They stepped out of the library's heavy silence and into the crisp twilight. The walk next door was short, but Serena felt compelled to fill it.
[I genuinely didn't notice I was emitting mana,] she confessed, the telepathic tone apologetic.
"Obviously," Salih said, not breaking stride. "Get better."
Internally, she wrestled with the concept. She knew what an 'aura' was—the ambient energy from the mana actively held within one's core. The greater the internal reserve, the larger and more potent the aura. It wasn't a measure of skill or total capacity—only how much mana you were currently holding and circulating. However, taking in as much mana as you can and maintaining it could achieve that effect.
In Virgil's era, suppressing it was inconceivable. This world, vast and brutal, operated on a hierarchy of fear—in the past, at least. A powerful aura was a banner, a warning, a claim to territory. It was the only universal language: I am here, and I am strong.
She had assumed, wrongly, that because she wasn't actively drawing on the ocean of power within her, her aura would be negligible. But the rate of output—the constant, trickle-stream of mana she'd been using for the translation spell—must have been significant enough to saturate space of the library.
Inside the house, the warmth of the hearth was a welcome contrast. [Salih,] she began, [would it be acceptable if, after today, I did my studying outside of town? To avoid disturbance.]
He hung up his coat, not looking at her. "Do whatever you want."
She noted the non-refusal. It felt like another unspoken concession: even if you fail tomorrow, you can still leech off my guest room.
Though, there was no need for it.
[What is the library's borrowing policy?]
This made him turn, eyebrows raised. "Are you planning to study through the night?"
[Yes.]
He let out a short breath. "It operates on a trust system. You can borrow a small number of books at first. The more you return in good condition, the more you can borrow concurrently. If you return them too quickly, the librarians will notice and may question you. They have the right to refuse service. Do not abuse it."
[Understood. I'm going to go out for a while tonight. I'd like to practice.]
"Practice what? Do not even entertain the thought of looking for a bear, Serena. You might be some freaky transmigrator, but you are almost certainly lacking the specific mental defenses required."
The warning was sharp. [Mental defenses? Against bears?]
"Against what the bears... do," he clarified cryptically, his expression grim. "Just trust me. Do not seek them out alone."
[I won't. I just wanted to calibrate my ice magic. For the test tomorrow.]
"Fine. Don't scare anyone." He waved a dismissive hand. "Take a shower when you come back. I don't want someone stinky in my house."
Serena headed out, making for the open tundra beyond the last pasture. She found a broad, flat field dominated by what was most likely a single, house-sized stone deposited by ice. It would serve as a backstop.
So far, 'her' ice magic had been used for practical use: the freeze of an ocean as a path, a crude reinforcement of clothing. Now, she needed a weapon, but one that was removed from Virgil's style of cataclysmic tyranny.
She focused. At the tip of her index finger, the air shimmered and condensed. A perfect sphere of ice, the size of a pea, formed instantly. Then, with a thought, it shot forward with a soft crack, embedding itself in the stone with a sharp ping. She walked over. The crater was small, deep.
'Good. Velocity comparable to a firearm from Earth.'
This level of control was child's play compared to Virgil's repertoire; he'd mastered manipulations far more complex by adolescence. But for her, she didn't want to hone attack power. In a way, it felt like him—always looking to get stronger. And, more importantly, she didn't need it.
'What's the point of having a deadly weapon if you don't need it?' Maybe she would when faced with Antikleia—but that wasn't right now. This was her application, her choice of form and function. It felt clean.
She practiced. Pea-sized, then marble-sized, then the size of a grape. Each pellet flew true, punching into the ice. She focused on efficiency—the minimum mana for the maximum effect. No wasteful spectacle.
Eventually, she shaped a spike of ice, long and slender like a trident. She didn't hurl it; she conjured it already in motion, the same principle as the pellets but scaled up. It crossed the distance in a blur of silver and struck not with a ping, but a deep, resonant thud.
That should be sufficient. A demonstration of fine control and potent, focused force. Not world-breaking, and definitively useful.
By the time she was fully satisfied, the aurora was shimmering green overhead. It was midnight. She returned to the silent house. On the kitchen counter where she sat earlier that day, under a woven cloth, was a plate. A thick slice of dark bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and some smoked meat. There was a note on it—a crude drawing of a woman with long hair eating bread.
She stared at it, a smile forming on her lips. She ate. The food was simple, hearty, and tasted of kindness. After, she took a quick, quiet shower. She changed into her new, blissfully soft pajamas, then slipped into the bed in the guest room.
This time, Serena did not dream at all. It was a deep, blank, and perfectly peaceful sleep.