Steel rang out through the private dueling chamber, a sharp echo swallowed by stone walls and arcane barriers. Sid pivoted, parrying a strike from the left with a breathless hiss. An armored humanoid formed of floating bronze plates. The magical construct slid back from the impact, gears whirring, sword recalibrating.
The training hall sat beneath the academy's south wing, warded and windowless. Its thick stone pillars bore scars from decades of spellfire and steel. Here, there were no spectators. Only dust, silence, and resolve.
Another construct struck from the right.
Sid turned. He had already seen the blow.
His martial instinct bloomed like a second presence behind his eyes. He felt it even before it came. The path of the blade, the correct pivot, the opening in the construct's defense. The perfect counter-flourish formed clearly in his mind. A smooth dodge into a slash under the elbow joint, just enough to make it stagger.
But his foot dragged.
His body, slower than his mind, faltered by a breath. And a breath was all the construct needed.
Its strike clipped his shoulder. The padded sparring coat absorbed the blow, but the force sent a jolt down his arm.
Sid hissed and stumbled back, teeth gritted.
Then it came, the shimmer of silver light. His spell.
A flickering blade of arcane force snapped into being mid-air, catching the next strike before it landed. For a moment, the spectral edge ground against enchanted steel. Then the blade dissolved into motes, dissipating in the stale air.
"That's the fourth time, Isidore," came a calm, patient voice from the edge of the room. "You're relying too much on Flicker Form."
He stood, chest heaving. "It's meant to be used that way."
His mentor stepped forward. Mirelle Sanneth, Fifth Circle Battle-Mage, once known as the Conductor of The Waves during her field service in the Western Front. A petite woman with calloused hands and a gaze that cut through bluster like a honed scalpel showing immense experience and wisdom.
She crossed her arms. "It's meant to be a tool. Not a crutch."
Sid's fingers twitched as he reset his stance. "I can read the fight before it happens. But my body…" He hesitated. "It still can't keep up."
Mirelle's expression softened, but only slightly. "I know. You have the eye of a master. But not the physique. Not yet anyway."
The constructs reset with a faint hum, drifting back to neutral stance. Mirelle waved a hand, and both shut down, limbs relaxing into dormancy.
"I think we're done for today."
Sid lowered his sword, his other hand still numb from the jolt.
She moved toward him, brushing aside his sweat-dampened fringe. "Hair dye has held up well. I wasn't sure it would stick this cleanly."
He offered a faint smile. "You're the one who picked the formula."
"Because I know how to keep runaways disguised," she replied, dryly. "And I remember how brown your hair was before all this."
Sid turned his face slightly. The black strands were still unfamiliar to him in the mirror. But they had become his own, in time.
"You've grown into your new face," Mirelle said, stepping back. "But the name's harder to bury. I know."
He nodded once. Sid. He repeats his new name, the similarity with his original name reflects the lingering affections he still had.
She looked at him long and hard. "Tell me something, Isidore. This dream of yours, knighthood, honor, the Wall. You've chosen the hardest path in the Empire. Is this still what you want?"
"Yes." His voice is determined.
"No aura. A mediocre, if not below average magical talent. You can barely hold Flicker Form for more than a few seconds even when I personally crafted it for you. And your sword arm fails you more often than not."
"I know."
She exhaled sharply and turned toward the weapon rack. "I wonder where that stubbornness is coming from, seriously. And I suppose I'm a fool for enabling it."
Sid stood silently, letting the words wash over him like cold water.
She finally looked over her shoulder. "But you've earned this much. By stubbornness if nothing else. So be proud."
He gave her a quiet, grateful nod.
With a wide smile, the mentor gives his student a final smile. "Congratulations, I hope the Great Guardian guides your path."
"Since when were you religio—Ack, hey I just fixed my hair?!"
"Oh, shush. Now go. You'll be late."
She turns around and waves her hand.
Sid gives a big smile and bows to his mentor. "Thank you for everything, Master."
He quickly ran outside the room before his master blasts another spell into his ass. He stepped into the arched corridor outside, breathing in the distant sounds of celebration.
The halls grew louder as he moved toward the Grand Conclave Hall.
Cloaks fluttered. Boots echoed on polished floors. Dozens of graduates adjusted formal robes, smiled for waiting artists, and gathered in giddy clusters.
Sid moved alone.
