Disclaimer: I do not own Magi.

"These are . . . graves, Sire."

Naevius Albus simply tamps the urge to sigh. "I am not blind, Mintho. Of course, they're graves."

It is the time of war, after all. The age of blood and iron, where men from distant lands and shores can be reckoned as the greatest conquerors and kings and these men that can win the hearts of people clash into each other - their country, their pride - to continuously start a battle to the death until one man succeeds the rest. Most people are like that nowadays, so he believes.

His incisive eyes scrutinize the barren land and the mounds of dirt, likely estimating thirty in all, encompass the area. Word has spread that Reim has seized the northern lands of Cathargo with a treaty for it to become one of its provinces. But knowing Reim's lack of persuasiveness and Cathargo's defiant nature, it is probably done out of force.

Bloodshed is the result. Tyranny can one day be the downfall of Reim if they're not careful enough.

Mintho, a man with half the blood of Cathargoan descent and his consultative aide, advises charily, "Sire, we should return back to the inn. The night is approaching and it is best for all of us to not further rile the spirits of the dead in these wastelands."

He frowns at his notion, but complies with a half-hearted shrug, no less. The fetor of corpses is beginning to repulse him. Though the moment they spin their heels behind, his ears hear a faint sound of rustling from a distance. Curiosity taking the best of him, he gestures his aide to halt and scours for the said sound in spite of his aide's protests.

And there, just near another freshly dug grave, is a child.

ACT I || NOSTRA ORSA

The man before her is obviously a foreigner.

And foreigners bring misfortune in their wake, so some people claim.

Foreigners have already taken away so much from this land— pillaged the food rations, ravaged the cities to rubble, and have even slain lives. She can never forget the sight of those men from the north, all armor-clad and ruthless.

This man in particular is no exception.

She regards his head of flaxen locks and those pair of crystalline blue irises for all the people of her village possess sooty-black and mousy hair and equally dark irises. His complexion is a novel sight to her and is paler than most noblewomen's coloring in her village, reminding her of authentic silk.

Indeed, golden-haired and bright-eyed. Like those soldiers.

Yet she does not run away.

She squints her red eyes and easily notices a disparity between him and them. Whilst all those men own roughened features and an attitude that evens the cold of their steel, his countenance is strangely approachable, sometimes almost regal like that of a blue blood, making him somewhat look nowhere near as humble as his attire. His actions are far too graceful than any other awkward peon sauntering about and his brow has apparently shown the signs of a well-bred, educated man, almost lofty due to his tipped chin.

For a moment she ponders if he is an aristocrat. A rather peculiar case of aristocrat.

After all, not many highborn men have any grit to frock themselves with such modest clothing.

Then there is another odd fact that hauls her attention.

"You're not like those bad people."

He raises his fine brow out of interest and asks with luster in his eyes, "What makes you say that?"

She stoically glares at him, squinting her eyes again. "The birds appear to like you."

As expected, his visage is riddled with perplexity and skepticism. All of them always send looks like that to her, thinking she is naught more but a hopeless and demented orphan. But she jibs their thoughts for she firmly believes what she sees and no one can change her convictions about it, even if she is deemed delirious. Albeit his stupefied expression, she can notice the pique in his eyes.

"Birds, hm?" he says softly, like a pleasant hum. "And what do these birds do when they meet those bad people?"

She hesitates to respond back. No one has asked about it before. Her chin dips and her gaze lingers at her grimy hands. "They fly away unsteadily. Like they're frightened . . . sometimes, they murmur of bad omen."

Another dose of confusion is present in his face and an equal amount of interest is in his eyes. Hm, she ponders if he really is curious or if he is just jesting her for the sake of a good laugh. Those radiant birds do not mind his presence at all, so she stays in her spot without any attempt to flee from this foreigner. Yet. After all, those birds— those brilliant beings that hold radiance like no other act as her guide in knowing a person she can trust or be wary of.

