The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

The staff of the Annex Mansion had grown accustomed to many unusual circumstances since Klaus Lionhart had returned from his month of training at Ludovic's estate. The sudden growth spurt that had transformed the boy overnight. His rapid advancement to Swordmaster. And now the mysterious black beast that had appeared shortly before Klaus's departure for White Lion, terrifying the servants with its mere presence.

But nothing had prepared them for the current situation.

"It's been howling for three days straight," Lina reported, her usually unflappable demeanor showing signs of strain. "The other servants refuse to enter the east wing entirely. And the messengers from the main estate won't approach the mansion at all."

Elisabeth stood at the window of her private chambers, one hand resting protectively over the gentle swell of her abdomen—evidence of the new life growing within her. Her pregnancy had become noticeable in recent weeks, though few outside the Annex Mansion knew of it. Another secret to keep, another complication in an already complex situation. She had hoped for different circumstances before the world learned of this child.

"Has anyone been injured?" she asked, her voice calm despite the obvious worry etched into her features.

"No, my lady. The beast refuses to let anyone near, but it hasn't attacked. It just... cries. And paces. And occasionally breaks things."

Another haunting sound drifted through the mansion—not quite a roar, not quite a wail, but something in between. A sound of such profound anguish that even the hardened guards stationed around the perimeter had been seen wiping away unbidden tears.

"Leave us," Elisabeth said suddenly, turning from the window. "Clear the east wing entirely. Post guards at the outer doors, but no one is to enter without my express permission."

Lina's eyes widened. "My lady, you cannot mean to—"

"I do." Elisabeth's tone left no room for argument. "This has gone on long enough."

"But the child," Lina protested, gesturing toward Elisabeth's belly. "If the beast should become violent—"

"The creature is not merely a beast," Elisabeth corrected firmly. "He is my son's contracted familiar and is suffering. Klaus would not want him neglected."

Lina recognized the expression on her mistress's face—the same stubborn determination that had led Elisabeth to marry the disgraced Ludovic against all resistance, the same fierce protectiveness that had guided her every decision regarding Klaus since his birth. It was a quality that set her apart from the typical Lionhart temperament, a reminder of her own mysterious heritage.

"As you wish, my lady," she conceded with a bow. "But I will inform Lord Ludovic upon his return."

"Do as you must." Elisabeth was already moving toward the door, her decision made.

Ludovic had been summoned to the main estate three days prior to consult with Roman and Raphael regarding Klaus's condition. His absence weighed heavily on Elisabeth, especially now, but she understood the necessity. If anyone could provide insight into their son's unique constitution, it would be Ludovic, who had suffered his own mysterious injury years before.

The journey through the mansion's corridors felt longer than usual, the emptiness amplifying the dragon's distant cries. As Elisabeth approached the east wing, the sound grew louder, more desperate—a keening that seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the walls.

She paused at the sealed doors that separated the main residence from Klaus's private quarters, where Dudu had taken up residence since Klaus's departure. A pair of guards stood at attention, their expressions betraying their discomfort.

"Open it," she commanded.

The guards exchanged glances. "My lady," one began hesitantly, "the dragon has become increasingly... unstable. We cannot guarantee your safety."

Elisabeth fixed him with a stare that betrayed none of her inner concerns. "I did not ask for your assessment. I ordered you to open the door."

Reluctantly, they complied, unlocking the heavy wooden doors and pushing them open just enough for Elisabeth to pass through. The keening momentarily stopped, replaced by a low, dangerous growl that echoed through the corridor beyond.

"Wait here," Elisabeth instructed. "Do not follow me, regardless of what you hear."

She stepped through the doorway, her heartbeat steady despite the danger. Klaus's quarters lay at the end of the corridor—a suite of rooms specially designed to accommodate both his studies and Dudu's needs. After their bonding, Klaus had insisted on renovations that would allow the dragon proper space to grow.

As Elisabeth approached, the growling intensified, vibrating through the floor beneath her feet. She paused outside the final door, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"It's Elisabeth," she called, her voice gentle but firm. "Klaus's mother."

