"Good morning, Lady Hermione."

"Lady Hermione."

As Hermione descended the grand staircase, respectful greetings followed her from the estate’s staff. It had felt strange at first, but over the past years, she had grown accustomed to the respect reserved for nobility. She was even getting used to her new title as an adopted daughter of the Rubenhart House. With a Head as imposing and composed as Ulrich at the helm, it felt impossible not to absorb the true essence of nobility.

Stepping out into the morning air, Hermione raised her hand with a confident smile. She channeled her mana, watching as her signature, warm crimson mana rippled and coalesced just above her palm. Within seconds, a delicate red bird materialized, perching lightly on her fingers. Though it was classified as a Rank 2 spell and seemed quite simple at first glance, maintaining its physical form required an important mental focus.

Hermione admired the glowing creature for a moment before lifting her hand to let it take flight. Pressing her index and middle fingers against her right eye, she linked her sight with the bird. Through the bird’s eyes, she watched her own figure shrink as it soared higher into the morning sky.

"Now, find Airam," she whispered, a much amused smile spreading across her lips.

She could never get enough of this spell. It drained a good amount of mana, just as expected, but the thrill of flight made it her favorite. Besides, she already had a strong suspicion about her sister’s whereabouts. Airam wasn’t always there, but it was usually her safest bet.

Guiding the bird over the grounds, Hermione directed it toward a cluster of vibrant, colorful rose tree, the quiet spot where their mother had been buried. The mana bird hovered over the blossoms, peering downward. Sure enough, Airam was kneeling in the grass near the flowers. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Both of Airam’s hands were raised, her fingers delicately weaving and manipulating floating runes that pulsed with a dark, ominous glow. It was pure witchcraft. Manipulating runes in such a raw, unstructured way was tedious and virtually impossible for ordinary mages. They needed a base to work the runes, which was the circle, also called a ’Ring’.

Witches, possessing a denser network of veins within their bodies, had an innate advantage, but even for them, the practice was highly complex and bordered on dangerous without proper training, especially when one attempted it alone without help.

Hermione felt a familiar pang of worry watching her sister tamper with the runes. However, it was hardly the first time she had caught Airam practicing like this, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Suddenly, Airam stopped. She tilted her head up, her pitch-black eyes snapping directly to the hovering mana bird. The intensity of her gaze caught Hermione off guard. Startled, Hermione’s focus shattered, and the crimson bird instantly dissolved into a wisp of fading magic.

"Hah... no fair," Hermione pouted slightly, dropping her hand from her eye with a sigh.

She began the walk through the familiar path to fetch her sister in person. If she didn’t intervene, Airam might continue weaving runes for hours, which would inevitably draw Ulrich’s annoyance. Ulrich didn’t mind them pursuing their own eccentric hobbies once their daily lessons were finished, but when it came to their scheduled education and tutoring, he was uncompromisingly strict.

In fact, it didn’t matter to Ulrich if the girls possessed genius-level talent; he couldn’t care less about natural aptitude if it wasn’t honed by discipline. He expected them to attend all their lessons and absorb every drop of knowledge offered to them. In that regard, he had clearly inherited a dose of his father’s strict demeanor.

Not that this rigid schedule bothered the sisters too much. Still, Hermione preferred spending her hours in the grandmaster’s magical classes rather than suffering through Linnea’s literacy and poetry lectures. Esther, for some unfathomable reason, adored the poetry lessons, a gentle sentiment Hermione couldn’t quite wrap her head around. As for Airam, it was nearly impossible to tell if she actually enjoyed any of her subjects. Even during the grandmaster’s magic sessions, she remained completely aloof, absorbing the material with a detached, unbothered air. Yet, she always executed the spells flawlessly, never once uttering a word of complaint.

Hermione knew perfectly well that Airam preferred witchcraft over the rigid structures of ’ordinary’ magic. But since there were no witchcraft tutors to be found, Airam was left to teach herself, working through the obscure runes alone, and surprisingly, she was excelling.

It wasn’t that Hermione disliked witchcraft or lacked curiosity about it. But to her pragmatic mind, it felt like an inefficient use of time. Why stumble in the dark with self-study when they had a veteran mage right there to teach them conventional magic faster and more effectively? Besides, from Hermione’s perspective, traditional spellcasting simply felt cleaner and more logical than the tangled, visceral nature of witchcraft anyway.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Hermione followed the winding dirt path, brushing past the older, somewhat eerie headstones of the estate’s main graveyard. She headed straight for a secluded clearing ringed by tall, protective trees. At the center stood a breathtaking sight: a magnificent tree sprouting a large variety of colorful roses from its branches. It was obviously an artificially nurtured creation, but its beauty was real. Hermione noted with a faint smile that the trunk had definitely grown thicker and the canopy taller since the first time she had laid eyes on it.

She lowered her gaze to the figure at the base of the trunk. Airam was still kneeling on the damp grass, right in front of the slightly raised mound of earth that marked their mother’s final resting place.

The soil was blanketed in a vibrant array of petals. Beautifully woven garlands, made from every color of rose the tree produced, draped gently over the grave. It had been Esther’s idea to decorate the spot with such lively colors. Every single week, without fail, the three sisters would gather there. They would sit quietly side-by-side in the grass, picking fresh flowers and knotting them together into new decorations for their mother.

The clearing definitely had a soothing tranquility, and Hermione honestly couldn’t blame her older sister for spending the majority of her free time here. Of the three of them, Airam had been the one to shed the fewest tears when their mother passed, rarely showing any outward signs of grief. But Hermione knew that Airam’s stoicism didn’t mean she loved their mother any less.

If anything, Airam had admired their mother the most, looking up to her with love and admiration. Airam’s drive to master witchcraft wasn’t just her embracing what she was; it was her own way of keeping their mother’s legacy alive.