With a thumb on his chin, he raises his brows and creases his face in a musing sort of expression. She finds it strange that he holds that intellectual air around him instead of the sneering, arrogant mien that most noblemen posses. Then he gazes at her again with a congenial smile on his lips. "Say, this is your doing, isn't it? These graves."

She simply nods.

His smile slightly dwindles into a forced simper. He pries again but his politeness never strays away, "Is this the duty assigned to you?"

She shakes her head in decline.

His blond lashes bat in surprise. Then he begins to mull in deep contemplation once again, probably thunderstruck by her response. His fair features ostensibly disclose his muddle and for a moment she can notice the smallest touch of concern and sympathy on them. Odd. "I know it's not my business to pry any further," he says in a mild, measured tone. "But what would you do this for?"

Silence quells her mouth.

"Because no one would bury them."

His brow arches. His blue eyes are glistening with fervency and patenting his confusion. "You don't owe them anything, yet you still do it?"

Her gaze, deadpan yet somewhat wistful, lands on the newly-dug grave and peers at the cold carcass, festering six feet underneath the ground. Her nose can still latch the pungent stench of decay, blood, and dirt. The scent of death foully reeks to the point that her nose stings painfully by catching a small whiff of it yet she can openly admit that there is nothing alien about it. It clings on her hands, on her clothes, even on the splodge on her chin.

Her life has always been like this, after all. Digging graves.

She sighs somberly.

"Because this is the only thing I can do."

His eyes widen in bewilderment, not expecting the blow of her reply to his chest. Pursing his lips, he queries, "Did those birds tell you to do this?"

"No."

She pauses.

She drags the cold, evening air through her mouth.

Her small hands clench into fists.

"I wanted to."

Much to her surprise, he nears her, his movements aplomb and careful to not frighten her, and crouches before her with a bent knee, meeting the level of her eyes. A beam curls his lips and a certain lightness lingers in his gaze. There is something genuine and heartening in those twin pools of marvelous cerulean that kindles something in her chest. Like a flame from a furnace or a gentle caress of light from the sun. Ah. Warmth, is it?

Those enchanting birds around him flutter and shine a brilliant glow. With the lilt of his voice purposely inspiring the dampened spirit of her heart, he encourages without reservation, "You're a Fanalis, yes? There are plenty of things that you can do than just bury graves— than any other person in this earth, actually. You might not see it now but there is a potential in you that could change your fate. You are worth more than just this."

Her eyes pulse wide from his words.

She muffles a gasp.

Then she blinks.

No stranger or foreigner has ever spoken such words to her. From the little knowledge she has gained from slandering tongues, they dub her a Fanalis and a Fanalis is a denigrating term for slave. Lowest will always be beast. Instead of holding grudges, she has learned to accept it, no less. After all, she cannot simply change their views and what more can she do?

She is just a child who prioritizes her basic needs other than anything else. Eat to not starve. Clothe to be warmed. Strive to live another day.

Worthy? She is not worthy. Not when her hands are blackened with the filth from a corpse and she is naught more but an outcast to society. She is no different from any other flawed being of this earth after all.

Yet this man . . .

I have . . . potential . . . I am worth more . . .

She prefers to discard his words.

Though admittedly, to hear such things bubbles a very pleasant feeling in her chest.

But something bothers her at that moment.

Although she wishes to convey the thousands of thoughts that her head has mustered through her own tongue, she remains silent in the depths of her reverie and dully remarks, "You're odd."

He blinks and then asks curiously, "You think so?"

Undeterred, she ripostes, "I know so. Nobles here don't like getting themselves near riffraff or at least saying those kinds of words to one."

"Noble?" he repeats in a convincing, pondering tone. "You think I am a nobleman? You are mistaken, little girl. Although I find it quite flattering, I am not one."

The birds around him slightly tense. She throws an unconvinced look at his direction. "Although I did not mistake you as a bad person, I did not think you were a liar too."

