Days later...
The sun hung low over the canopy, bleeding orange light across the treetops like spilled amber. Zethra trudged ahead, boots scuffing against the dry earth, his shoulders squared but heavy with fatigue. Beside him, or rather a step behind and sometimes three ahead, his younger brother Ezagone kept up a stream of chatter.
"You think it'll be glowing? I mean—if it doesn't glow, does it even count as magic?" Ezagone asked, balancing on a half-rotted log before hopping down with a grin. His blond curls bounced, and his oversized pack threatened to tip him sideways.
Zethra didn't glance back. "If the sigil doesn't work at all, it won't matter whether it glows." His voice was deep, calm, the voice of someone who had shouldered responsibility for too long.
"Oh, pessimistic as always," Ezagone teased. He mimed a cough. " 'If the sigil doesn't work, we're doomed, Ez. If the sigil doesn't work, we'll have walked two weeks through thorns and nearly drowned in that swamp for nothing,Ez.' "
"You nearly drowned because you thought swamp reeds were solid ground," Zethra muttered.
"They looked solid! And besides, you pulled me out, so really, I think I gave you an opportunity to show off your big-brother hero skills." Ezagone grinned, unbothered by the glare Zethra finally shot him.
The trees parted gradually, the air shifting with it. A hush spread, as though the forest itself held its breath. Ahead, light glimmered—reflections quivering between the trunks. Zethra slowed, then stopped entirely. Ezagone bumped into him with an exaggerated "oof," rubbing his nose and peering past.
There it was.
The river stretched broad and gleaming, the water moving with a gentle, unhurried rhythm. Its surface reflected the gold of sunset and the shadows of trees leaning over its banks. Tiny fireflies hovered in the thickening dusk, their lights winking like distant stars that had fallen too low. The sound of water—soft, eternal—reached them, washing away the harshness of the trail.
Ezagone exhaled. "Finally." He tossed his pack down and stretched his arms wide, as though presenting the river to the gods themselves. "Behold! Civilization! Well, not really civilization, but at least we won't die of thirst."
Zethra allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "We are here."
Zethra reached into his cloak, drawing out a small, flat object wrapped in cloth. His fingers lingered on the bundle, as though feeling the weight of destiny in the palm of his hand. He unwrapped it carefully.
The sigil was no bigger than a handspan, etched into polished stone, its surface scored with spirals and geometric lines that caught the light in strange ways. Sometimes they appeared to glow faintly, only to fade as though teasing the eye. The edges were rimmed in silver, worn smooth as though countless hands had touched it before.
Ezagone crouched, chin in his hands, eyes wide. "That's it? Looks like a fancy coaster."
Zethra ignored the comment, kneeling at the water's edge. He dipped his free hand into the river. Coolness kissed his skin, grounding him. For a moment he simply listened to the quiet gurgle of the current, the whispers of evening breeze threading through the leaves. Then he looked at Ezagone.
"Once we do this, there's no turning back," Zethra said.
Ezagone's grin returned, brighter than ever. "Good. I was getting tired of turning back. Every time we did, you had that whole 'grim soldier face' thing going on. Not fun."
Zethra exhaled a short laugh despite himself. He shook his head, raised the sigil, and held it over the water.
The stone pulsed faintly, a heartbeat of light echoing through its lines. Zethra leaned so far forward he almost fell in, catching himself on a rock. "Oh! It's glowing! Told you it would glow. Aether always glows."
"Quiet," Zethra said, but not harshly. His gaze sharpened. He let the sigil drop.
It touched the river with barely a sound, sinking gracefully rather than plopping. The ripples it created spread outward in concentric circles, each one shimmering unnaturally, like liquid glass catching moonlight before the moon had even risen.
Ezagone gasped, clutching Zethra's arm. "Oh, that's not normal. That's— that's portal stuff. This is portal stuff, right?"
The ripples grew. Instead of fading, they multiplied, overlapping, weaving into patterns like a spider's web unfurling across the water's surface. The silver lines brightened, stretching, knitting, until the center of the river seemed to warp. The water deepened in color, from golden dusk to a pool of violet and indigo, as though someone had spilled the night sky into the stream. Stars winked within it—tiny sparks of silver fire dancing on the current.
Ezagone's mouth fell open. "That's… that's beautiful."
Then the air changed. The forest hushed further, every insect silencing. The hair on Zethra' arms lifted. He felt it—the pull of something immense, like standing on the edge of a cliff with a storm rolling in below.
The river bulged upward. Water bent, lifting as though unseen hands were drawing it skyward. The ripples swirled into a whirlpool, not down but inward, folding space into itself. The sigil reappeared at the vortex's heart, glowing so brightly it was painful to look at.
Ezagone shielded his eyes with one hand. "Okay, that's less 'pretty' and more 'please don't vaporize us.' "
Zethra remained still, his jaw set, but his heart pounded. He remembered his own awakening years ago, the fire that had nearly consumed him. He remembered holding Ezagone's hand when his younger brother's powers had unlocked—the way Ezagone had nearly died, body convulsing with raw Aether too wild for his veins. He had sworn then that he would protect him, no matter what.
Now here they were, at the edge of destiny again.
The vortex stilled suddenly. A column of light burst upward, spiraling like a beacon. Where it struck the sky, the clouds seemed to peel back, revealing a glimpse of endless constellations. The water itself flattened, becoming a mirror of that celestial expanse, until the river was no longer river but gateway.
Through the liquid surface, faint outlines shimmered—a courtyard of ivory stone, spires that pierced clouds, banners fluttering in an unseen breeze. The Academy.
Ezagone whispered, awe-struck, "That's it. That's really it."
The sigil floated once more to the surface, glowing calmly, like the eye of the portal. The current didn't carry it away. Instead, it hovered, patient, waiting.
Zethra placed a hand on Ezagone's shoulder. "Stay close. Don't let go."
Ezagone nodded quickly, though his grin crept back, bright and irrepressible. "If I drown again, you're pulling me out."
"You won't drown."
"Promise?"
Zethra smirked faintly. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
Ezagone rolled his eyes. "See, that's exactly the kind of ominous thing you shouldn't say before stepping into a magical vortex."
But he gripped Zethra's hand tightly nonetheless.
The surface rippled once more as they stepped forward. The light wrapped around them, cool and warm at once, the sensation of sinking and flying interwoven. The river, the forest, the sunset—all dissolved. For an instant there was nothing but weightlessness, the rush of wind in their ears, and the faint sound of laughter, as though the portal itself recognized their bond.
Ezagone's laughter.
And then the world changed.
Rising in the distance was a structure unlike anything they had ever seen.
The Academy.