The growling stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence.

Slowly, she pushed the door open.

The scene inside was one of contained devastation. Furniture lay splintered against walls. Books and scrolls were scattered across the floor. The large skylight Klaus had installed in the ceiling had been shattered, allowing rain from earlier storms to pool on the stone floor.

And in the center of it all, coiled in a tight ball of gleaming black scales, lay the creature Klaus had simply called "Dudu."

The mysterious beast had grown since its first appearance, now approximately the size of a large dog. Its scales, black as polished obsidian, seemed to absorb what little light entered the room. What Elisabeth had initially taken for strange protrusions had developed into unmistakable wings, folded tightly against its body, occasionally twitching with obvious distress.

But it was his eyes that caught Elisabeth's attention—golden orbs filled with an intelligence and grief that transcended animal consciousness. They fixed on her now with unmistakable recognition.

"Dudu," she said again, slowly approaching with her hands visible. "I know you're suffering. I know you miss him."

The dragon uncoiled slightly, his head rising to track her movement. A low sound rumbled from his throat—not a growl, but something softer, almost a whimper.

"I miss him too," Elisabeth continued, taking another step forward. "We all do. But destroying his rooms won't bring him back to us any faster."

The creature's wings unfurled partially, revealing a strange emblem on its chest—matching the mark that had appeared on Klaus's arm after their bonding. It pulsed with a faint, erratic rhythm, like a heart struggling to maintain its beat.

Elisabeth gestured to her own chest. "You feel it, don't you? The emptiness where his presence should be."

The dragon's head tilted, his golden eyes narrowing. He seemed to be studying her with newfound interest.

Slowly, carefully, Elisabeth approached until she stood just beyond reach of his claws. "I carried him within me for nine months," she said, her hand moving to her abdomen, where another child now grew. "I felt his life from the first flutter. I know what it is to be connected to him."

Dudu's gaze followed her hand, focusing on the small swell of her pregnancy. A curious sound emerged from his throat—a gentle, questioning trill.

"Yes," Elisabeth confirmed, understanding the unspoken query. "A brother or sister for Klaus. A new life."

She took a final step forward, now within reach of the dragon's claws and teeth. It was a calculated risk, but one born of instinct rather than recklessness. "Klaus will return to us. But until then, we must be strong for him."

For a long moment, Dudu remained perfectly still, his golden eyes locked with hers. Then, with a grace that belied his size, he lowered his head until it nearly touched the floor—a gesture of submission, or perhaps acceptance.

Elisabeth reached out and placed her hand gently atop his head. The scales felt warm beneath her palm, contrary to their cold appearance. "I know you've tried to reach him through your bond," she said softly. "I can see how it's draining you."

The dragon's eyes closed briefly, a shudder running through his entire body. When they opened again, Elisabeth was struck by the depth of emotion they conveyed—frustration, desperation, and a profound loneliness.

"You can sense him, can't you? But you can't reach him."

A soft trill of confirmation.

Elisabeth settled carefully onto the floor beside the creature, her hand still resting on its head. For a fleeting moment, the touch reminded her of something from her childhood—a connection to a heritage she had deliberately left behind when she married Ludovic. Perhaps there was wisdom there that might help Klaus now. Her pregnancy made the position somewhat uncomfortable, but she ignored the discomfort. "Tell me what you feel. Show me, if you can."

The dragon's eyes fixed on hers with sudden intensity. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Elisabeth felt a strange pressure against her consciousness—not invasive, but questioning. A request rather than a demand.

Instinctively, she understood. The Meister bond allowed communication beyond words, and Dudu was attempting to share his perception with her. She nodded her consent.

The sensation changed, becoming more focused. Suddenly, Elisabeth perceived a vast, dark space—not empty, but fragmented. Shards of consciousness scattered across an incomprehensible void. Familiar yet distorted, like reflections in broken glass. Klaus, but not whole. Present, but unreachable.

And surrounding everything, a presence that made her very soul recoil—ancient, vast, and fundamentally alien. Gluttony.