His bright eyes slightly broaden, both in surprise and a tad bit of awestruck. Impressed might be a fitting word for it.

He questions— more like tests her. "Then what do you think of me?"

"A noble and a good liar."

This time, a simper perks his lips, nearly breaking into a laugh, but not a sound or word leaves from it.

Yet she is perceptive enough to understand that his smile is meant to say—

Close enough.

Crossing his arms, he glances above and once again darts his gaze at her. "Nightfall is approaching and you don't seem to have a place where you could lodge at this hour. How about I invite you for supper? You look famished and exhausted. We could converse that matter there," he offers generously with otherwise words from the mouth of a highborn nobleman as he stands. "Fear not, I have no intention of harming or bringing trouble for you."

As enticing as the bargain sounds, she is no fool to be gulled so easily, especially from a very smooth-spoken foreigner.

But those enigmatic creatures of the light do not lie. They never have.

And so she accepts his invitation.

As long as I could eat something too.

"How discourteous of me to not introduce myself," Naevius says with excellent social grace and a charming smile on his lips. "My name is Naevius Albus. I dislike imposing titles so you could simply address me Naevius, if you wish. What would be yours?"

The girl blinks and lowers her head not out of coyness but something so near to shock and realization. A painful realization. Her eyes, slanted with exoticism and rounded childishly, holds a certain unfathomable expression within them that even as perceptive as he cannot decipher. It is blank and bleak with the faintest trace of surprise. Cryptic, little girl.

"I . . . don't have one."

Doubt riddles his sharp features though the look in her face is evident enough that she speaks the truth. She truly has no inkling of anything. No name, no fire of life in her eyes, not even a single purpose to strive for.

The only account of her origins that he has gained from her so far is that she is naught more but an indweller from the wastelands of Cathargo, embedded with a common and prosaic characteristic all humans possess: to survive.

The girl does nothing but survive— or simply exist. But has not done anything to live.

He smoothly asks— more like assumes, "Could it be perhaps that you don't remember it?" Surely, from a past inconvenience.

Shaking her head of crimson hair, she gives him a simple, "No," then her glance averts to her side. "I don't have one."

In his silence, he muses to himself how such an innocent child face these stark realities in her entire life with a face as hard and dull as stone.

And as swift as the passing gale, a conclusion finally strikes him.

It is not ignorance that limits her to feel the most poignant emotions of distress and confusion.

Aloof, he thinks. She is far too aloof to care or to understand.

And has yet to scour for a worthy reason to live for.

Well, that is naught more but an assumption, at least. The closest he will ever get, knowing the girl is one of those rare cases he deems as a conundrum.

Mintho gapes at the mind-boggling sight before him.

Although there is nothing truly nonplussing in seeing the presence of a mere child, this little chit proves to be the exception amongst the rest. Her profile is of a filthy, malnourished orphan which most see skirting around the streets, but beneath the sallow condition and the grime is the distinguishable crimson hair, the perfect shade that can rivet the attention of avaricious eyes, and the bloodred eyes, designed feral and undoubtingly rare. Without a doubt, he can confirm what this child is.

Still peeping at her savagely gobble her supper from the gap of the door, he states in a transfixed stupor, "That is a Fanalis child . . . "

This time, Naevius sighs in vexation right next to him.

"Mintho," the firm tone he uses is one best for rebuking. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in disapproval. "I suggest you cease that habit of uttering platitudes. It's starting to become rather annoying."

Disregarding his word of advice, he silently closes the door and directly voices out the loud, frantic thoughts that alarms his too high-strung mind, "Sire, you cannot just claim a Fanalis child! She might be a runaway slave from a nobleman or a property from the slave traders!"

Unaffected of his berating, he simply graces him an inquisitive brow. "You seem opposed to the idea of letting me feed a starving child."