He passed a polished mirror pane. His reflection stared back and it still felt a bit foreign. A black-haired, brown-eyed, clean uniformed student stared back. This uniform accompanied the 4 years he spent in the Academy when he arrived here alone at the ripe age of 15. His sword was placed back in his room, and an unfamiliar wand rested on his hip. Not quite a knight. Not a true mage. But something in between.
He descended the final staircase, where the grandeur of the Hall swallowed him whole.
Towering arches stretched across the dome, laced with frost-kissed crystal. Arcane torches flickered with seasonal hues, blazing orange and gentle green.
The Archmage of Seasons, the principal of Vel Dranath Imperial Academy, stood at the central dais, his robes a tapestry of living color that shifted with each breath. He spoke with command and clarity, his voice echoing through spell-amplified acoustics. He's one of the living pinnacle realm figures in the Thalarian empire.
"…and so we stand, on the threshold of a world both wounded and wondrous."
Sid found his seat toward the back, where the last rows of graduates sat in relative quiet. He looked ahead.
Hundreds of families filled the balcony tiers. Proud faces, waving hands, tearful smiles. Mothers, fathers, elder siblings craning to see their sons and daughters claim their futures. Many of which are nobles whose children inherited the lineage ability of their families.
The lineage ability is a blessing from the guardian god of the empire, an ability imprinted within one's blood when a member of the family reaches the pinnacle of their field.
His gaze drifted left.
Then right.
Nothing.
No one.
The seats reserved for the House of Valhart were empty. That's obvious. As someone who didn't inherit the ability to use his lineage power, his parents had long given up on his prospects.
'Ironic that the lineage ability is made to support others in battle.' The thought flashed in his mind, but he shook the negative thoughts off his head.
But he still stared at the empty chairs for far too long.
The applause around him surged at the Archmage's closing lines.
He clapped, too.
But only with his hands.
Not with his heart.
The sky over Arckrow was a dull, endless gray. The mountain wind carried a chill that clung to the skin, even through his cloak. Sid stepped down from the rear caravan platform, boots crunching on the snow-matted gravel path that wound toward the outpost gate.
It wasn't a city, not really. More a fortified outcropping, one of the last stops before the climb toward the Wall. Crag-faced structures lined the hilltop like stubborn teeth, and everything smelled faintly of damp stone and alchemical oil.
He adjusted the weight of his pack and looked up at the banners. A crest of a silver wolf over a blue skies, tattered from frostbite and wind. the insignia of House Varron, Duke of the North. He had arrived.
The wind shifted again, and with it came a voice, clear in memory. Mirelle's.
"You better not forget what I told you, Isidore."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly at the echo of her tone in his head.
"Flicker Form is all you've got for now, so refine it. Don't waste time trying to learn other spells. You don't have the talent for broad mastery, so specialize. Carve that one spell into your bones. Once you add another circle in your heart, then you can try and mess with Living Armor, but not before that. Understand?"
Sid could almost see her now, standing on the old academy balcony, a mug of bitter tea in her hand and an exhausted frown on her face.
"Don't get clever with theory crafting either. You can't afford to divide your focus. You have no margin for error."
He remembered how she had paused then, letting the words settle.
And then her voice had softened, just slightly.
"There's something else I didn't tell you before."
He had looked at her, puzzled. She rarely hesitated.
"The land past the Wall," she said, "is sick. Rotten in ways you can't always see. The air's heavy with the wrong kind of mana. The kind that whispers to people like you."
He had blinked. "Like me?"
She didn't answer right away.
"You're hungry, Sid. Not just greedy, but hungry. Always clawing for more, because you think you're behind. Because you were born without what others were given. That kind of drive can push someone to greatness."
Then she looked him dead in the eyes.
"But it can also ruin them. Power gained without cost is always borrowed from something darker."
Now, standing beneath the looming walls of Arckrow, Sid exhaled slowly.
The wind howled faintly between the parapets. Guards in fur-trimmed armor manned the gates with stiff shoulders and wary eyes. A few glanced at him as he passed, though no one spoke.
He showed the seal stitched into his dispatch scroll and was waved through without ceremony.
A few minutes later, he found himself in front of large military cart. Around him, fresh conscripts milled about, unwrapping winter coats, sharing nervous jokes, and already trying to figure out who was worth following.
Sid didn't join them.
He sat on the edge of the clearing, eyes drawn to the frost-specked scenery.
In his mind, her voice echoed one last time.
"Don't chase what doesn't want you. Shape what you already hold."
He touched the hilt of his sword, then closed his eyes.
"I know," he whispered. "I will."
He steeled his resolve as he started to embark on his journey.