After the Winter Festival, snow fell on and off over Ipoli—neither heavy nor light.

Inside the riverside cottage, Shel opened the grimoire he’d traded a hundred children’s picture books for. Today marked Hilna’s first formal magic lesson.

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In Aran World, the sole supreme deity—the Eternal One—was the source of all magic and miracles.

He bore extravagant titles: Father God, Heavenly Father, Holy Father, Lord of the Abyss, the Eternal One…

This eternal deity’s origin was peculiar.

Scriptures did not portray him as humanity’s creator or world-shaper. He was a conceptual entity born alongside humans yet transcending their imagination.

According to doctrine, the Eternal One took form when humanity’s first spark of wisdom ignited—when they gazed at the stars above; when they grew lost in their own destinies; when they feared inevitable death; when they questioned the value of their existence.

He emerged from four primal human terrors:

The insignificance before celestial stars.

The confusion before capricious fate.

The helplessness before final death.

The bewilderment before existential void.

These terrors forged humanity’s true self. When the true self overcame them, one achieved eternity.

Thus, on the day the Lord of Eternity was born, he existed across all pasts and possible futures—he *was* eternity.

His radiance had no beginning and no end.

To worship the Eternal One was to worship humanity’s truest self; to worship humanity’s noblest reason and dreams.

From his four domains—**Stars**, **Fate**, **Death**, **Void**—the four primary magic systems arose.

The orthodox Church believed these magics were ropes cast by the Eternal One into the mortal realm: lifelines to scale the divine kingdom, keys to unlock eternity’s gate.

The boundless stars mirrored earthly elements. Their movements, the sun and moon’s dance, brought storms and gentle rains, sunlight and harvests—and divine punishment.

Thus, **Stars** birthed **Elemental Magic**: commanding nature’s forces.

Fickle fate guided human joys and sorrows—crushing the hopeful, emboldening the timid, stripping happiness or erasing sorrow. It could awaken virtue or drown saints in corruption.

Thus, **Fate** birthed **Fortune Magic**: surpassing limits, awakening potential, glimpsing destiny.

Inevitable death granted all beings impartial endings. It consumed the self, dissolved earthly grudges, and gathered souls—along with their memories and passions—into the Netherworld. There, beyond mortal time, they slept eternally, granted undying rest by the supreme god.

Thus, **Death** birthed **Nether Magic**: summoning spirits, gathering phantoms, weaving barriers.

The hollow void unraveled all meaning. It was the chasm between mortals and eternity—a near-uncrossable rift, the root of all despair, an unconquerable foe to thought itself.

Thus, **Void** birthed **Annihilation Magic**: rare, undefined, and perilous beyond measure.

These four magics intertwined, branching into subtypes:

Star-and-fate hybrids like Astrology; elemental-life studies like Alchemy; spirit-soothing rites like Exorcism…

Since magic talent awakened randomly—never inherited—these arts couldn’t pass through bloodlines. Only mage guilds or church-backed academies taught them systematically.

Entry required steep thresholds. Magic talent wasn’t hereditary, but wealth, power, and connections were.

Thus, many awakened mages wandered alone, grasping at elemental wisps through instinct.

They mastered only shallow tricks—brawling or scheming to get ahead.

In remote lands, wild mages became idle troublemakers.

Countless gifted souls drowned in the pride of petty spells, never fulfilling their divine potential.

True masters—those who wielded their gifts to glimpse the world’s essence—were vanishingly rare.

Shel knew Hilna’s gift well.

Her elemental affinity was extraordinary. By instinct alone, she could weave nature’s forces into imagined forms.

But Shel’s own elemental skill was feeble—limited to sparks, ice shards, and flashes of light. Teaching her would waste her potential.

Annihilation Magic was too elusive; even high mages understood little of it. He couldn’t guide her there.

His strength lay in Fortune and Nether Magic.

That’s why he’d traded for this advanced grimoire.

