SYMDF 33

Chapter 33

 

The boy was unusually thin, his face gaunt, heaving as though exhausted. He carried an atmosphere far older than his years.

For a moment, Ion forgot his pain, staring in wordless astonishment. The strange boy narrowed his eyes, repeating his question:

“You—are you from the Mage Tower?”

Ah.

Ion jolted from his daze, shaking his head vigorously.

“N-no! I… I came looking for my little sister.”

“…”

“She… she’s not here, is she?”

Saying it aloud reminded him of his original purpose—finding Emily. But then his eyes fell on his own swollen ankle, and despair washed him. He could barely stand; going down the tower would be impossible.

As his face paled, the boy watched silently. Then, as if deciding Ion mattered nothing to him, he turned away.

The only lifeline in this eerie place retreating—Ion’s panic burst out.

“Hey!”

The boy’s step faltered, but he didn’t answer.

“Hey! At least answer when someone talks to—ow!”

Ion tried rising but fell hard again, his body collapsing under the pain. Tears threatened. Then the boy was simply there, crouched in front of him without crossing the intervening space.

Teleportation? Ion gasped, staring wide-eyed.

The boy sighed, crouched low, and placed his hand gently on Ion’s injured ankle. His voice was flat:

“You’re hurt?”

“W-what? …Yes.”

The answer came haltingly. The boy’s brows drew tight. He removed Ion’s shoe carefully.

His ankle was swollen badly—weeks of limping ahead at best.

The boy bit his lip. His mutter slipped half-swallowed, almost inaudible:

“…I thought you were that one…”

The rest blurred into indistinct whispers. Ion blinked at him, confused.

“What?”

The closeness startled the boy, who recoiled quickly, widening the gap. Even so, Ion glimpsed the faint red burning on the tips of his ears.

Embarrassed?

Did I do anything? Ion thought absurdly, turning his eyes away in sheepish silence.

At last, the boy murmured stiffly:

“…Sorry.”

“Oh? So you do know that attack earlier hurt me.”

Ion had thought him shameless when he first tried leaving. But it seemed guilt lingered.

Still, apology wouldn’t heal his ankle. Ion pouted unconsciously. The boy bit down hard on his pale lips, then placed his hand again upon Ion’s ankle.

There—Ion noticed it. A heavy black shackle bound his wrist. No chains dangled, yet its oppressive weight was undeniable, far from decoration. His clothes too—the fabric was rough, ill-kept.

“My fault. I’ll heal it.”

The boy incanted softly. Mana glowed against Ion’s skin.

In moments, swelling subsided; pain drained as though unwound.

“…Woah!” Ion gasped. “You can use healing magic?”

“…Isn’t that obvious?”

Obvious? Ion sputtered inwardly. Most of his noble friends could barely control mana flow, yet here this boy cast offensive and healing magic effortlessly.

Is he… a prodigy?

Before Ion could ask, the boy stood abruptly, dusting himself off.

“No one else is here. Leave. Quickly.”

He turned away. Ion scrambled, limping after.

“Wait—who are you? Do you know this place is forbidden by His Majesty himself? You should leave too—”

He grabbed the boy’s sleeve. Cold eyes turned upon him, silencing his tongue.

Uneasy quiet thickened before Ion tried again.

“You… live here?”

The sleeve slid from Ion’s grasp. The boy stepped back.

“Go. It’s dangerous.”

Not dangerous for you? Ion ached to ask, but no time. The boy ascended the spiral stairs. Ion followed with his eyes. The boy paused, turning—his gaze chilling.

And Ion saw it then:

Those eyes were not merely cold. They sank deeper than the tower’s shadow. Heavy, black as death.

Ion had never seen such eyes—but he knew the feeling. It was the same emptiness he’d felt at his uncle’s funeral, staring upon flowers laid across the coffin.

His father had named it: void. Emptiness.

Watching his back vanish higher, Ion asked softly:

“…What’s your name?”

He expected silence, and for a time only that came. But then, from the shadows above, the boy’s voice carried:

“Camillus. Camillus Clodel.”

Clodel.

The Emperor’s name.

Ion froze where he stood, terror sliding cold through his bones. He was only a child, but he understood: this was a forbidden truth, a deadly secret.

He fled, heart hammering.

Down the stairs, through the tower halls, out the door, stumbling across ruined grass. Thoughts churned, tangled knots too heavy for his young mind.

The secret of the taboo tower.
The boy with shackled wrists.
Camillus Clodel.

At last, panting, he reached the outer arch. And then new footsteps echoed ahead. Startled, he ducked into tall grass, small body hidden well enough.

A cloaked figure moved past, entering the tower. Ion’s heart slammed.

“Are you from the Mage Tower?”

The stranger’s question returned like thunder.

Danger. Instinct screamed: do not ask further. Do not tell. Bury it.

So Ion fled—running as fast as his small legs carried him, all the way back toward the festival’s lights.

And there—Emily. Sitting by their mother’s side, swinging her feet as if nothing had happened.

The adults now fretted not over her disappearance, but Ion’s. His dusty clothes and scraped skin drew his mother’s fussing hands.

And the truth—that he had slipped into forbidden ground—stayed hidden.

It was fortunate.

Yet that night planted a seed too vast to ignore. From that day forward, Ion lived under the shadow of one secret too great to bear. Every night, sleep scattered under memories of the boy bound in chains.

Camillus Clodel.

Footnotes

• Shackles: The black iron band foreshadows Camillus’s imprisonment and branding as “sealed power.” It’s no accessory—the Empire restrained him itself. 

Healing Magic: Rare in children of their age group. Camillus’s mastery, even then, marks his prodigy.