Chapter 5 - A Light That Stirs
Schillian woke up sore, but strangely energized. The events of yesterday—the boar, the battle, the spell he cast—still burned vividly in his memory. But above all, he remembered Alira's warning: Don't tell anyone.
When he made his way downstairs, the scent of sizzling eggs and bread filled the inn's air. His mother's voice called from the kitchen. "Breakfast's ready! Sit, I'll bring it over."
He nodded and took a seat at their small wooden table. Seralla placed two plates down, then sat opposite him. His father wasn't present—off early to help a friend with something.
"Alira didn't show up today," Seralla noted as they ate. "Is she alright?"
"She's fine. She's just… sick. The training yesterday was intense. She got mad a lot because I couldn't control my magic well." He tried to make it sound believable.
Seralla raised an eyebrow but only muttered, "Ah, that explains it," and continued eating.
After breakfast, they settled into their usual morning routines. Schillian cleaned the floors while his mother prepared the kitchen for lunch. Once done, he stepped out behind the inn to the small garden—rows of herbs and flowers lining a stone path. His father usually watered them, but with him gone, Schillian took up the task.
Back inside, Seralla heard the bell at the front door. She wiped her hands and called, "Please wait!" before hurrying over.
A robed man stood in the doorway, blue patterns glowing faintly on his sleeves—Arcane Council colors.
"I'm here to deliver a letter for Schillian," he said, handing over a wax-sealed envelope.
Seralla accepted it with a nod of thanks. The man smiled politely, then turned and left.
When Schillian returned inside, hands still damp from watering the garden, Seralla handed him the envelope.
"A letter from the Council," she said. "From Alira, I think. Why didn't she just come herself? Is she that busy?"
"She must be," Schillian replied as he broke the seal. "The mages are always busy doing… mage things."
He opened the letter and read silently.
To Schillian,
I've recovered enough to begin work again, but we'll need to pause training for now. Something urgent has come up at the Council.Come here alone when you're able.Tell your mother I'm sorry for not coming today.
—Alira
"What does it say?" Seralla asked.
"She says she's sorry she couldn't come herself and that the Council needs me to go there today." He passed the letter over.
Seralla read it quietly and then gave a simple nod. "Alright. But finish your chores first."
"Yes, Mom."
Once he finished the rest of his work, he let his mother know he was leaving. She gave him a quick hug and reminded him to be careful. The streets outside were bustling—people chattering, merchants calling out, smells of baked bread and spices wafting through the spring air.
As he passed through the marketplace, he spotted Lila helping her parents at their jewelry stall.
"Hey! Where were you yesterday?" she asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"I was training with that Magister we met. Now she's called me to the Council," Schillian answered with a grin.
Lila frowned, concerned. "You're not involved in something dangerous, are you?"
Schillian reached out and gently patted her head. "It's okay. Miss Alira teaches me a lot."
Lila turned red, then immediately socked him in the arm—lightly, but with enough force to make him wince.
"Idiot," she muttered. "Don't say weird stuff."
He only laughed, waved goodbye, and continued on his way.
Passing through the plaza, Schillian paused before the Hearthstone. Something was wrong. The usual gentle hum of aether was distorted, and a faint crack glinted across the smooth crystal surface. People around him were murmuring, noticing how the stone's glow had dimmed.
Could this be related to the strange mist from before? he wondered, eyes narrowing.
He continued walking, eventually reaching the grand spires of the Arcane Council. Alira was waiting near the entrance, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"You're late. It's almost noon."
"Sorry," Schillian said quickly. "Dad left early, so I had to finish his chores."
Her expression softened. "Right. Sorry for snapping. Things are… chaotic."
She turned and gestured for him to follow. They descended into the Council's lower levels, walking through long halls and down familiar stairs.
As they walked, Alira said quietly, "I reported what happened yesterday. About the boar. The Head Mage wants to see you. He believes you may be… important."
Schillian blinked. "Important?"
She only nodded.
They entered the chamber from before—the one with the massive crystal orb at its center. Alira gestured to a platform with a glass console and softly glowing sigils.
"I want you to do what you did yesterday," she said. "The spell, or whatever you did. I need to see it again."
"I'll try," Schillian replied, nervous but eager.
