Luna had only been at the Lancaster manor for a few days, but it already felt like she’d lived through an entire month of chaos, comedy, and things she was very certain were health hazards.

  The first time Grace’s Quanta-laced voice thundered “BREAKFAST!” through the halls, Luna thought the roof was collapsing. By the next day, she tried waking early to avoid being ambushed again.

  She still failed.

  The moment she cracked open her door, Trey vaulted over her head yelling, “MOVE, SMALL HUMAN!” Clyde stumbled down the stairs, Hector followed with a feather stuck in his hair, and Howard strode out like a war general reluctantly answering a battle summons.

  Francis passed by calmly, sipping tea.

  “Good morning,” he said, as if none of this was happening.

  Grace’s voice didn’t stop after breakfast. At any time of day, it could erupt through the manor:

  “CLYDE! COME GET YOUR FATHER OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”

  “HECTOR! DON’T FORGET TO CHECK THE STABLE’S STORAGE.”

  “TREEEEY, STOP EXISTING LIKE THAT!”

  Luna flinched every time.

  Francis didn’t even blink. “You’ll adapt.”

  When the chaos settled, most of the family drifted to the garden. Luna and Francis often sat on a shaded bench, pretending to observe the desert-defying greenery while actually observing the Lancaster brothers attempting to maim each other.

  “They call it training,” Francis murmured, flipping a page of his notebook. “I call it shared brain damage.”

  In the center of the garden, the three beasts sparred with the enthusiasm—and recklessness—of overgrown children with expensive toys. Inevitably, Trey always spotted them.

  “JOIN US!”

  Suddenly Luna found herself holding a sword heavier than her future. Hector corrected her stance gently, told her to swing, and she swung.

  She missed.

  She fell face-first into the sand.

  The brothers froze for one dramatic second.

  Then Trey clapped like she’d won a championship. “YES! She’s a natural!”

  Afterward, Clyde and Hector dragged a bleeding, scraped Trey to Francis—who cleaned their injuries with the patience of a disappointed parent. He was gentler with the older brothers, who ruffled his hair affectionately after.

  “You’re adorable,” Clyde declared.

  Francis went red.

  Trey bristled. “Stop flirting with my medic!”

  Later in the day, Luna sometimes found herself with Grace and Francis in the garden—simple moments of tea, quiet conversation, Grace making sure they rested and studied and ate properly. There was something soft and steady about it, something that wrapped around Luna before she could resist.

  Other times, Luna snuck outside with a handful of the red sand of Scarlet Dust. She let the sand trickle through her fingers, trying to project her Quanta through it. The result was always the same: a flicker, a spark, even small blades, but nothing special.

  Howard appeared behind her like a polite desert ghost.

  “What are you doing, little Lune?”

  “Trying to figure out my medium, sir.” she sighed. “Everything feels the same. Even this.”

  Howard studied her, then the sand.

  “…Did you try threatening it?”

  Luna blinked slowly. “Threatening… the sand?”

  He nodded with ancient wisdom. “It works on my sons.”

  She could not tell if he was joking.

  (He wasn’t.)

  Luna met another member of the Lancaster family. A manor cat named Cookie, who had decided Francis was its emotional support human. It followed him everywhere, perched on him, slept on him, and never left his side. Francis accepted this with grace.

  Trey did not.

  “WHY does everyone fall in love with you instantly?!”

  “Because I’m likable,” Francis said simply, stroking Cookie’s back.

  Cookie meowed in strong agreement.

  Afternoons sometimes devolved into naps. Francis napped politely, Luna napped quietly, and Trey—Trey treated naps as ambush opportunities.

  He jumped directly onto Francis.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “GET. OFF. ME.”

  He jumped onto Luna too.

  “WHY DO YOU DO THIS—”

  “Family bonding!”

  Cookie judged all of them from Francis’s chest.

  One day, Clyde and Hector hauled several crates into the courtyard. Howard called Luna over, excitement in his voice.

  “Time for your real spear.”

  “I already have one.”

  Trey shook his head. “You have a practice spear. You need a field spear. The one that can actually poke.”

  Francis nearly choked. “Stop teaching her like that.”

  Hector, surprisingly knowledgeable about weapons, presented several elegant spears.

  “This one is light. This one is balanced— imported from the far North. This one will send you flying backward if you sneeze while holding it.”

  Trey brightened. “Give her that one!”

  “NO,” Francis and Luna said instantly.

  Eventually, Hector helped her choose a spear that suited her build—simple, sturdy, and beautiful— Grace approved.

  Trey whistled. “Look at you. A real Lancaster guest now.”

  By the third week, Howard had reached his limit. He’d watched Luna sneak around the manor grounds, poking her Quanta into anything that didn’t move—and a few things that did. Even worse, he suspected his son had been the one encouraging her questionable experiments.