The aide nearly croaks from his reply, daunted from the skeptic glare in his eyes. He decides that it is best to not oppose him further. "S-Sire, it's not like that," he stutters, opting the choice to reconcile and reason his thoughts evenly. "As your aide and companion, what I simply mean to convey to you is that it is better that we do not encounter any trouble in these parts. It might stir the attention of the people when they discover your true identity."

Naevius Albus, at least before he changed his name, is a man of exceptionality and an irreplaceable figure. Some dare slander him as an absolute eccentric, a cynical aristocrat from the court, and an unrestrained vagabond. Yet albeit his vices, what compensated for each sniff of disdain is his skill in the battlefield and his genius in warfare and strategy. Naevius— no, Julius Naevius Alexius, nephew of Ignatius Alexius, is an asset to the heart of the forces of Reim and its military success.

Just the very thought of the vindictive people of Cathargo recognizing his name spirals him in a bout of anxiety.

His uncle will certainly be restless about the matter. So will Reim.

He sighs softly. "Do not underestimate my wariness. I am fully aware about it, Mintho. After all, I wanted to see the state of this country and am careful enough to do so," he reiterates. "She claimed to have no origins or an inkling to where she came from no matter how many times I questioned her. She does not even know what a Fanalis is. The only recollection she has was living in a small village near those wastelands, but that was all there is to it."

"All right," he says but doubt is still stubbornly stemmed in his mind. "What do you plan to do to her then?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure," his master admits, slightly troubled at the notion. "She has no place to call home and I cannot simply leave her anywhere. She might arouse attention just by her identity. To be honest, I find it rather miraculous that she has not been a slave or is hunted down by the slave traders yet."

Mintho can only conclude that whatever luck that child possesses to this point is certainly baffling.

Many street children near her age have either undergone the perils of being a slave since birth or taken away against their will. Most have even died young.

And a Fanalis is destined to face the harsh, inevitable fate of slavery since their youth.

Nodding, he cups his chin with a thumb. "I suppose it may be difficult to find refuge for the girl."

"In the morning, I'll try to think of a better place for her to take refuge in," he says in a confident, sophisticated tone, one which means that he is set to fulfill such task. "As of now, she will stay here. Fed and groomed with a new set of clothes."

Sedate words, yet they hold absolute authority. A quality which a kin from the Alexius family posses. Albeit his voice is finely even and deliberate, the aide understands that it is a direct order and one that is best unquestioned. He dips his head and gives him a consentient nod. "You're far too kind, Sire," he remarks yet his mind still bears its reluctance to comply to his unstinting decision. "All these graces for a Fanalis child."

Without hesitation, Naevius confesses, "The Fanalis always have my sympathy."

His dark eyes slightly broaden from his response and simply nods again. If he can recall, he has cousins that both share the noble lineage of an Alexius and the impure blood of a Fanalis. His benignity must have been rooted to such relatives. Especially, their mother. Although some part of him wishes to mention that conception of his, he tamps the urge to broach the subject and quells himself in silent agreement instead.

For the sake of dismissing their previous conversation, he retrieves back a memorandum and states, "Ah, I wish to inform you that I have received a letter from a messenger an hour ago."

His brow curves. "A messenger? From whom?"

Letting his memories rekindle, he clears his throat. "The messenger stated no name for himself and addressed this letter specifically to you. He was a suspicious character but his features were fairly Reiman from my observation. As for the letter, it . . . bears the emblem of the Alexius family."

"Ah, it is probably from my uncle," he remarks sardonically with a chafed huff. "What is written in it?"

Reluctant, he finally replies, "Your return back to Remano."

Ah, and there Naevius Albus cannot even screen the displeasure upon his bearings with a mask of calm. His lips bitterly twist in disdain. His brows scrunch. Just the mere sight of those crystalline blue eyes, shadowed with the dark hazes of contempt, sends unpleasant chills down his spine. He will admit that he may be a fetching man, but the scowl he wears simply gives him the portrait of hideous, cynical, and brooding.