It held an old mage’s handwritten spells—mostly complex Fortune Magic, some Nether rites. Perfect for Hilna.

Today’s lesson: Fortune Magic’s cornerstone—**Divination**.

His rare specialty.

Through star-reading and prophecy, he’d glimpsed fragmented visions leading him to Ipoli—and Hilna.

But Hilna’s face fell at the topic.

She’d expected dazzling high magic: lightning summoned with a flick, earth shattered by a stomp, walls toppled by breath.

“Not so dramatic, Hilna,” Shel said gently. “Mages with such power number fewer than fifty worldwide—and they rarely walk among mortals. High magic isn’t about destruction. It’s about understanding magic’s essence.

“Divination proves this. Street peddlers use tarot cards to deceive. Many dismiss it as trickery. Yet true prophecy is near-impossible—fate’s threads are tangled beyond reckoning.”

Shel flipped the grimoire’s pages. He drew runes on the table, then traced a holy sigil on Hilna’s forehead.

Instantly, her mind stilled.

Sipping honeyed herbal tea by the hearth, she took the crystal ball Shel offered. She held her breath, awaiting instruction.

“Start simple,” Shel said. “Predict tonight’s meal. Empty your mind. Hold only the question. Then… *seek*.”

Hilna cleared her thoughts. *Dinner. Dinner. Dinner.* Like little Lofna, stomach growling.

Beside Shel, the real Lofna leaned close. “Teacher,” she whispered, “is prophecy truly this powerful? Can it answer anything?”

“Hush,” Shel murmured. “I’ll explain later.”

Lofna clamped a hand over her mouth, watching her sister anxiously.

Hilna drifted into a half-dream. Eyes closed, she still saw Shel and Lofna across the table—hazy, unreal.

Their figures rippled like pond reflections in wind. The images melted, twisting into a round cauldron. Steam bubbled and gurgled. Spices warmed the air—savory meat, melted fat, soft bread, creamy butter…

“I smell it!” Hilna’s eyes flew open. “Sausage stew and buttery rolls!”

“Correct,” Shel nodded. “Yesterday’s rolls from town. Stew I made at noon. Such accuracy on your first try… Your Fortune Magic affinity is exceptional.”

Lofna watched her proud sister and the pleased teacher. After a pause, she asked:

“But Teacher—if we change our minds? If we eat plain bread instead? Or save the sausages for tomorrow? Wouldn’t the prophecy be wrong?”

“That’s cheating!” Hilna protested. “I got it right! You can’t just change the outcome!”

“I’m posing a hypothesis,” Lofna countered. “You taught us: bold questions bring answers.”

“Enough,” Shel tapped the table. “Lofna, your question is wise. This is prophecy’s nature—*the future can shift because it was foreseen*.

“The future is shaped by past and present. The past is fixed—it sets the boundaries of what *can* be. A prophet can’t alter what’s done. They can only choose the best possible future within those bounds… then act to reach it.

“Hilna smelled stew and rolls because that outcome is *most likely* tonight. But not certain. Variables remain.

“Even the smallest possibility can be realized through action. If you, Lofna, drank all the stew alone, Hilna and I would go hungry. The prophecy would ‘fail’.”

“I’d never do that!” Lofna gasped.

“Hypothetical,” Shel ruffled her hair. “Remember this: changing fate demands a price. Fated events can’t be avoided—only delayed or diverted. Hilna, heed this.

“My bread and stew? We’ll share it. Or one will hoard it. We’ll eat it tonight—or tomorrow. *Someone* will consume it. Like fate’s path: someone must walk it. Someone must bear it.”

Hilna frowned. “What if we throw the food away? Wouldn’t that change everything?”

Shel’s reply was simple: “Wasting food invites misfortune.”

“Oh.” Hilna nodded slowly.

Thankfully, tonight’s prophecy held true.

Sausage stew steamed on the table. Buttery rolls were sweet and warm. Both girls ate with delight.