Magic ran in the family. Every Vestra ever recorded had possessed some talent with Reason, even in the early days of the house’s founding. It was its hallmark trait, alongside its privilege of serving the Adrestian Emperor. Command over dark magic came some time later to supersede the importance of basic Reason, but the foundation remained.
One’s ability with Reason influenced one’s status within the household. Written history held no accounts of heirs unskilled in the formulation of spells, and the most famous of the name had penned scholarly tomes themselves. It was, in lieu of a crest to pass on to worthy heirs, the Vestra tradition. Hubert recognized this implicitly, and for as long as he can remember, he had been among those of “talent.” He devoured books, observed his father’s prowess two or three times a day, and crafted his own spells as early as age 9. And yet a sense of accomplishment forever eluded him.
“Father, I’ve finished the three texts you’ve lent me.” “Then begin the fourth.”
“Father, I’ve finished a new formula.” “You ought to be working on more complex spells by now.”
“Father, I’ve sped up the conjuring of Miasma by two seconds.” “Make it three.”
It was his father that he was chasing after for so long - a fact he came to recognize only after their final fight. In the long silence that followed, Hubert turned away from his books, his training, his craft, and his father the same way his father had turned away from their house’s duty. He picked up what his father had failed and devoted himself to defending Edelgard against him. Relief replaced the footsteps too large for him to fill that remained stalled far behind, and for many years he convinced himself that he had achieved something.
As the academy dictated, he continued passive study of magic, aware that he was already far ahead of many of his peers. His rising rank in the classes meant nothing to him. It was simply a byproduct of his devotion to his liege. Results for his certification tests were unsurprising and insignificant. Most received only the most cursory of glances before being locked away in a drawer with the rest of his records of necessity.
The letter with Warlock Certification inked across it had come that morning. Hubert stared at it for a moment, and then at the date stamped at the top. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Two years before yours, Father.”
And the letter joined the rest in the dark.