Mintho does not mind playing the role of the interloper— intruding his personal affairs and justifying them to appease his pique. Yet he relinquishes the position aside for now, preferring the choice to let him reconcile in his own self-recollections. After all, sometimes silence is the best confidant, especially to one who has such volatile emotions. It is a matter he cannot meddle. His master's discordant relationship with his uncle.

Letting his temper subside, he sighs sharply and collects himself. "Is that so?"

He coughed. "Y-yes, Sire."

"Is there anything else?"

"Ah . . . w-well, Lord Ignatius has written to you an offer for you to educate one of the Emperor's closest relatives."

"Ah, I see. So first, I am a strategist, and now he expects me to mentor a brat."

"Sire, I must advise you that you should not cloud your judgment with ire and do consider this gracious offer. You are also a scholar, a sage philosopher. The child might be . . . excessively pampered . . . but it is a high privilege to mentor a kin from the Emperor himself."

"Indeed, and acting like a hound for the sovereign, like any other dogging nobleman, will redeem my dignity as an aristocrat, yes?"

"Sire—"

"Give it a rest, Mintho. I have no interest nor am I willing to accept that offer."

The aide sighs in resignation— mostly, in disappointment.

"If that is your final word for it."

His master simply bobs his head in acknowledgment, likely pleased of his response. "Moreover, I'd like to discuss about the girl's sleeping accommodations. It would be best if she is to rest in this inn for the night."

Ah. The Fanalis child. "Shall I rent a room for the girl? Though, I believe there would be—"

Cutting his sentence short, he abruptly answers, "No. For the time being, you should offer her your room. Your bed, specifically. That should be enough, yes?"

He nearly sputters. Or worse, hollers out his protest. As he clears his throat, he asks although he can still taste his disapproval lingering in his tongue, "B-but, Sire, where will I sleep?"

Nonchalant of the matter, he graces him a shrug. "I don't know."

"That isn't—"

"Oh, hush," is his reply. "The child can hear that tone of yours."

"Wait— she can?"

"Of course, she can."

"Oh . . . so she can."

"Such a crude role model. Inspiring children to follow the path of uncouthness."

"But, that—"

Naevius releases a sigh from his lips, which is soon followed by a soft chuckle. A larking grin lights his handsome features. "I am simply jesting, Mintho," he enunciates, mollifying his aide's bewilderment and fraught. "Really now, you need to find your calm. Racking your nerves for so little things is not good for you."

Mintho's face is inflamed with a flush from fluster and a tad bit of indignation.

"The girl shall have my room for this night."

Pardoning his master's rather juvenile chaffing, he queries in concern, "But, Sire, where will you sleep?"

"I do not believe I could retire at the moment," he says coolly, his mind slightly immersed in the recesses of his musings. "I have my own errands to attend to."

He graces another question for confirmation, "Shall I give a letter of response to the Alexius family?"

"No," he utters in a low, miffed tone. "As for that letter, burn it. Dispose of it. Just cast it away from my sight."

He blinks in flabbergast and wearily counsels, "Sire, shouldn't it be wise that you give them a letter of response?"

Shaking his head in objection, his bright eyes steel in resolution. "I've made the last one clear to my uncle," he veers his glance away, uttering a heavy sigh after. "I don't plan to return as of yet."

Naevius is perched upon his chair, his eyes carefully skimming the scroll held by his hands. Nourishing his mind with newfound knowledge has been an old hobby of his and entertaining himself with his leisure in the comfort of his study is what he has thought of as a pleasure of sorts. At least, for the curious mind.

Reading the bold, black calligraphy on the paper, he halts and stifles a yawn.

Cathargo— the Dark Continent, so they say.

All those bruits of Cathargo having no culture or civilization is certainly wrong.

How can those fools claim such asinine drivel when they have not even seen a partially unexplored country?