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving Elisabeth gasping. "That's what you sense? That's where he is?"

Dudu's trill was confirmation enough.

"How often have you tried to reach him?" she asked, though she suspected the answer.

The dragon's gaze moved to the shattered skylight, then back to her. Day and night. Continuously. Without rest.

"No wonder you're exhausted," Elisabeth murmured, genuine concern replacing her initial fear. "You've been fighting to reach him since the moment they brought him back."

She shifted position, allowing Dudu to rest his head in her lap. The dragon's size made this somewhat awkward, but he adjusted himself carefully, mindful of her condition. His scales were surprisingly soft against her dress.

"You must rest," she told him firmly. "Depleting yourself won't help Klaus. When he returns to us, he'll need your strength."

Dudu made a sound of protest, but Elisabeth shook her head. "I know you don't want to abandon him. But this isn't abandonment—it's preservation. You must conserve your strength for when it can truly make a difference."

The dragon's golden eyes studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her words against his instinct to continue his desperate reaching. Finally, his body relaxed slightly, a sign of reluctant agreement.

"Good," Elisabeth said, relief evident in her voice. "Now, let's see about cleaning this room and getting you properly fed. How long has it been since you ate?"

Dudu's silence was answer enough.

Elisabeth managed a small smile, her hand stroking his scales with maternal gentleness. "We will face this together, Dudu. For Klaus's sake, and for our own."

The dragon closed his eyes, exhaustion finally claiming him now that he had permitted himself to rest. His breathing slowed, though occasional tremors still passed through his body—evidence of dreams, or perhaps continued efforts to reach his master even in sleep.

Elisabeth remained where she was, unwilling to disturb him. She gazed around the devastated room, taking in the evidence of the creature's distress. Behind the destruction lay something poignant—a being of immense power reduced to helplessness by the absence of its bonded human. The Beast Art that had manifested so unexpectedly in Klaus—her family's legacy that she had hoped would remain dormant—had created this bond that now caused such suffering.

She thought of Klaus, lying in the Frost Chamber at the main estate, his consciousness shattered by whatever had happened at Northwatch. Raphael's daily reports offered little hope of immediate recovery. Roman had even consulted ancient texts that spoke of similar cases—instances where powerful mages had attempted magic beyond their capacity and lost themselves in the process.

None of those cases had ended well.

A movement beneath her hand drew Elisabeth's attention back to Dudu. The dragon emblem on his chest pulsed once, stronger than before, then returned to its erratic rhythm. A coincidence, perhaps. Or perhaps something more.

"Hold on, my son," she whispered, the words meant for Klaus despite the impossible distance. "Find your way back to us."

Outside, rain began to fall once more, drops pattering through the broken skylight to form expanding circles in the puddles below. In her lap, Dudu slept on, his exhaustion finally claiming victory over his desperate vigilance.

Elisabeth glanced down at her growing belly, where Klaus's sibling developed in blissful ignorance of the family's turmoil. "Your brother will meet you," she promised the unborn child. "He is stronger than anyone knows."

As if in response, she felt a flutter of movement—the first definitive kick she had experienced in this pregnancy. A smile touched her lips despite the circumstances.

Life continued, even as other lives hung in balance. This was the way of things—growth alongside loss, hope intertwined with despair. Elisabeth had learned this lesson when Ludovic's core was shattered. She had learned it again when Klaus was born with the Curse of Darkness—a condition she sometimes feared might be connected to her own secretive lineage, to the Beast Emperor's blood that flowed in her veins.

She would endure this trial as she had endured those before it—with quiet strength and unflagging determination. For Klaus. For the creature that shared his fate. For the child growing within her.

And tomorrow, she would write to her father—a correspondence she had avoided for over a decade. If anyone might understand this connection between beast and human, it would be the reclusive lord whose bloodline had given Klaus his unexpected Beast Art. Her pride had kept her from seeking his help before, but for Klaus, she would swallow that pride and reach across the divide she herself had created.

And perhaps, though she rarely permitted herself to acknowledge it, for the small, fragile hope that her family might someday know peace.