The days piled up between the warm mornings with Silvania, the demanding afternoons with Edictus, and the nights that stretched into endless training sessions. The effort left its marks on his body: progress in his magic, scars on his spirit, and a constant weariness that barely allowed him a few hours of sleep.
Lena's letter never arrived.
At first, it hurt, like a thorn stuck too deep; then he forced himself to understand it, or at least to repeat to himself that he understood. At the front, writing was a luxury, and he preferred to imagine her busy, alive, with sword in hand, rather than thinking of darker alternatives. But that feigned certainty broke every time his mind went silent.
At night, he sought refuge in the old library. Sitting on the cold stone, with Elgrin's two manuals open in front of him, he let the faint light of a trembling candle and the pale moonbeams, which entered through the stone vents, be his only company. The air was permeated with the scent of old dust and parchment: tablets blackened by time, scrolls of sheepskin, rough sheets of paper, and embossed leather volumes, copies by scribes who seemed to guard centuries of secrets. In the gloom, none showed their splendor, and yet, all seemed to watch him in silence.
He would close his eyes and, following the breathing cadence indicated in Elgrin's basic manual, descend within himself. Sometimes it was like a mold being hit by endless waves of mana, trying to contain them without breaking. Other times, he saw himself at the bottom of a narrow well, scratching at the damp earth with his bare hands to widen it, while the icy water slowly ascended, weighing on him like an inevitable sentence.
That inner world was so vivid that it often seemed more real than the library that surrounded him. He felt the burning in his hands as he tore at the earth, the chill of the water climbing his legs, the pressure in his lungs. And yet, he did not fail. Day after day, night after night, he continued, because he knew that sooner or later he would be called to the battlefield and he had to be ready.
When dawn was hinting and the candle exhaled its last breath, Dyan returned to reality soaked in sweat, with ragged breathing and a dull ache in his heart. It was in those moments, and only in those, when he allowed himself the question that pursued him like a splinter stuck in his chest:
"What will become of you?"
He would bend down to pick up the books, extinguish the candle, and think of Lena again. Was it possible that she was too busy to write back? She had promised to write him... what if she had only done so out of courtesy, because the Queen asked her to? And what if those parting words, which he had treasured, were nothing more than a gentle lie?
Back in his small room in the tower, he sought to snatch a few hours of sleep. There, between the same walls that had protected him since he was a child, he let doubt seep into his chest. He would lie on the bed and, in the solitude of the early morning, allow himself what he never showed in front of anyone: an instant of bitter weakness, that stabbing feeling of being forgotten.
At the crack of dawn, Dyan entered the Archmage's hall. The place was in gloom, illuminated only by the light that filtered through the high windows. Edictus was waiting for him, seated behind his desk, surrounded by a wall of spacetime magic volumes that seemed to consume him as if he himself were just another piece of that ocean of wisdom.
"Master, I came as soon as I received your call." Dyan bowed his head slightly as he advanced.
Edictus looked up, peering from between the enormous open volumes. His stony face barely softened. "Don't worry, you didn't take long." He fumbled inside his robe and took out a letter. He held it in the air for a moment, as if it weighed more than lead. "Prepare a bag. After your visit to Silvania, you will depart for Frontier."
The words did not surprise him. The battle at Fort Frontier had been stalled for weeks, and with each passing day, the silence about Lena and her comrades became more unbearable. The possibility of leaving for the front had been a constant murmur, a shadow that accompanied him in every training session. "Of course, Master. I will prepare immediately." He received the letter with a solemn gesture, although his heart pounded hard the instant he thought it might be from Lena. But the royal seal extinguished that hope. "Any advice before I leave?"
The Archmage let out a faint smile, so rare that for an instant Dyan wondered if he had imagined it. "I can perceive an increase in your mana well. Good work... who would have thought it? That crazy old Elgrin still had something to teach."
"Thank you, Master."
"Considering I was wrong about that, I decided to review old notes from my youth." He placed his hand on one of the volumes stacked on the table, worn by time. "Maybe, when you return, I'll have something new to show you. I'll need your help with it. So... come back safe and sound."
Dyan held that severe gaze that, for a second, seemed to be tinged with affection.
"I will, Master. I will bring honor to the name of Scabia."
"I know. Have a good trip."
Edictus's confidence was like a balm, erasing any remaining doubt. Packing took him little time.
Just a few changes of clothes, the almond staff his comrades had given him, and a couple of minor belongings. A mage's life was always austere, closer to the frugality of a monk than to the luxuries of a courtier. Mages gave themselves body and soul to magic and scholarship; "The less you own, the less it will hurt to lose it," the old masters used to say. But Dyan had learned that it wasn't always about objects: there were things one thought they had, invisible bonds, whose absence hurt like no wound, and that kind of loss was one for which he had never been prepared.
When he arrived at the palace, those intrusive thoughts that he had let escape in a moment of weakness seemed like a memory from a distant past, hidden deep so that they wouldn't surface like moss in the cracks of a ruined room. Like every day, the maidservants guided him to the queen's chambers, a path on which he had rarely encountered any member of the Witan, any maiden or courtier, except on a couple of occasions when he crossed paths with Princess Eleanor, accompanied by one of her instructors, although they had never exchanged words. These mornings were a suspended time, just for her and him, in which no one else seemed to exist.
At first, these invitations had confused him. What could a queen want from someone with so little to offer? He had even wondered if the queen's desire was just a passing whim that she would soon tire of. That didn't happen; on the contrary: on more than one occasion, the maidservants arrived with notices of visits from a noble, a merchant, or a request for an urgent meeting, but all of them were rejected or postponed without hesitation. The reason? It was hard for him to say, perhaps he would never know. She hadn't looked at him with pity again, but a part of him felt that Silvania carried some kind of debt that, at least for him, had never really existed.
That day, upon entering the hall, the routine seemed to take on a different nuance. The table was already set. Silvania was waiting for him in the main seat, her hair carefully braided and falling over her shoulder. She wore a sober emerald green that enhanced her paleness and her bearing, reminding him how impossible it was to dissociate the woman's majesty from the Queen's severity; only a slight depth at the corners of her lips and some almost imperceptible wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled betrayed that she had passed thirty-five not long ago. In some way, Silvania retained an air that sometimes took his breath away, sometimes because of the way she spoke, other times because of her gaze, but most of the time, simply because of her regal presence.
The maidservants stepped forward: one took his travel bag, another pulled out his chair for him.
Silvania gestured gently for him to sit. "Did Edictus give you the safe-conduct?"
Dyan nodded.
"Yes, Your Majesty. This morning he told me my destination and gave me the document."
"Don't lose it. The entire Frontier area is under evacuation, and without it, your carriage would be stopped." With a slight movement of her hand, she ordered his teacup to be filled. "I have arranged for our best horses to take you. We mustn't waste time."
The maidservant poured the amber liquid, whose herbal aroma began to expand between them. The fragrance seemed to soften the air, although the conversation was already laden with the weight of farewell.