His grandfather, a great conqueror in his prime and a broad-minded explorer, is the man who defiantly cast aside the words of age-old rumors for he once has seized the opportunity to explore the place they called, 'The Dark Continent'. And because he has incited this action, Reim has once again found more land to reap the benefit for their own— all because of his thirst for conquest and knowledge.

He eyes the aged scroll upon his hands which is the fruit of his grandfather's endeavors. It does not exactly supply everything that must be learned about Cathargo, but it still provides a few important details that can be put in consideration. One of which will be the country is divided into two regions: Northern Cathargo and Southern Cathargo.

In Northern Cathargo, unlike its larger, lower half, people inhabit the land, nearest to the shores than the flat, arid grounds of the savanna, and have cultivated success through trade and a growing web of connections from foreign, inconspicuous countries. Its strategic location has also been a lay station for foreign traders for resupplying and repairing ships from harsh voyages. Although the origin of the Carthagoan people do not root from the country itself since their ancestors are no more but foreign immigrants, they are seasoned merchants, if not born with a natural gift for commerce, no less.

From the past memories of his adolescence, he recalls that it is a marvelous place, where the cities are swarmed with grandiloquent architecture of citadels, pantheons, and houses, paved with mosaic floors and decked with gardens, and the streets are enlivened by the cacophony of the people from the bazaars, further accentuating the flourishing affluence of the wellbeing of the country. In the day the land is bathed in sunlight while nightfall cools it down with mellow breezes from the sea. Truly, a splendid place.

Shame, it was before waging war to Reim.

The rise of economic success and expansion of land has led Reim to respond, considering Northern Cathargo as a potential threat.

And like any other country conquered by Reim, it is deflowered from its previous sublimity. A place now palled with ruins and robbed dignity and malicious will.

With a soft sigh, Naevius continues to read the second half of the entry.

Though, any informative account for Southern Cathargo has truly been as scarce as hen's teeth. It does not exactly strike him as a savage region or the netherworld, like what the people rumor of it. Although he will admit that the Great Rift certainly fits the description of the latter. Nevertheless, it is naught more but a vast land— vapid, isolated, and dearth of any salient civilizations with the exception of the Torran people— and the legendary hunting tribe, the Fanalis.

Fanalis . . .

Harsh cracks of whips against backs, brands seared upon flesh, and a life of enslavement and denigration.

And then . . . crimson eyes that hold undoubtable warmth and affection.

Eyes that do not deserve to witness such morbid fate.

"The birds look depressed around you."

It takes him a second to realize that someone has thankfully liberated him from his sentimental woolgathering. And unforgivably interrupted him in his favored pastime.

Frowning, he flicks his sharp gaze at the little meddler with a swift crane of his neck.

To his vexation, her crimson eyes are void of any of the emotions that contradicts his theorized outcome. She is perched upon a tall stool with a large book on top of her lap, her profile still possessing that aura of boredom and vapidness. Brazenly enough, she flips a few pages of the said book without his approval as her gaze lingers upon the pages as if she truly is reading each word with unquestionable concentration. There is a certain glint in those eyes that makes him wonder. Ah, a twinkle of curiosity.

Nonetheless, no one disrupts him in his study. Not even a child.

He clears his throat, purposely snatching her attention, yet it will appear she is still apathetic from both his intolerance and grievance. "Little girl, why are you here in this late hour?" he questions in a carefully practiced tone only to grapple the urge of sullying her ears with his wicked tongue.

Flipping another page, she responds, "Couldn't sleep."

He retorts, "Sleep again."

"I did."

He sighs.

How did she even get in here? This room is only reserved for him. He even doubles his pay to the innkeeper for having at least one secluded place for himself, since his sleeping quarters has such cramped space - in his opinion - and is frankly uncomfortable.

As he is about to throw another question, she interrupts him through silently pointing at the door, its lock breached and the entrance slightly gaping, as if she has read his mind. How she even manages to let herself inside - specifically through breaking the door in the process - truly astounds and equally dumbfounds him, knowing he does not even hear or notice any sound of her stepping inside here in the first place.

