The "Magicless" Blood Bag Is The Supreme Mage

Eloise POV:

The gravel of the Parker estate gave way to the wet asphalt of suburban London.

The autumn wind whipped through my thin linen sleeves, carrying the sharp scent of gasoline and rain. Modern double-decker buses rumbled along the distant avenue, their red frames splashing through puddles while ordinary commuters stared blankly into their glowing smartphone screens.

To the mortal eye, this was just an ordinary, dreary morning in greater London.

I kept my head down, my boots eating up the miles until I reached the cracked pavement outside Charing Cross Road. Tucked between a bustling modern bookstore and a brightly lit record shop sat an unassuming, filthy storefront that the crowds walked past without a single glance.

The Leaky Kettle.

I pushed the creaking wooden door open, cutting through the faint smell of stale ale and pipe weed. The few patrons sitting in the dim corners barely looked up from their pewter tankards. I didn't stop at the bar. I walked straight through to the small, walled courtyard out back, surrounded by damp brick walls and overflowing trash bins.

I pulled out my wand—a chipped, nine-inch piece of plain hazel with a low-grade core—and tapped the brick three up and two across from the trash can.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The brick quivered. It spun inward, dragging the surrounding masonry with it, expanding until a wide, sunlit archway opened before my eyes.

The deafening roar of Star-lantern Alley hit me instantly.

Robed witches and wizards bustled past crowded shopfronts where brass scales gleamed, cauldrons bubbled in window displays, and enchanted brooms hovered in mid-air above polished wooden pedestals. Owls screeched from the eaves, and the sharp, sulfuric scent of ground dragon horn mingled with sweet pumpkin pastries.

I reached into my pocket. Five bronze Knuts.

In this world, five Knuts wouldn't buy a handful of dried beetle eyes, let alone secure a room for the night. I didn't turn toward the grand marble facade of Gold Dome Bank, nor did I head toward the colorful windows of the robe tailors.

Instead, I slipped into a narrow, shaded passage that branched off to the left: Knockturn Wynd.

The air here turned cold and foul, smelling of damp rot and dried venom. Shabby stalls lined the cobblestones, displaying shriveled house-elf hands, cursed amulets, and jars of murky green fluid containing preserved creature eyes.

"Looking for something potent, little bird?" A gaunt vendor with rotten yellow teeth leaned over a rickety wooden crate, his voice dripping with greasy charm. "Fresh manticore bile? Or perhaps a charm to make an unfaithful lover choke on his own tongue?"

I ignored his gaze, sweeping my eyes across the clutter on his counter: cracked porcelain dolls, rusted daggers, and piles of scrap metal looted from old tombs.

Then my breath caught.

In the furthest corner, half-buried under a mound of rusted iron hinges, lay a coin. It was covered in thick grime and green verdigris, looking no different from an ancient piece of oxidized scrap iron. But beneath that crust, I felt the faint, unmistakable hum of raw solar magic.

A Sun-Drowned Coin. A relic from the First Magical Dynasty of Sumeria.

I kept my face utterly blank. I picked up a bent copper needle, turned it over, and then casually nudged the verdigris-covered coin with my index finger.

"How much for this scrap?" I asked the vendor, my tone flat, bored.

The vendor squinted down at it, scratching his grimy chin. "That old tomb copper? Give me five Knuts, girl, and take the junk out of my sight."

My heart pounded against my ribs, but my fingers remained relaxed. "Five Knuts for oxidized iron? I can buy a loaf of bread for three. Two Knuts, or I walk."

The vendor scowled. "Four. Don't waste my time."

"Three," I said, dropping three small bronze coins onto his counter with a clear clink. "Take it or leave it."

The vendor grunted, sweeping the coins into his greasy pouch. "Take it and get lost."

I scooped the heavy, cold metal into my palm, letting its rough edges press against my skin. Without a second glance, I slipped the coin into my pocket and turned back toward the main alleyway, keeping my pace steady and my eyes forward, completely ignoring the shadowed balconies looming above the Wynd.

Draven Sinclair POV:

Directly above the alley, on the second-floor balcony of an exclusive tea house overlooking the Wynd, I sat in an iron chair.

I wore the dark, tailored robes of Abyssal House, the emerald and silver lining reflecting the pale gray daylight. As the undisputed prefect of the House and heir to the Sinclair bloodline, I carried a reputation I had carved out in blood—widely known as one of the most ruthless duelists the Academy had produced in decades.

"Young master," Silas Kincaid murmured behind me, adjusting the silver cuffs of his valet uniform. "The carriage is prepared. Lord Sinclair expects you at the High Council chambers before the noon bell."

I didn't move. My long fingers rested lightly on the handle of a porcelain cup, my gaze pinned directly to the filthy street below. I was tracking a lone girl in a threadbare tunic standing before a junk stall.

"Wait," I said, my voice low, velvety, and cold.

Silas blinked, stepping up to glance down through the iron railings. "It is merely a girl from the alleys, my lord. Likely a runaway Mudblood looking for scraps."

"A Mudblood?" I tilted my head slightly, a razor-thin smirk touching the corner of my lips. "Look at her stance. Her center of gravity doesn't waver. And her eyes... someone who scavenges for bread does not look at a cursed iron pile with that kind of calculated patience."

In silence, I watched the girl casually handle a piece of junk before pointing to a grime-covered coin. I observed the brief, tense exchange of words, noting the absolute stillness of her hands even as she bartered. Finally, she dropped three small coins onto the counter, pocketed the heavy piece of metal, and melted back into the crowd of the main thoroughfare.

"She bargained him down to three Knuts," Silas muttered, shaking his head in mild disgust. "Trivial."

"She didn't bargain to save two coppers, Silas," I said softly, setting my cup down onto the saucer without making a sound. "She bargained so the vendor wouldn't realize he was holding a relic."

I stood up, my tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the balcony lights.

"Go find out who she is," I commanded, my ice-gray eyes still fixed on the spot where she had disappeared. "Every detail. By tonight."