UmbralWhite (TheFrozenMoogle)
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Chapter 51
🕑 Added 2025-03-23 23:14:31 +0000 UTCI came to consciousness in the space between two worlds—the lingering haze of the Market of Indulgence still clinging to my senses, interwoven with the structured stillness of Danatallion’s Library. It wasn’t the restful awakening of a long, rejuvenating sleep, nor was it the jarring snap of being yanked from unconsciousness.
It was simply awareness.
I was alert. Present. Neither exhausted nor invigorated. Just… there.
It took me a moment to register my surroundings, my mind sluggishly piecing together the fragments of my existence. The weight of my arte, the presence of Lumivis, the residual traces of whatever had been done to me—it all settled into place, fitting together like a puzzle I hadn’t realized was incomplete.
Right. The play.
"So, I need to read and enter a play where I have, what—three lines of dialogue at most?" My voice was hoarse, but my tone was light, sardonic. "Lumivis, you're more familiar with my Arte than I am. Exactly how terrible of an idea is this?"
The spirit’s voice, smooth as glass and edged with unspoken amusement, drifted through the aether.
"On the scale of foolishness? Quite high."
"Fantastic."
"However," he continued, "compared to some of the other idiotic decisions you've made, this one is relatively mild. It doesn’t seem like the kind of story that will kill you outright, and the potential benefits are considerable. A great source of new power and abilities—perhaps even more than just the dagger and quill."
I sighed, dragging a hand over my face. My body felt strangely weightless, like I'd been suspended between moments, like time had only barely remembered to keep moving. I started to push myself up from the bed—
And froze.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Then I turned to Lumivis, my voice flat.
“Why,” I asked slowly, “am I surrounded by crystal saplings?”
“You noticed. Good.”
I stared at him.
After a moment, he elaborated.
“Every person possesses a confluence cube—what you have described as a [Shell]. It is the culmination of your mana, absorbed miasma, Providence, and every Skillcube you have acquired. This cube has both internal and external expressions.”
I frowned. “And that has what, exactly, to do with me waking up in a miniature forest?”
Lumivis’s light shifted, giving the impression of a bemused smirk. “The Starlight Forest grows within your aura, Alexander. When you remain in one place long enough, it manifests externally.”
I took another long look at my surroundings.
The crystalline trees glowed with a soft, shifting luminescence, their translucent trunks pulsing with an internal radiance. Their branches spread out in intricate, delicate patterns, adorned with leaves that shimmered like cut gemstones. They were beautiful, alien—each one humming with a presence that felt… familiar.
I reached out, fingers brushing against the nearest leaf.
I had expected something rigid, something cold and unmoving. Instead, it bent under my touch, alive, flexible where I thought it would be stiff, shifting and swaying as if breathing in tandem with me.
And then I felt it.
A surge of energy, vast and undisturbed. It wasn't draining me, it wasn't pulling from my reserves—it was just there. Waiting.
"...Lumivis," I began carefully, "these trees. They are made of mana, aren't they?"
"Yes."
I exhaled sharply. "My mana."
"Yes."
"My mana, which doesn’t deplete my own mana reserves, is being condensed and stored into a forest whenever I stay in one place long enough?"
“That is an adequate assessment of what has happened, yes.”
I stared at him. Then at the trees. Then back at him.
My mind raced through the implications. This was—insane. No, beyond insane. This changed everything. Stored mana wasn’t unheard of—mages used reservoirs, artifacts, enchanted objects all the time to hold excess power.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
A self-sustaining, naturally generated grove of crystallized mana, cultivated by my mere existence.
My mouth felt dry.
"How many people," I asked finally, "should I tell about this?"
Lumivis didn’t hesitate.
"Few. Very. VERY. Few."
***
Stepping out of my bedroom, I was immediately met with the rich aroma of brewing tea and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sound of a knife chopping against a wooden board. In the kitchen, Cordelia was already tending to the teapot, her movements calm and deliberate, while Ten worked with quiet focus, slicing what appeared to be some kind of sausage.
I reached out mentally, sending a quick ping to Cordelia, granting her access to my thoughts.