  He let out a thoughtful hum, then tipped his chin toward the manor.

  “Come. If you’re stuck, it means you need new input.”

  He led her down a quiet corridor to a heavy oak door carved with swirling patterns.

  She stepped inside—

  —and froze.

  The room, which seemed to be his study, was enormous. Towering shelves. Stacks upon stacks of books. Scrolls. Boxes. Maps. Papers.

  Some sections were pristine. Others looked like a dragon had hoarded paper instead of gold.

  A ladder hung crookedly from the second level.

  And at the center table…

  Francis sat reading, surrounded by three open herbology textbooks.

  He looked up just long enough to say, “This room is Trey-free,” then returned to his page.

  Luna blinked. “This… is a lot.”

  Howard chuckled. “Welcome to my collection. Every strange, exotic, or inconveniently banned text I could get my hands on.”

  She turned in a circle.

  “Are these… novels?”

  “Most of them,” he said proudly.

  Luna stared at him. “…I thought you were bringing me here to help me find my medium.”

  “And I am.” He plucked a book from the nearest shelf—an old, weather-softened novel with a stylized storm painted on the cover.

  The Lost Storm.

  “This,” Howard declared grandly, “taught me more about Quanta emotional resonance than any textbook ever did.”

  Luna opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

  “…Sir. This is fiction.”

  And you don’t even wield Quanta.

  “Exactly.” he said, delighted. “People hide truth in fiction when the real thing is forbidden. You must learn to think outside the box.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was a genius or unhinged.

  Howard began pulling more books—tales about ancient wielders, myths of forgotten mediums, travelogues written by unreliable adventurers, and two suspiciously old volumes titled Royal Crime Records — Restricted.

  Luna frowned at those. “Crime records?”

  Howard lowered his voice conspiratorially.

  “The king archives certain… unusual abilities as ‘potential threats.’ Which means they’re documented somewhere. Which means someone—” he placed a proud hand on his own chest “—can obtain them for educational purposes.”

  Luna blinked. “You got it from a black market?”

  “From a merchant with tremendous respect for academic curiosity,” Howard corrected smoothly.

  Francis, still reading, murmured, “He bribed someone.”

  “I encouraged someone,” Howard said.

  Luna tried not to laugh.

  Howard handed her a small stack—three novels, two reports, and one faded booklet about desert mediums.

  She accepted them reluctantly.

  “Will these actually help?” she asked.

  “Perhaps not now,” he said. “But they might help you think differently.”

  He gave her a warm smile. “Trey was the same way.”

  Luna perked up. “But he said he still hasn’t figured out his medium.”

  Howard raised an eyebrow. “Oh, he knows. He just refuses to accept it.”

  “…What?”

  With a sigh equal parts affection and exasperation, he said,

  “Trey’s medium is metal. Plain old metal. Strong. Reliable. Versatile.”

  Luna’s jaw dropped. “Metal? He’s been using that the whole time! Why wouldn’t he accept that?!”

  Howard snorted. “Because it isn’t dramatic enough.”

  Francis didn’t look up from his book. “He glows the brightest when holding metal, Luna. I’ve seen it.”

  “You knew too?” Luna asked.

  Francis shrugged one shoulder. “It entertained me. So I didn’t tell him.”

  Howard crossed his arms. “He keeps chasing ‘something extraordinary.’ As if metal combined with his skills isn’t already extraordinary.”

  Luna imagined Trey dramatically screaming at a spoon for not being a legendary relic.

  “…Yes,” she whispered, “that makes sense.”

  Howard placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “You and Trey are similar in one way,” he said. “You both assume you need a complicated answer.”

  Luna blinked. “I… what?”

  “Your medium may not be rare,” he said softly. “Or dramatic. Or difficult to find. Sometimes it’s just the simplest thing—the one you never thought to look at twice.”

  He gestured to the books. “Look. Think. Explore. Allow yourself to be surprised.”

  She nodded, even if uncertainty still curled in her chest.

  Howard smiled—warm, encouraging—and stepped back.

  “Good. I’ll leave you two to study.”

  “You can sit here,” Francis said simply. “It’s quiet. And Howard’s novels won’t bite you.”

  Luna let out a small breath—half nervous, half comfort—and took a seat.

  She opened the first book.

  The Lost Storm.

  She wasn’t sure it would help.

  But… maybe that was the point.

  “He knows so much… even without Quanta. That’s… really impressive.” she murmured.

  Howard paused in the doorway, a faint glow sparking in his eyes.

  “I only meant to understand my wife at first,” he said, tone softening with fondness. “But it turns out, I enjoy understanding her far more than I expected.”

  He offered a small, amused smile before walking out.

  the side story of The Disaster Hollow,