The morning air in Astralis Institute was crisp with the scent of parchment, polished stone, and floating ink—the scent of academia. Students funneled through the inner courtyard toward their classrooms, robes fluttering, books levitating just behind them on enchanted straps.
Celeste trailed behind the crowd, head low, illusion spell still perfectly woven. Her plain, mouse-brown hair shifted as she glanced up at the arching sign of their next class:
"Hall of Empyreal Thought
Department of Magical History & World Literature"
Inside, the classroom resembled an ancient library carved from marble and oak. Sunlight streamed through tall, stained glass windows depicting the Seven Empires and the Twelve Constellations. Floating bookshelves spiraled lazily around the dome, and glowing ink scribbled reminders on invisible scrolls mid-air.
Celeste quietly slipped into the last row and sat by the window. She stared outside, where the Astralis spires pierced the clouds and floating birds shimmered like ghosts.
She didn't want attention.
Not here. Not in this subject.
_____________
A slam echoed through the chamber. The classroom door creaked open.
In strode a man with deep indigo robes embroidered with silver threads shaped like vines of text. His stride was sharp, posture impeccable. His graying beard was trimmed to perfection, and his eyes—one normal, the other glowing a pale violet—swept across the students like a blade.
He carried no books. He didn't need to.
"Good morning," he said, his voice precise and cold. "I am Professor Aldric Vaelen, Master Historian of Astralis, Keeper of the Seventh Scroll, and your instructor for Literary History. You will address me as Professor, not 'sir,' not 'hey,' and certainly not 'old man.' If you can't remember that, you'll remember this—failing this course disqualifies you from magic duels and combat tournaments. That should motivate most of you."
He gestured once, and the bookshelves froze in midair. A glowing map of Elarion unfurled across the ceiling, casting the classroom in gentle blue light.
"In this class," he began, "we do not read for pleasure. We read to remember. To learn why kingdoms fall and why monsters rise."
In the front row, Auren Drakaris leaned forward, arms crossed on the desk, his amber eyes sharp with interest. Beside him, Kael slouched but watched the professor intently. Rhydan tried not to doze off, while Valric silently took notes with military precision.
Professor Vaelen tapped his staff, and the map above flared.
"Elarion is divided into Seven Empires," he said. "You may come from one of them. You may think you know their history. You don't."
Images rotated above: Veyruun, Astralis, Thalorai, Serikhan, Caelaris, Morvain, Nocthera.
"Every five hundred years, a darkness rises—not from outside, but from within. From greed, from fractured bloodlines, from corrupted magic. We call it the Umbravore Cycle. And every time, it tries to take the world back into silence."
He paced slowly.
"Dark forces do not come in roars. They come in whispers. They charm kings. Poison bloodlines. Bury truth in tradition. And when they rise—if no one remembers how they fell last time—we fall with them."
Most students were scribbling notes rapidly. Auren raised a brow, fascinated.
But at the back…
Celeste leaned her cheek against her hand, eyes half-lidded, watching a pair of cloud hawks drift across the sky beyond the window.
She didn't need this lecture.
She'd been force-fed these histories since the moment she could speak.
At age six, her parents made her recite the Empyrean Doctrine backward. At eight, she was quizzed on ancient wars between light-binders and voidspawn—during dinner. By eleven, she could write in five dead languages.
And yet here, in Astralis, she was supposed to be a common orphan.
She couldn't risk showing what she knew.
"You there," Professor Vaelen's voice cut sharply across the hall.
Celeste blinked, straightening a little. Her illusion still held. But the attention was undeniable.
The class turned.
"You by the window. What was the name of the first recorded Umbravore War?"
A perfect answer burned on her tongue.
The Eclipse Reign. Year 3102. Caused by the corruption of the Crown of Thalorai. Quelled by the Twelve-Willed Pact forged in Astralis.
But she said none of it.
"I don't know," she replied flatly.
The professor narrowed his eyes. "Then perhaps you'll start paying attention. History may not grant you magic or muscle, but at the very least, it may one day save your life."
Celeste shrugged slightly. "Understood. I'll try."
The room went still.
Her tone had been distant. Disinterested. Not disrespectful… but not respectful, either.
In the front row, Auren turned slowly in his seat, brows furrowing.
What a dull girl, he thought. How could someone be this unbothered?
She looked half-asleep.
He couldn't imagine sparring beside someone like that. She'd probably trip over her own wand.
I'd never want her on my team, he thought, a little more harshly than intended.
And yet, he kept staring.
Why did she look… vaguely familiar? He couldn't place it.
Celeste, sensing his gaze, finally looked back. Their eyes met—his amber and burning, hers dull and unreadable.
And for a second… the world felt quieter.
Then Auren turned away sharply, scoffing under his breath.
The professor resumed his lecture, and the class returned to rhythm.
But the moment hung in the air like a stray ember.
Celeste turned back to the window, indifferent as ever on the outside.
But inside?
Something in her chest pulsed again—not Aries, not magic.
Something more human.
Irritation.
Why did that boy stare at her like she'd insulted his dragon?
She rolled her eyes and let the lecture fade into background noise.
She had no intention of standing out.
But fate, it seemed, was already paying attention.