She answered without hesitation.
"Yeah. It’s for all of us. Her breakfast is after. Sleep well?"
I grumbled. "As usual with this dreaded condition." Sleep had never been a restful thing for me—not since Danatallion’s Halls. My body might be still, but my mind rarely stopped moving.
I glanced around. "Where’s V and Fractal?"
“V’s practicing with small arms,” Cordelia replied, pouring tea into delicate ceramic cups. “Fractal is helping him by being a subpar blade dancer to counter him.”
Ten, who had been silent up until now, spoke without looking up from her chopping. “She is not subpar. She is chaotic.”
Her voice was quiet but steady. Something about the way she moved—her small frame, the way her tanned skin caught the morning light—reminded me of the evocative dancer from before. Even the way she handled the cooking knife was mesmerizing, each slice part of a perfectly choreographed motion, rhythmic in a way that made it seem effortless.
I turned my attention to today’s Gloss messages and my itinerary.
…I was the last one awake. Again.
Am I usually the last to wake? I sent the thought to Cordelia.
Her mental voice answered with dry amusement.
"Yes."
I scowled at her. She simply curtsied, then gestured toward the table where a pot of tea awaited me.
The scent was intriguing. Oolong, blended with something floral—something warm. I picked up my cup, inhaling deeply.
“…What is that extra kick?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “My Gloss identified most of the spices, but something’s throwing it off.”
“Saffron,” Cordelia replied smoothly. “The red spice. A gift and luxury from the Queendom of Bast.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The Queendom of Bast? The same Queendom that absolutely hates us for siding with the Technocracy in the trade war? Why the hell would they be sending me a gift?”
At that, Cordelia simply pointed to my Gloss again.
I took the hint and pulled up tomorrow’s itinerary.
But tomorrow is tomorrow. Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.
I scanned today’s agenda:
Archery training at noon.
A meeting with the Guildmaster of Green Jokers afterward.
Paperwork. Oh boy.
The Green Jokers… I ran a quick search.
A simple entertainment guild based in the Free City of Junnum, far north in the Free Cities Alliance. No known connections to me. No reason for them to request a meeting.
That was odd.
Then, finally, I checked tomorrow’s itinerary.
I took a sip of tea.
I spat it out immediately.
"WHAT."
Ten burst into laughter. Cordelia, unfortunately, had been in the direct line of fire. She closed her eyes and wiped away the sprayed droplets of tea with all the patience of a saint.
“…Sorry, Cordelia,” I muttered.
She exhaled. "I assume you just read tomorrow’s agenda?"
I ran a hand through my hair, my mind scrambling for an explanation. “So let me get this straight. You told me originally that I’d be an Earl. Fine. I was expecting peerage, land, the usual nonsense.”
Cordelia nodded. “Correct.”
“What you didn’t tell me,” I continued, my voice rising slightly, “was that I’m apparently being granted a full Princedom from the Queendom of Bast.”
Cordelia’s expression remained unreadable. “No, I didn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know.”
I stared at her.
She took a sip of her tea and elaborated. “That level of treatment is well beyond your station as a newly anointed Walker—even a mostly new one.”
I was still trying to process what I was reading. “The Queendom is granting 55% of the land, meaning they have the right to assign the title. The Free Cities are filling in the other 45% because I’m being granted a border region.”
Cordelia nodded. “Correct.”
I rubbed my temples. “Okay, great. And what does ‘Prince’ mean in their hierarchy?”
“To compare it to our titles, it would make you a Marquis here.”
“…A Marque?”
“Yes. Also, congratulations on your promotion from Earl.”
I groaned.
“Hope you come up with a courtesy name quickly.”
“…Courtesy name?”
Cordelia gestured toward my Gloss.
“You know what?” I muttered. “Let me just Gloss search what you’re even talking about before I embarrass myself further.”
