The silence of the Volkov manor, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Mehandi had won his vengeance and reclaimed his home, but he was alone with his ghosts. The glowing aether-veins in the walls were a testament to his power, yet they were also a constant reminder of how little he knew about the world beyond the manor's boundaries. His magic was unique, a quiet song of starlight and stone, but he had no framework for it. He was a force of nature without a manual.
One evening, he found himself in the study, staring at the family's crest: a griffin with a lightning bolt in its claws. His brothers had embodied that crest—brash, aggressive, and power-hungry. He, however, was none of those things. He was the quiet root, the patient stone. He needed to understand the rules of the world his brothers had so masterfully played in. He needed to go to the heart of their world.
He made the decision that night. He would enroll in the Sovereign Arcana Academy, the very institution where his brothers had been celebrated as prodigies. It was a risk. He would be walking into a den of suspicion and prejudice, but it was a necessary step. He could not defend his family's name from the shadows.
He prepared for the journey. He had Elara manage the manor in his absence, a silent trust passing between them. He left the aether-veins open and humming, a living ward that would protect the estate from any lingering corruption. He took only a single satchel, a change of clothes, and his father's compass. He was not going as the Volkov heir, but as a student.
The Academy was a fortress of spires and silver-streaked stone, perched on a mountaintop. It hummed with the concentrated power of hundreds of mages, a heavy, cacophonous symphony of magical ambition. Mehandi felt it the moment he passed through the gates, a jarring contrast to the quiet resonance of his home.
The news of his arrival had, of course, preceded him. He felt the curious, skeptical eyes of the students follow him as he walked to the central commons. Whispers followed him like a chilling breeze: "The Ghost Volkov." They spoke of a pretender, a rogue mage who had used dark arts to steal his family's home. The legacy of his brothers, so powerful in their absence, hung in the air like a pall.
He saw it everywhere. A plaque in the central fountain was dedicated to the "Leo Volkov Scholarship for Arcanum," and a wing of the library was named for Ivan. He was an outsider in his own family's history.
His first class was in magical theory, a lecture on the fundamental nature of spellcasting. The Professor, a stern, elderly man with a meticulously groomed beard, spoke of the arcane principles of mana manipulation. He lectured on the difference between evocation and divination, of channeling and control. It was a world of rigid rules and formulas, a stark contrast to Mehandi's intuitive, almost meditative connection to the aether.
As the professor spoke, Mehandi felt the life in the wooden desk beneath his fingers, the quiet pulse of the stone floor. He wasn't channeling mana; he was listening to the world. He was a force of chaos in a world built on order. He realized, with a chilling clarity, that this place wouldn't teach him how to use his power. It would teach him how to survive in a world that would never understand it. His education had just begun.