The Aspen of Hope
The aspen tree of hope appears in countless legends. It stands at the gates of hell. It features in tragic myths and folk tales alike. Famous painters have captured it on canvas. There's even a piece of music composed in its honor. It appears in The Principles of the Sovereign, a book Isaac had once read.
The tale, from two centuries ago, concerned a certain tyrant. The usurper king lived in constant terror of assassination. He executed any vassal who so much as caught his displeasure, without mercy. To drown out his fears, he threw lavish banquets every night—feasts squeezed from the lifeblood of his starving people.
One summer, barbarians from beyond the frontier invaded. Many border folk fell victim to their raids: mocked, abducted, slaughtered. At that time, the king—lost in delusions of heroism—led the counterattack himself. He fancied himself a savior of his suffering subjects. But he was a coward at heart, blind to his own incompetence.
Chasing the tribes into the forest, he lost his way. Instead of hunters, he became the hunted by tribal warriors. The aspens rustled. Their branches and leaves clashed like murmuring crowds. Terrified, the king lost his reason.
"Do you hear that? Treason! Rebellion!"
"It's merely the wind in the branches, Your Majesty."
"The people... the soldiers... they're coming to kill me!"
The king bolted ahead, abandoning his guards. He trusted no one—for he had earned no one's trust. The murmurs pursued him. Were they just rustling branches, as his captain claimed? Or were they truly the voices of those hunting him down? He couldn't tell.
In his blind flight, he tripped on a stone, tumbled down a slope, and cracked his skull on a rock. He died pathetically. Ironically, the spot was a mass grave for villagers who had starved or frozen under royal exploitation.
Isaac had once told this story to Yonas.
"Stay here... with that child."
"That child?"
"The one who always appeared in your head whenever you played the piano."
"...!"
"Long ago, lots of people died here. Barbarians invaded from outside, and the royal lord exploited them from within. They were cut down, starved, frozen. That child was one of them. Even after death... it watched people dying like that for so long."
"So... that child was a real person?"
Isaac couldn't hide his shock. He'd thought it a mere spirit. But it was a human soul—one that had haunted this place for ages. A child with short hair, a beauty mark near the eye, a scar on the cheek. Yonas's vision wasn't imagination or a spirit's mimicry. It was the soul's true form.
"It was cold... but it felt warm next to you. It wants to stay by your side."
Yonas approached the aspen and placed a hand on its bark.
"This tree... it grew from that child's death, using it as fertilizer."
His voice was bittersweet yet calm—far beyond what you'd expect from a nine-year-old. Perhaps because he'd glimpsed the memories of a spirit at least two centuries old.
"Brother... what do we do now? It's so sad."
Yonas's voice cracked dryly.
"..."
Isaac was momentarily speechless. He'd only meant to awaken Yonas's talent sooner. He hadn't anticipated this history. Still, an opportunity was an opportunity. The spirit had chosen Yonas, revealing itself willingly. All that remained was to call its name and forge the contract.
"Do you know the child's name?"
"No."
"Then let's give it one. What do you want to call it?"
"I don't know."
Yonas shook his head. Then, gazing at the aspen bathed in faint moonlight, he murmured:
"...Populus. Let's call it Populus."
The meaning of aspen.
A month passed. Goethe Manor buzzed with rare vitality. Supplies arrived daily. A royal chef was hired as head cook. Gardeners toiled nonstop, planting seasonal flowers and sculptures. Maids and manservants polished the marble corridors to a mirror sheen. Not a speck of dust marred the chandelier crystals.
"Enet. Enet!"
"Ah, yes."
"What are you doing? You've been scrubbing that one spot all day?"
"Sorry."
Enet responded in a daze. As the tournament neared, her anxiety mounted. Duty as a maid filled her days, but her mind was consumed by magic. The burden on her shoulders felt crushing.
No one yet knew she would represent Isaac at the tournament. It was his consideration. In the quiet manor on the frontier, servants craved fresh gossip. Isaac always obliged the hungry masses.
Once, it was his unique constitution and mana rampages. When those stopped, tales of his wastrel antics took over: mocking guards, openly beating one when Marquis Dietrich visited. Lately, rumors swirled about him bedding the maid Enet. Even that was fading now.