She nodded approvingly. "Good. We have permission to use this chamber for some… testing."
"I thought you said no training today?" he asked, tilting his head.
"You like training, don't you?"
He straightened up like a soldier. "Say no more, miss."
A new voice entered the room. "Getting along already?"
Head Mage Arshen stepped through the archway, arms behind his back. Alira bowed immediately, and Schillian followed suit.
"No need for that," Arshen said, waving a hand. "I brought you here because I need to confirm something."
They approached the inner machine, a device built to transfer aether directly into the Hearthstone—a method rarely used, reserved for emergencies. Arshen explained as they walked.
"This machine fuels the Hearthstone—the source of our city's protective barrier. Lately, it's been… unstable."
Schillian frowned. "I noticed. The aether around it feels off."
Arshen chuckled. "Good eye. Most adult mages wouldn't catch that. That's exactly why you're here."
He nodded toward Alira, who guided Schillian to the console. "Place your hand there. Just channel your aether into it."
Schillian did as instructed. The moment his palm touched the glass, the chamber lit up. Blue light flowed through the wires, pulsing into the core of the machine and rising up into the Hearthstone.
Above ground, the townspeople watched as the dimmed Hearthstone flared to life—its crack sealing itself with brilliant, radiant light.
In the chamber, Arshen's eyes widened.
"Incredible… Pure aether. Unfiltered. Not even shaped by bloodflow or neural conduction…" he whispered to himself, watching the magical signatures with awe.
Schillian stepped back, dazed. "What just happened?"
"You helped," Alira said gently. "That's enough for now. Let's head out."
As she led Schillian away, Arshen remained behind, staring into the glass as the machine still glowed faintly.
Only the Sage himself held aether this pure, he thought. And yet this boy… at five years old…
He laughed softly to himself. Not out of mockery, but awe. The laughter of a man who had just glimpsed a future far greater than he had imagined.
"The world's about to become very, very interesting."
…Alira guided Schillian back through the corridor and up the long steps toward the Arcane Council entrance. The light filtering through the high windows was soft and golden now, signaling late afternoon.
"I still don't get what just happened," Schillian muttered as they walked.
"You don't need to. Not yet," Alira replied, folding her arms. "The Head Mage will—"
She suddenly stopped in her tracks.
Schillian looked up at her, then followed her gaze.
A cloaked figure stood by the Council's arched doorway, just where the sun cast long shadows across the marble floor. Their robes were travel-worn, colored in deep gray and blue, and they stood unnervingly still, as though carved from stone. No presence had been sensed earlier—yet here they were.
"Who are you?" Alira asked, voice sharp, her foot shifting slightly for balance. Her hand moved, subtly brushing the hilt of the wand tucked behind her belt. Schillian stayed quiet, half-hiding behind her as he watched.
The figure didn't speak immediately. Then, with slow purpose, they pulled down their hood.
A man, likely in his forties, with cold eyes and silver-blonde hair that swept across his forehead. His expression was calm—too calm. His eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on Alira… then on Schillian.
"I come on behalf of the Central Aetheric Watchtower," he said, his voice smooth as flowing ink. "Requesting audience with Head Mage Arshen."
Alira narrowed her eyes. "That's… quite the distance to travel."
"I don't mind long roads," he replied, smiling faintly.
"And what business does the Watchtower have with Emberfall?"
The man's gaze shifted slightly again, landing on Schillian longer than it should have. "Following tremors," he said. "When something ancient stirs, even in a forgotten corner of the world… it tends to ripple outward."
Schillian blinked. His chest tightened, unsure why the man's words felt heavier than they sounded.
Alira took a small step forward, half-blocking the man's line of sight. "He's just a boy."
"Is he?" the stranger said softly. His smile did not reach his eyes.
A heavy silence fell between them. Then the man turned slightly, pulling his hood back up in one smooth motion.
"Tell your Head Mage I will wait. But not for long."
With that, he walked away—his footsteps echoing faintly against stone as he vanished into the descending light of the courtyard.
Schillian stared after him, heart pounding slightly.
"…Who was that?" he asked, voice barely louder than a breath.
Alira's gaze remained on the exit, her jaw clenched.
"…Trouble," she whispered.