The nobility and ruling class of Bast - The Free Cities Guide to Travellers
If you hail from the Free Cities, you are accustomed to addressing nobility in the form of [Title] [Familial Name]. Take, for example, the leader of the Free Cities Alliance, Archduke Grenadais of Huntin. Here, Archduke is his title, signifying his rule over the princes and princesses who, in turn, govern the dukes and lesser nobles beneath them. Grenadais is his royal familial name, a name that commands respect and authority in the metropolis of Huntin.
This system is what you know.
However, should you find yourself in Bast, addressing a noble by their title is considered a grave insult. Doing so implies that their authority was purchased rather than earned through sacred rite.
Unlike in the Free Cities, no civilian in Bast is required to fight in war. Conscription is strictly forbidden. Instead, nobles themselves shoulder the burden of battle. Every noble—save for a few rare exceptions—is automatically a soldier of the Bastian Royal Armada.
To reflect this, Bastian nobility are granted a Courtesy Name, an identity distinct from both their title and familial name.
When speaking to a noble in Bast, one does not refer to them by title alone. Instead, visitors must use their Courtesy Name.
For example, the Queen of Bast may be addressed formally as “Your Gracefulness” or “Your Royal Eminence,” but the proper way to address her in Bastian culture would be:
Reqdenyet 'enen – meaning “She Who Dances Above the Clouds” in the Bastian tongue.
If a traveler does not know a noble’s Courtesy Name, they must follow a formal ritual of introduction:
The visitor states: "This one greets you as X." (X being the proper way of self-introduction.)
The noble will then reply: "Hail X. This one greets you as Y." (Y being their Courtesy Name.)
This exchange of names is a sign of mutual respect, and failing to follow this etiquette could be seen as disrespectful or ignorant.
Understanding and adhering to Bast’s customs is essential for maintaining good relations with its people and nobility. Whether negotiating trade, requesting an audience, or simply traveling within its borders, using a noble’s Courtesy Name rather than their title is the first step in earning their respect.
I scrolled through the list of Courtesy Names used in Bast, searching for patterns. Most revolved around elements of the sky—Clouds, Rain, Sun, Moon, Stars. Their names spoke of celestial grandeur, of forces that shaped the world from above.
Mepl Shemyeym – He Who Fells the Sky.
Aver Yerh – She Who Travels Via the Moonlight.
Mevzeyqet Leyqevy Hemh – Those Who Play Music During the Solar Eclipse.
Hevteb Geshem – They Who Cut the Rain.
I frowned. If I was supposed to choose a name that embodied me, what was I, exactly?
Stars. Books. Plays. Paper.
The stars had become my symbol, my motif. My arte gave me dominion over paper—the very material that bore stories. And, ever since that night in Danatallion’s Halls, I had been forced to live within books, rewriting and reshaping the narratives within them.
I ran a test translation through my Gloss, hoping for something elegant.
Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr
"The Writer Who Writes Under Starlight."
I tried to say it aloud. Bit my tongue. Tried again. Bit my tongue again.
"This is a mouthful."
Ten, watching my struggle, finally spoke up. “What are you even trying to do?”
Cordelia, meanwhile, was far less composed—barely suppressing a snicker, her shoulders shaking. I ignored both of them and, instead of explaining, sent my chosen Courtesy Name directly to their Glosses.
Cordelia’s reaction was immediate. She nodded in approval, her usual calm mask slipping for just a moment. Then, in a rare display of actual emotion, her voice rang with something close to awe and excitement.
"Courtesy Names are more than just titles. They represent the culmination of one’s arte, skillcubes, Shells, and Providence. They are the closest thing a person can acquire to a True Name."
She looked at me, her golden eyes gleaming.
"That name… encapsulates you perfectly. Every night, you vanish into that library, performing your nightmarish ritual. You write new stories in that library. You encounter new tales. You 'write' under 'starlight' because you do so at night. It’s poetically perfect."
For once, Cordelia—the ever-monotone, ever-logical Cordelia—was genuinely impressed.
Comments
kannonpq .
This is what happens when you use the roman alphabet for Hebrew.
RedLeaf
"The Writer Who Writes Under Starlight." Beautiful, poetic, graceful even! "Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr" on the other hand looks like someone tossed the alphabet in a blender, and these were the survivors! :D Thanks for the chapter!