Sneaky chit. Wishing to put an end to this mishap of a meeting, he then tells her, "You found me. Is there something you need?"

"Nothing in particular."

His brow quirks ever so slightly. "You know how to read?"

The little meddler languidly flips another page. "I could only understand . . . a little."

Really? Well, it is quite evident enough that she is struggling to try. "Are you interested in reading then?"

She shrugs.

Naevius sighs once again. This time, lengthy and peeved.

He is in no position humoring the paltry whims of an insomniac orphan.

He might consider having a word with his aide about fine-tuning his monitoring skills regarding this night's mischance and a rather painfully long reprimand for the sake of being disrupted in his precious pastime.

A goal is finally set on his mind. One that he is willing to strive for. As he departs the comfort of his seat, he marches forth towards the girl with an air of coolheadedness. Without reservation, he abruptly shuts the book before her and withdraws it from her reach, placing it in a nearby drawer. Of course, he is fully aware that it is most discourteous to behave such, especially when he is more inclined in engaging in his cultivated habits, though unfortunately for her, he strongly believes in a tit for tat.

Ushering her to hop off the stool, he then leads her to his stride. "Well then, off you go now," he bids hastily, directing her to the door. "You're weary. Get some rest."

Balking her movements, she comments solely based from scrutiny, "But you won't also go to sleep."

"That is because I have matters to attend to."

"And because I took your bed."

Such a loquacious mouth. "Well, take the opportunity to sleep on it," he ripostes, hoping for this dilemma to conclude soon. "I don't plan to retire now if that is what you are concerned about."

She stares at him and deadpans, "I'm not concerned about that, Navi."

He halts.

He pacifies his temper at bay.

He is a respectably placid-mannered intellectual, a very patient man.

And he will not lose his composure because of a child.

No, rather, an impudent brat.

"Little girl," he utters in his gentlest voice yet each syllable bears venom, heavily glossed over with refined gentility. "Even if I allowed you to address me with my name, it would not mean that you call me with . . . such unimaginative pet names."

"You only said you don't like titles," she cites his words from their past introduction and for a moment he can spot that luster of what appears to be amusement in those aloof, childish eyes. "You didn't say that I shouldn't call you with pet names, Navi."

"My, what a sly tongue you possess," he remarks with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "I will not tolerate that sort of insolence under my roof."

"Your name is too long."

"I care not," Naevius carps sternly, his brows furrowing and his frown sinking further into a scowl.

The best response he attains is a raised brow, stubborn and every bit as opposing as she is.

Folding his arms out of annoyance, he glares back reproachfully. "Let us hear your name and see what you will feel if you are given such unfitting pet name."

Instead of another quip, her mouth is silent and sewn shut. She murmurs under her breath, "I have no name."

His eyes widen from her reply, both in realization and a tad bit of guilt. How can he forget such a small, significant fact? "Ah, right," he clears his throat awkwardly, imposing to act mature and accepting of his blunder. "Excuse my behavior for disregarding such a . . . personal matter."

Much to his surprise and relief, she does not even shed a tear. Then again, she appears nonchalant about it. Lightly scratching the top of her scalp, she reiterates bluntly, "I don't really mind," she graces him a half-hearted shrug. "Names don't matter that much."

His brow arches critically. "Would you prefer I call you 'brat' than a name of your own?"

The Fanalis child blinks, unable to think of a better retort that can defend her opinion.

Releasing a sigh of defeat, she mutters relentingly, "Maybe, it does matter a little."

Mirth perks a smile upon the corners of his lips for she can no longer contest back. "Names do matter, little one. Most of the time they ingrain your identity to another. Sometimes they hold a certain power to people," he voices his opinion, imparting that golden piece of knowledge to her ignorant mind. He darts his gaze back at her and yet again their is that expression he cannot fathom. For a moment he cannot tell if she truly grasped his words or is simply ruminating over them.

