The Hall of Disciplines stood like a spine of stone and copper rising out of Atheron's eastern ridge, its windows pulsing faintly with stored mana. The dawn filtered through the high archways, lighting runes that had glowed for centuries.
Arnold and Doster stood at the threshold of the great training yard, their eyes fixed on the dwarf who waited before them.
"Zaldurdin of Azaria," the man barked, clapping his gauntlets together. His voice echoed like hammer on steel. "You may have heard my name in battle songs, but you'll know it better through bruises."
He turned and motioned to a case laid out on an obsidian plinth. Within it lay a single weapon—just a hilt. Sleek, metallic, almost unfinished in its design. Its grip shimmered faintly, embedded with a gem that pulsed with a soft blue light.
"This," said Zaldurdin, "is Rasper. Not a sword. A concept."
The students leaned in.
"This hilt contains a monocrystal—the same core used to run Atheron's rail systems. That crystal channels mana, but not just to amplify. It does more. Inside, we store a sealed mix of Helium and Neon, both noble gases."
He tapped the hilt with his finger.
"Mana, when directed properly, discharges energy at high frequency. That discharge ionizes the gas. Now, asteryte—the ambient mineral dust that floats unseen in our world—reacts violently when exposed to ionized noble gases. It solidifies. And fast. Around this core. That's how Rasper forms. Not forged steel. Solidified magic."
With a short grunt, he drew mana into his palm and gripped the hilt. A hiss of gas escaped, and a brilliant crackle of light surged forth. A long, double-edged blade erupted from the hilt. Its edges shimmered like flame in glass.
He waved the blade once—and then with a flick of his will, the blade retracted. Again, he activated it. This time, the blade emerged broader, more like a cleaver. Then a thin rapier. Then a sickle-blade.
Gasps followed each form.
"The shape depends on your mana. Weak control? You get a lump of brittle crystal. Focused will? You craft a blade suited only to you. That's what makes Rasper... alive."
Arnold's eyes sparkled. Doster simply nodded, absorbing every word.
---
Later, in the inner sanctum of the Hall, the twins took their seats in the amphitheater of the mind—Veltharion's chamber.
A floating chalk-slate hovered before them, numbers and letters glowing in violet ink.
"Magic," Veltharion began, sweeping his arm dramatically, "is not chaos. It is an equation."
He wrote:
a + b = c
"Spells are the steps of that equation. When you cast a spell, you're finding the solution. Slightly change the spell—change the value of 'a' or 'b'—and the outcome shifts. Add a pause, a syllable, or a breath... and the whole thing could backfire."
He turned, his robes swirling.
"Now imagine you don't say the equation aloud. You imagine it. Every variable. Every component. That is chantless magic. Born of visualization. Rare. Legendary."
He paused in front of Arnold.
"You must see the flame, the air, the pressure, the light—assemble the pieces in your mind until the spell solves itself. Then, and only then, can you manifest it without words."
Arnold grinned. This made sense. It was like imagining a castle before building it in sand.
Doster nodded slowly, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. There was no frown. Only a glint of curiosity, and something deeper—an understanding that this form of magic, elusive as it was, held profound potential.
---
In the training courtyard, they finally mingled with the other disciples.
Doster walked directly to a circle of well-dressed students—the sons and daughters of ministers, high knights, and chamberlains.
"Doster Daelion," he said firmly. "I believe we share interests."
He was immediately welcomed, if cautiously.
Arnold, meanwhile, wandered along the wall, where a group of common-born students practiced levitation spells. He laughed with a baker's daughter when her loaf exploded into crumbs and joined a playful duel with a scholar's apprentice.
Then he saw him.
A boy, alone, practicing with a training blade near the shade of a runic pillar. Thin, dark-haired, focused.
Arnold approached. "Hi. I'm Arnold. Want a sparring partner?"
The boy looked up. "Noir Stark. And yes."
Their blades clashed lightly. Noir moved with surprising finesse. He didn't waste effort.
After the match, Veltharion called for a demonstration of mana control.
Noir stepped forward. Closed his eyes.
From his palm, a small orb of blue light formed. It didn't flicker. It hovered, stable and pure.
The room fell silent.
Veltharion whispered to himself, "A peasant child with hands like starlight. The realms will feel this one."
---
That evening, the twins lay in their shared chamber, the lanterns dimmed, the stars blinking beyond the high windows. Arnold turned over, drifting into slumber with the faint whisper of the day's lessons echoing in his mind.
Beside him, Doster lay motionless, eyes shut.
Then—
He screamed.
Arnold jolted upright. Doster sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with terror.
"Doster! What is it?" Arnold cried.
Doster clutched his chest, gasping. "I... I saw them. The throne... burning. And blood. So much blood."
Outside the Hall, in the shadows of a spire, Lord Razdan stood silently, watching the twin's window with an eerie calm.
A faint smile crept across his lips.
"The inevitable," he whispered, "has taken its roots."
[End of Chapter 6]