Tales of Neglected ones

Sylas pov (14 year old)

The snow fell steadily outside the eastern greenhouse windows, each flake landing soundlessly on the glass panes above. The evening was still, muffled by the thick winter air that blanketed the estate grounds. It was the kind of cold that made the halls of the manor feel older, quieter — like time had slowed just enough for everything to breathe.

In the far corner of the greenhouse complex, down a narrow corridor most nobles never walked, a single lamp glowed behind a heavy wooden door.

The herb room.

The room smelled of dried leaves, crushed minerals, and faint citrus. A slow-burning alchemy burner warmed the center table, casting soft orange light over the notes and glassware scattered across its surface.

Sylas stood at the workbench, quietly grinding a dried stalk of ironstem into powder. His movements were steady, practiced. He added the powder to a nearly finished potion—his third batch that day. The solution turned a cool silver. He waited a few seconds, then nodded once.

Success.

He didn't smile. He simply took a breath, let the moment settle, and reached for the logbook. Another entry. Another detail. Another step.

This had become his rhythm over the past year and a half. Study. Practice. Brew. Fail. Retry. Record.

Day by day, he moved forward. Not quickly. Not loudly. But forward.

Alchemy had become his visible strength. One he could build with knowledge and care, not mana. His hands still bore faint burns from earlier failures. His shoulders had filled out slightly with age, no longer as thin and sharp as they once were. He wasn't taller than most, but he stood straighter now. More stable. Less uncertain.

The alchemists at the estate had started asking him quiet questions now and then — about ratios, about techniques. One of them even asked him to prepare ingredients for a noble's commissioned tonic last week. It wasn't a big moment. But it mattered to him.

He had earned it.

But only part of the truth lived on these shelves and in these vials.

Sylas reached beneath the table and slid a small crate toward him. Inside were carefully wrapped cloth bundles, a few scratched metal plates, and several pages folded tightly, corners worn from frequent handling.

He glanced toward the door — still closed — and opened one of the bundles.

Inside was a rune-lined plate connected to thin copper wires, leading into a small gemstone core. Unstable. Incomplete. The gem wasn't pure enough to hold steady charge, and the circuit design still bled mana around the edges. But it was his.

Magic engineering.

A field few without mana even dared to touch — let alone pursue alone.

He didn't have formal training. What he knew came from books he borrowed quietly, scraps of conversation, and long nights repeating the same simple assembly over and over. He failed constantly. But that didn't stop him.

This wasn't about catching up to the others.

It was about building something of his own.

Not just to survive. Not just to be useful. But because it gave him direction.

He stared down at the unfinished core, his fingers resting lightly on the etched lines. He didn't know if this would ever work. But trying gave shape to the part of him he rarely shared with anyone — especially not her.

Seraphina.

The thought of her came uninvited, but not unwelcome. She had just turned thirteen not long ago. Taller now, a little more elegant in how she walked and spoke, yet still with the same clear eyes and that warm, bright presence that softened every room she entered.

She still treated him like she always had. Like a trusted friend. Someone worth speaking to. Someone who mattered.

She asked him about his studies. Complimented his work in alchemy. Thanked him for the herbal teas he brewed for her when she had headaches.

But that was the extent of it.

She didn't know about the wires. The circuits. The hours he spent trying to understand how to shape magic through tools when he could never touch it himself.

She didn't know about the feeling he carried — the quiet warmth he never spoke of, the way her presence calmed him, the way her happiness affected his day more than he liked to admit.

She didn't know, because he never told her.

Because he wouldn't.

She deserved better than confusing feelings and half-spoken truths. He didn't want to be another distraction in a life already filled with expectations. And he wasn't foolish enough to mistake kindness for anything more than it was.

But even if she never looked at him that way, he wanted to become someone who could stand without shame.

Not to impress her.

Not to win her heart.

Just… to be someone worthy of the place she'd already given him in her world — even if that place remained at a quiet distance.

A knock came at the door — soft, hesitant.

Sylas quickly covered the engineering parts and wiped his hands.

"Come in," he called.

The door creaked open, and Seraphina stepped in, her boots dusted with snow. Her silver hair was tied back, and her cloak hung loosely around her shoulders.

"There you are," she said gently. "I thought you might still be in here."

Sylas blinked. "Did you need something?"

She shook her head. "Just checking in. You've been in here all evening."

He glanced at the burner. "I was testing a new batch. It stabilized."

She stepped closer, her gaze moving over the table. "Is that the sleep tonic again?"

"A modified version. Lower base viscosity. Should settle the nerves faster without numbing clarity."

She raised a brow. "You talk like one of the senior alchemists now."

Sylas looked down, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No," she said quickly. "That's a compliment."

She paused, then tilted her head.

"You really have changed, haven't you?"

Sylas didn't know what to say to that, so he gave a soft nod.

"I'm trying," he said.

Seraphina smiled — a soft, thoughtful smile that made something flutter in his chest before he buried it.

"You should rest soon," she said. "It's too cold to be working all night."

"I'll stop soon," he replied. "Just cleaning up."

She nodded once, hesitated like she might say more, then turned.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

As the door shut behind her, the silence returned.

Sylas exhaled and sat back on the stool.

He hadn't told her anything new. Hadn't let anything slip.

But somehow, the room felt warmer now.

The snow continued to fall outside, and quietly, Sylas returned to his notes — hands steady, breath calm.

Still walking forward.

End of chapter