retaliation, aiming for an opening, but his Grandfather’s blade was already there to deflect it.
The two moved like professional dancers, each of their steps following a specific pattern, each movent a reaction to the other's body. Lancelot’s agility was his greatest weapon, and he knew it. He flowed between offense and defense with a learned skill passed down to him from his Mother. His feet barely seed to touch the ground as he pivoted, sidestepped, and retaliated with precise strikes, trying to get through Kalash's defenses. Where his Grandfather relied on brute force, he relied on speed and adaptability.
Of course... this didn't an the old lord of the Frontier was slow. Kalash pressed on his attack, switching his stance and feinting left before coming in from the right. Still, Lancelot anticipated it, twisting away at the last second, countering with a quick thrust that nearly made contact with Kalash’s ribs, only missing by a hair's width.
"Heh!" The old warrior chuckled, his eyes burning with pride. “You learn fast, boy. But speed alone won’t save you.”
There was a warmth in his voice, a fondness that quickly softened the edge of his valid critique. Kalash had always been a hard teacher, but his lessons were laced with care. Especially because his own son never truly blood as he expected him to. Not that he was disappointed; no, he was far from it! That is why he never pushed him to keep training with a sword. Leon was not like that... he had his own road. But Lancelot? He was the grandson he had wished for. Eager to learn, keen to improve, and a swift learner. He was so quick, in fact, that deep inside, he knew that he would lose to the kid in only a few years. And lose while laughing.
But for now, every strike, every parry, was not just a test of Lancelot's skills, but he made sure it was a passing of wisdom. It was his legacy, finally given to soone who will carry it forward. Improve on it...
Of course, while sparring, Lancelot didn’t reply—his focus was absolute, sothing his Grandfather greatly appreciated. He shifted forward, testing his Grandfather’s defenses with a rapid series of strikes. Kalash blocked and parried, but Lancelot kept the pressure up, pushing him back step by step. It was exhilarating—he was keeping up, even forcing Kalash onto the defensive!
Then, a sudden shift happened. Kalash changed the rhythm once again; his movents were suddenly slower and more thodical. It was a trap that Lancelot realized just a bit too late. In his eagerness to press his advantage, he left an opening just for a fraction of a second.
That was all Kalash needed.
With a single, precise motion, his Grandfather's sword knocked Lancelot’s blade aside, following up with a strike that stopped just inches from his neck. The battle was over.
"Tsk!" Lancelot clicked his tongue loudly, sweat trickling down his brow, but his grin was as broad as it could get. “I almost had you!”
"Yeah, true." Kalash lowered his sword with a chuckle, his similarly sweaty face breaking into a smile. “However, almost isn’t enough in a real fight, boy.” He clapped Lancelot on the shoulder, the gesture firm but affectionate. “But you’ve co a long way. One day, you might even beat !”
"That's the goal." Lancelot sheathed his wooden sword, determination shining in his eyes. “One day, I will!”
"Atta boy!" Kalash’s grin widened, ruffling Lancelot's black hair. For a mont, the years seed to fall away from him, rembering when Leon was little. It was good to be back in those days. “Good. Then let’s see how much closer you are to that day. Again!”
And with that, the sound of clashing the training swords filled the hall once more as the third son of Avalon's Sovereign continued to hone his craft under the watchful eye of an actual master.
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"Is math really that hard?" Mikan asked, sitting at the edge of the bed of her daughter while Morgan pursed her lips.
"I don't like it. But I still passed with okay grades! Dad said so, too!"
"Leon keeps spoiling all of you." Mikan shrugged, rubbing her forehead, holding Morgan's report card. Still... she wasn't angry. She just... knew. She knew that her daughter could do better, but she was simply stubborn. If there was sothing she didn't like, she would only put in the minimal, required effort to get through it.
"That is why he is the best Dad!" Morgan grinned, wiping it off from her face when Mikan looked at her. "Co on, Mom, it is not like... I will need math to beco a healer!"
"Doctors do need math."
"Okay," Morgan repeated, playing with her hair, "But I am not going to be a doctor. I am speaking about magic."
"Magic can't solve everything, my dear." Mikan leaned in, kissing her forehead, standing up from her bed. "Please, try better... I know you can do it!"
"Haaah... oookay..." She moaned, looking at her with a warm smile, the sa that gazed back at her while Mikan stood next to her bed.
"Go to sleep. It is late, and finally, you don't need to wake up early~!"
"Hehe," Morgan giggled, looking at her Mother as she headed to the door. "That is why sumr is the best! Mom..."
"Hm?" Mikan asked, stopping at the door.
"When will I get another little brother? Or sister?"
"Sotis..." Mikan grimaced at the playful question leaving her daughter's lips, "I am questioning if you are indeed mine or Yuri's."
"Nah!" Morgan winked at her from between her pillows, "It has to be Dad's fault."
"Mhm." Mikan nodded, finally pulling the door open to leave, "That is true."
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