He sighs inwardly. Maybe one day, he should mend that pallid face of hers into one that is teeming with vivid, animated emotions.

Buoying up the mood of their conversation, he suggests, "Say, do you wish to have a name?"

Her crimson eyes pulse wide.

She twiddles her thumbs.

"I've never really given it much thought . . ."

Naevius goads, "Well, it is still better than being referred to as 'brat', is it not?"

"Mhmm," she nods, musing in consideration. "I heard mothers are supposed to name their child. I don't remember any mother. Maybe, I don't have one . . . wouldn't that mean I can't have a name?"

He tosses her a look of disbelief, eliciting his disagreement in her notion yet at the same time discouraging her to broach that sort of gibberish in future gabbles. "Ridiculous. It is true that a mother is given the right to name her child but that would not mean that you cannot give yourself one," he reasons. "Well, now that you are enlightened, you could name yourself. I won't do it for you. After all, it is your name and you certainly have the right to do so."

Contrary to his previous endeavors of casting her away from his study, he offers her the stool she once sat at, knowing this conversation might just be longer than he anticipated, but she respectfully denies and sits cross-legged on the wooden floor instead. He raises a brow. Odd chit. With a shrug, he perches himself on the said stool. "What would you like to be called then?"

"Hmm . . . "

"How about Laelia?"

She shakes her head.

"No?" he says. "Camilla?"

She shakes her head again.

"Well, there is Cassia or Aquila— then again, all of those are Reiman names," he states, cupping his chin. "Would you prefer Cathargoan names?"

"Seneca."

"There is Astarte— what was that?"

Flicking his gaze back at her, he cannot help but scrutinize in wonder her sudden shift in behavior at present. That stone-faced girl, that little meddler, discloses the slightest whits of curiosity and blithe and the most prominent traces of want. Something which a child of her age should express openly. Something which she has not executed thus far. She rubbernecks the book he has taken away from her reach and marvels at the sight as if rekindling a wondrous memory.

And that large, weather-beaten book is not a literary work, but a journal of old adventures and experiences. It is from his grandfather.

In those derring-do stories of his, most people do not call him Lord Alexius. Oh no, they rave him as, Seneca, the Navigator.

So she truly is reading that time ago. But . . .

Seneca. That name?

More determined, she repeats, "Seneca."

Arching a fine brow, he begins to contemplate about her favored name yet the creases in his visage mark his final thought of the matter. "Seneca, hm? I don't believe it would fit you," he jibs insouciantly, enervating what should have been the exuberant, accepting episode from her expectations. "It is a name well suited for a boy."

For a moment he ponders if this child has lack of taste in choosing names.

"I don't mind," she tells him frankly. "I like that name."

"Are you content of that name?"

She nods.

"Well, that is your choice," he says yet his mind still disapproves that choice of hers. "Seneca, it is."

As she rises through her feet with a mild stretch and a pat to her garb, he stands alongside her, pads at her direction, and pats her shoulder with a gleeful simper on his lips. Though upon closer inspection, it is not a gratulatory simper but more of an elated grin of triumph. Of course, possessing a name of her own is truly a momentous event for her yet there is no other bliss in this world than to finally be done with this small mishap. Specifically meaning, he will finally engage back to his previous activities. This time, no interruptions.

His hand glides to her back and he ushers her once again to the door. Fortunately, the girl submits to him without protest or quip. "Congratulations. Now, go to sleep. Children need their sleep, no?" he maunders and successfully places her outside of his room. "You're interrupting my study and I'd like my own company for this night."

She blinks probably from the sudden change of events. Then she looks up at him.

Much to his surprise, she does not shoot him another witty retort.

A small, genuine smile curls her lips. "Thank you, Navi."

His bright eyes slightly broaden but soften after. He smiles. "Your welcome," he replies. "Seneca."