**Chapter 11: Seven Circles of Flame**
The morning sun rose without ceremony, its golden rays stretching lazily across the Grand Duke's estate. Servants bustled about in silence, accustomed to the quiet majesty of the place. Knights sharpened blades that would never be fast enough. Scholars reviewed spell theory that would never be deep enough.
And in the heart of it all, Sirius Farah Von Ross—now twelve—sat in an underground chamber made entirely of obsidian and enchantments. His eyes were closed. His hands rested calmly on his knees.
Seven rings of blazing mana floated around him, spinning so fast they blurred into a storm of light.
The room wasn't meant for children. It wasn't meant for anyone below the Sixth Circle. Even seasoned archmages had to be stabilized before entering.
But Sirius wasn't just stable. He was in control.
The mana bowed to him.
Each circle was a different element—flame, ice, wind, shadow, light, earth, lightning—rotating as though caught in orbit around a star that had long since collapsed into something incomprehensible.
A 7th Class Magician.
At twelve.
And no one knew.
The magic department of the empire believed he had just begun showing aptitude for elemental resonance. The head of magical affairs in the capital thought he might reach the 5th Class by fifteen.
They were all wrong.
Utterly, painfully wrong.
A single whisper from him, and the chamber walls would collapse into dust. A single flick of his fingers, and the protective enchantments—each layered by ancient court mages—would be torn apart like mist.
But Sirius didn't speak. He didn't move.
Instead, he exhaled slowly. The rings of mana quieted, dimming to a faint glow before vanishing into nothingness.
He stood.
A servant outside the chamber opened the heavy doors as soon as he sensed the magic settle. He didn't speak—none of them ever did when Sirius left the training room.
The boy walked through the hallways in silence. He didn't acknowledge the low bows or the hurried steps of those who dared to glance his way.
To the estate, he was the brilliant young heir.
To the empire, he was a genius in the making.
To the world, he was a child of prophecy.
And yet… none of them saw the truth.
—
That evening, Sirius sat once more under the moonlight. The terrace had grown colder with autumn's approach, but he wore no cloak.
His sketchbook rested beside him, half-filled with shadows and moonlight, inked in delicate strokes. But tonight, he didn't draw.
Tonight, he simply spoke.
"They think I'm approaching the peak," he murmured, watching the clouds drift past the moon. "But I've already forgotten what their 'peak' even looks like."
His gaze didn't waver.
"They think I'm one of them. That I'm human."
He leaned back against the cold stone wall.
"I'm not."
The words weren't bitter. They were soft. Honest.
"They don't need to know. Let them believe."
A pause. The wind stirred the pages of his sketchbook.
"I don't need them to understand."
And then, with a voice even gentler than before, barely audible:
"I just need you to remember me."
He looked up again, and his crimson eyes reflected nothing but moonlight.
Above him, the sky remained unchanged.
But the stillness felt warmer.
The moon didn't speak.
She never did.
But she listened.
And that was enough.