Dominion

0. Overture

"The flapping of a butterfly sends a whirl to the other side of the planet."

The clock ticked and the Teakettle Collector spun a teacup above their palm. A right hand enveloped in white light like a mystical ocean where radiant butterflies swam freely.

"Now, can you imagine what happens if six trillion butterflies did so all at the same time?"

Dominique Mendoza wasn't scholarly raised to wield magic. She harbored no soupcon of theoretical witchcraft and wizardry. Yet, she knew what she was presented with.

Magic not found with the macrocosm of stars and constellations.

Magic not communed with the spirits.

Magic not devoured from the lawful pantheon of kings, and the throne of heroes.

Magic not extracted from living souls and synthesized to become stones.
A kind of magic no theorist could research nor nurtured by generation after generation.

A weightless form of magic. Conjuring spells didn't exhaust mana, nor needed words, loaded beliefs, or complicated strings of numbers and expressions. The most precious magic in all of existence.

Order Magic.

The academy would trade their souls to see the spectacle with their own eyes.

Not only the scholars but also the royalty of the Holy Twilight Empire, its plethora of nobilities, the purveyors of the high courts, clergymen, and even the common folks. The indifferent orcish states wouldn't pass the opportunity, nor the minority of weiss and schwarz alike.

For the spellcaster herself, she couldn't care less about using it.

Dominique Mendoza marveled at the sight, even though knowing she was about to be devoured by the butterflies.

"Mhm...Did I say it right? I think it's a proverb. It must have been a song or poem. That's strange. I can't remember."

The collector abruptly questioned her own phrase.

Happenstance, natural and preordained, without a hint of hesitation nor a trace of tact, particularly with pressure on herself. As if certain over the decorum of her being unhinged. Without uttering any word, Dominique looked at her through the cloth whimsically wrapped over their head.
What they were on about, to begin with, wasn't difficult to figure out.
It was the butterfly effect.

She had read it in a book before. If she considered the collector's lifetime, they could have even coined the term. If they didn't forget, then they were being cryptic as always. Such was the nature of teacup-twirling villains.

The room fell into silence and they looked at each other.

Not that the collector expected their captive to answer at all, so they continued to prattle.

"Ehem! I'm not being humble, young girl. But I'm glad you know. Imagine you're the first domino in the line. It rhymes with your name. Good for you!" Then they continued, "Well, let's align it more with me. You know, how one ceramic teapot fell off my shelf and everything else followed?"

Dominique doesn't think the conundrum was her own fault.

Allegedly, as not to invalidate their claim, it was because she unleashed a spell.

A spell too strong, she had committed the most heinous of crimes.
Which was breaking a tea kettle.

"Tea kettles! For the last time, plural!" The cup floating on pure magic hit over nothing and broke apart. "I'll break you!"

A sharp fragment, which they kept afloat, found itself pushed against the young girl's neck.

Her cold sweat dripped in a contained room without warmth nor frigidness. Flushed out of malice, the prisoner at the high table tensed, neck calories settling to burn. If she dared breathe for a moment, her throat would be lacerated.