Gunmage-Chapter 217: Stones and Specters

"It’s about time we woke him up."

Aveline glanced at the still-sleeping Lugh, her expression uncertain. The boy’s sleeves remained pulled up, exposing the gruesome, self-inflicted wounds that marred his forearm.

The incomplete runic symbol carved into his skin still pulsed red, irritated and angry. It would have bled, had Selaphiel not intervened.

She was the one who had treated the injury, carefully halting the bleeding—but notably, she had chosen not to cover the wound afterward.

Instead, she left it exposed, studying the half-formed rune with clinical precision, as if trying to decipher something important in its chaotic strokes.

Aveline pursed her lips, a crease forming on her brow as she asked hesitantly,

"Is it okay to wake him? He won’t... you know... lose his mind or something, right?"

Selaphiel rolled her eyes in response, her tone dismissive.

"Stop exaggerating the issue,"

She chided, before stepping forward and shaking Lugh lightly by the shoulder.

"Hey. Wake up, kid. We’re here."

Lugh stirred as if surfacing from a deep and dreamless sleep. His body moved slowly, deliberately, as he sat upright.

First, his left eye opened—just slightly, revealing the dim interior of the carriage, bathed in warm, golden morning sunlight pouring in through the open windows.

A second later, his right eye blinked open, revealing a different world entirely—one washed in gray shadow, cold and filled with phantasmal shapes that danced at the edges of his vision.

The two visions did not overlap. They coexisted independently, layered over each other in parallel, neither internal nor fully external.

It took Lugh a moment to adjust. Then, with slow intention, he reached outward—stretching his senses far beyond the confines of the carriage.

In the distance, the other two versions of himself—puppets housed deep within the manor—stirred and rose.

For a moment, his consciousness reconnected with them. One of those selves had been meant to observe the planned meeting between Isolde and Lance once the branch family had assembled.

But that possibility was no longer within reach.

His attention returned to the present. Lugh turned slightly, peering through the carriage window.

Beyond it, shadowy figures wandered in droves, on the opened fields.

His gaze caught the rows of headstones spread out in all directions, and the ethereal forms drifting among them.

He asked coldly, voice devoid of emotion,

"Why are we in a graveyard?"

There was nothing in his tone that warranted alarm, but Aveline felt a sudden chill slip down her spine regardless.

She couldn’t explain why—just that something about the way he said it unsettled her. It reminded her faintly of the shift that had occurred when he returned from Drakensmar, though not nearly as pronounced.

Selaphiel, on the other hand, showed no reaction to the shift. If anything, she registered it silently and chose to ignore it. She answered his question flatly.

"This is the location of Cross Manor,"

She said, nodding toward the opposite window. Beyond it, the looming stone walls of white and ash-gray rose tall and still. They were cracked in places, timeworn, and solemn.

"A dreary place, I tell you,"

Selaphiel added with a click of her tongue, adjusting the brim of her wide hat and the lace of her veil as she looked out briefly.

Outside, the dull thrum of voices had begun to rise. The rest of their extended family—cousins and distant relatives, disembarking from the trailing carriages—had already begun to gather, speaking animatedly amongst themselves.

Lugh observed them briefly, and shook his head, his expression unreadable. To him, the entire affair seemed more like a school excursion than a family gathering.

But that wasn’t the reason he shook his head.

He recalled, faintly, a detail someone had mentioned in passing: that Lyra had refused to learn magic from a young age.

The oppressive weight of this place—the graveyard, the manor, the residual sorrow clinging to the air—didn’t suit the bubbly, cheerful attitude he had come to associate with her.

A cheerful girl who had somehow retained her spark through two years of war and service.

Taking all this in, Lugh reached a conclusion. He turned back to the others.

"Is the Cross family’s magic centered around manipulating the souls of the dead?"

Aveline visibly flinched at the question.

Selaphiel only stared at him for a moment, as if trying to determine how much he already knew.

Then she answered.

"Not just the dead. Phantoms, ghosts, otherworldly wraiths—everything that slips through the veil. They’re a family of spirit mediums who specialize in conjuration."

Lugh nodded slowly, processing the information. For the first time, he found himself empathizing—at least partially—with Lyra’s adolescent rebellion.

Refusing to learn such a craft made a certain kind of sense now.

The door to the carriage creaked open. A valet stood outside, his posture faultless. One hand rested against his chest, the other extended horizontally in perfect form, gesturing for them to disembark.

Aveline began to rise, but Selaphiel stopped her with a hand.

The elf, having only just adjusted her veil properly, offered the valet a sweet, almost sugary voice.

"You can close the door. We’ll leave by ourselves when it’s time."

"...Very well,"

The man replied, bowing once more before shutting the door gently behind him with a faint thud.

Aveline glanced at Selaphiel with curiosity flickering in her eyes. Lugh, meanwhile, remained perfectly still—gazing forward, as if he could see straight through the carriage wall.

Which, in fact, he could. But there was no reason for them to know that.

No one in the carriage could tell what was going through his mind. But that didn’t matter.

Selaphiel spoke again.

"My instructions are going to be directed at Lugh, so Aveline—you can leave, if you want."

"...I’ll stay."

Selaphiel nodded slightly. Then, without further delay, she turned her full attention to Lugh.

"I have some rules for you to follow."

"Rules?"

Lugh echoed. He was curious about her phrasing.

"Yes,"

She said firmly.

"It’s imperative that you don’t break any of them. If you do, all our subsequent plans will fall apart."

Lugh didn’t respond immediately. He could tell she wasn’t being dramatic for effect. Whatever she had in mind, she was serious.

"I’m listening,"

He said at last.

"Good,"

Selaphiel replied.

"Firstly, you must not react or respond to any provocations from other people—no matter how far they might go. This is actually the most important rule. It will be difficult, but I trust you can persevere."

Lugh frowned. Her instruction made sense, but the implications were troubling. It sounded difficult—dangerous, even. His mind ran through scenarios quickly.

What was he supposed to do if someone walked up to him and slapped him? Or spat on him? Was he really expected to simply... let it go?

"I’m not sure that’s possible,"

He replied, his tone honest.

"Oh, but it is possible,"

Selaphiel countered.

"You have to make it possible."

The sharpness in her voice made Lugh sigh. Still, the clarity of her intentions was beginning to form in his mind.

"Don’t worry,"

He said, voice low.

"I’m here to watch a duel. It was never my intention to get into a fight."

"Oh yeah?"

Aveline interjected, her voice dry with skepticism. Her gaze slid toward the far corner of the carriage where a long bundle lay wrapped in dark cloth.

"Then why did you bring the sword?"

Lugh blinked.

"Oh. Right. That... that is—"

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