These days, all talk centered on the tournament. Which dignitaries would attend? Famous foreigners coming in person? Academy professors from the capital? The servants chattered like children seeing the Milky Way for the first time.
And rightly so—in this barren, remote northland, spotting prestigious outsiders was like panning for salt in a river.
Enet's heart, however, grew heavier by the day. The tournament was days away. A commoner like her, stepping into an event for nobles alone. Representing the heir of a magical house like Goethe, no less. It defied all reason.
Performing magic before dozens—hundreds, even—of nobles as a lowly maid? Mages were said to transcend class, pursuing truth alone. Indeed, even slaves or commoners sometimes produced prodigies. But Enet had never seen or heard of such a case in her life.
This wasn't just about her—it concerned Goethe's honor. Isaac himself skipping it was absurd enough; sending a commoner in his stead? That alone invited ridicule. Or worse—execution for insulting the nobility.
Sure, the count permitted it. But common sense was common sense, reality was reality.
If I fail to show magic worthy of the heir's proxy...
Just thinking of the tournament conjured nightmares. Nobles mocking Goethe over her pathetic display. The outraged count, vassals demanding her immediate disposal. If even Isaac turned away, her life was forfeit.
Yet recalling Isaac strangely calmed her.
—If you can't trust yourself, trust me.
His words echoed. Enet shook her head, banishing the delusions. Clutching her rag like a talisman against dark thoughts, she scrubbed the central hall stairs furiously.
Evening came. Exhausted from preparations, Enet dolled up and headed to Isaac's chambers. Rumors already pegged them as lovers. Better that than word spreading of a maid learning magic from the count's son.
"Young master, it's Enet."
"Come in."
"Eep—sorry!"
She spun on her heel upon entering the bedroom. Isaac was dressing, with Hans assisting.
"Come in, I'm dressed."
"Anywhere uncomfortable?"
"It's fine."
"But really, is this outfit okay?"
Hans asked. Isaac wore a plain black tunic and pants—fine silk, but devoid of embroidery, gems, or lace. Miles from noble fashion trends.
"The plainer, the less it stands out."
"If that's your will, young master."
"Good enough. Thanks for the trouble—running back and forth to Bernsi all day."
"This is nothing."
Hans beamed proudly.
"Right. Peanuts compared to training, huh? Must be a drag—back to drills with the guards tomorrow."
"I'll die trying."
Hans griped about the grueling guard training; Isaac half-listened.
"Don't call me if you need anything. I'll be passed out cold. Enet, good luck."
"Yes, Uncle."
Hans slumped out, nodding farewell to Enet.
With him gone, magic practice began as usual. Isaac skipped theory, pinpointing only flaws or improvements in her spells.
"Don't let the mana consume you—use it."
"Fire magic's core is combustion. Focus on that sensation."
Whoosh—Isaac conjured flames. Awe-inspiring, even now. Same fire magic, yet utterly different each time, shaped by the caster's temperament, mana reserves, circuits, proficiency. Enet felt it viscerally now—her own flames varied daily.
But one thing she knew for sure: No other mage's fire could match Isaac's. She'd never seen another's, but none could rival this.
Intimidating flames. More than hot or bright. They pulsed with will and vitality—like living beings, chaos and order intertwined. Explosive instants coexisting with rock-solid stability.
Enet was mesmerized yet terrified. These weren't mere mana products. They reflected something deep within him.
"Enet."
Isaac called her softly. He hadn't shown them idly.
"What meaning do your flames hold?"
The question stunned her. She'd never considered it. She trained daily, conjuring flames on emotion and memory alone. Never pondered what they signified.
"Enough tricks. Now find your own flame."
Ssshh—the fire scattered from his hand.
"Show me."
"...Yes. Hoo."
Enet breathed deep. Isaac wanted no words—magic as answer.
Eyes closed, she recalled the bone-chilling cold she'd endured, the desperate spark she'd yearned for amid it.
What was that ember?
Fwoosh! It ignited at her fingertips. Small, flickering—like her, immature yet brimming with potential. A flame harboring hope to one day blaze as fiercely as his.
Yes. Hope.