Earth, November 1st, 986—the year the heir of the Solumbra family was born.
Norton Kurtis Solumbra, son of the family head, entered life within the gilded halls of wealth and nobility. His father's influence ensured he was surrounded from infancy by the finest tutors in every discipline. Days blurred into lessons: equations upon equations, the endless names of cities and kingdoms, and above all, instruction in controlling the mysterious force that shaped their world—Magical Energy.
In this world, such energy was no myth. It was the Sun's ancient byproduct, flowing long before Earth itself coalesced into being. The Sun had poured forth this power in unrelenting abundance, saturating creation. When life rooted itself on Earth, the energy seeped into its soil, its waters, its skies. Plants absorbed it naturally, passing it into the herbivores that grazed them, then into the carnivores that hunted. This invisible current threaded itself into every living creature. Yet no beast, no bird, no creeping thing could wield it.
Only humankind adapted to harness it. Through slow evolution, they not only stored Magical Energy within their flesh but also bent it to their will. Every human was born with affinity to an Element—Fire, Water, Wind, Earth, or rarer forces still.
And Norton knew this better than anyone.
For Norton was born with a gift—the rare ability to perceive Magical Energy. To ordinary people, even fantastical people, such a force was invisible, unknowable, something that could only be sensed through its effects, but to Norton it existed everywhere, saturating every living thing and every corner of the world. Within people, it glowed as a vibrant light blue, shifting and pulsing with their very breath; in the Earth, it shimmered in deep hues of green and brown, as if the soil and stone themselves were alive; across the ocean, it rolled in dark, foreboding shades of blue that carried with them a weight almost ominous; and above, stretching endlessly, the sky itself radiated in a brilliant, crystal-white clarity.
Yet this vision, wondrous as it seemed, came at a cost. Norton's mind was forced into perpetual labor, ceaselessly interpreting the flood of color and energy that never left his sight. His focus flickered restlessly from one current of power to another, unable to remain still, and though he adapted to the constant strain, headaches became his lifelong companion, dull at first but gradually worsening until they pressed on him with a weight that threatened to crush thought itself. His brain strained endlessly, struggling to process all that his eyes delivered, as though he were burdened with a truth no human was ever meant to carry.
Though the origin of his ability to perceive Magical Energy remained a mystery, the weight of it—the pain, the torment that revealed the so-called gift to be nothing more than a curse in disguise—was no secret to Norton, and it gnawed at him with relentless agony each passing day.
To endure, Norton devised a solution. He gathered his own Magical Energy and directed it into his eyes, weaving a thin, fluid barrier—like water flowing in stillness—that dulled the overwhelming brilliance of the world. This veil shielded him from the blinding flood of unseen light, suppressing every trace of Magical Energy while leaving his natural vision untouched, a fragile compromise that allowed him to live without drowning in the very gift he had been given.
Norton devoured the truths in those endless textbooks thrust before him. They were facts carved into his mind, heavy as iron, though he despised the monotony. Not a day passed when he wasn't forced to learn something new, and with each passing season, what others called a normal childhood slipped further from his grasp.
Johnathan Oz Solumbra, his father, demanded nothing less. Enemies shadowed him at every corner of the continent, and assassins had failed time and again to take his life—even after Norton's birth. To protect his bloodline, Johnathan pressed his son into strength, into power, even at the cost of youth's simple joys.
Now, November 1st, 992—Norton's sixth birthday. Rather than celebration, he was enrolled in the most prestigious school on the continent: the Sovereign Solstice Academy. Not to learn—the boy already knew more than most masters could teach—but to socialize. Books could sharpen his mind, but they dulled his ability to live among his peers.
Dressed in formal attire, Norton bore the Solumbra crest with quiet dignity. His tunic, deep violet silk, shimmered faintly in the light. At his chest, the family's sigil—twin golden spouts releasing black flame—stood proud. A gray cloak hung over his shoulders, fastened by a silver chain at the collar. Black hose and polished leather shoes with golden buckles completed the image of a noble heir.
The carriage wheels clattered to a halt before the Academy's gates. Stepping down onto the cobblestones, Norton lifted his gaze to the iron arch above. Letters wrought in gleaming metal spelled Sovereign Solstice Academy. Without a pause, he strode forward.
Inside, the stares met him. Sons of other noble houses—many the children of his father's enemies—looked on with scorn and envy. Whispers carried disdain. A few girls glanced shyly away, while others hid giggles behind delicate hands.
His first class, ironically, was an introduction to Magical Energy. Norton chose a seat near the window, looking out on the courtyard below: a stone fountain long run dry, its basin now filled with flowers. Cobblestone paths split in neat crosses around it, hedges blooming in each corner. The scene did little to ease his growing boredom.
Students filled the room, chatter swelling to a constant hum. Norton slouched slightly, resting his chin in his hand, an impassive expression on his face. He knew why he was here. To mingle. To experience "life." If asked, he would admit he would rather endure another of his father's lectures than this charade. But his father's word was law—social skills, he had been told, were as important as magical ones.
When at last the teacher arrived, the room quieted. Finlay Douts entered burdened with three thick tomes, his tone crisp, commanding.
"Welcome to the Sovereign Solstice Academy. My name is Finlay Douts, and I will be your teacher this semester. Here, you will not only learn the nature of Magical Energy, but also how to wield it. In these halls, the best of the continent gather, and the best behavior will be expected."
He opened one of the books, its pages rustling. "Turn to page twelve, chapter one: Understanding Magical Energy."
The students obeyed, and Finlay began. "Magical Energy comes from the Sun itself. Every creature carries it, but only humanity can bend it. It is a natural part of what makes us human. And from it, we draw forth our Techniques."
The students listened intently—except Norton, who already knew these truths by heart.
Then Finlay produced a mirror. Golden stands held it upright, its polished face gleaming faintly. The room stirred with excitement. Norton knew it immediately from his studies: The Eye of All-Knowing.
"This," Finlay declared, "will reveal your Element and the depth of your Magical Energy. One at a time, each of you will place your hand upon its surface."
The class surged forward, eager, until Finlay's sharp rebuke halted them. "One at a time—or risk expulsion."
The first boy, Cyril Lawrence, stepped forward, trembling as his hand met the glass. Moments passed. The mirror glowed green. "Life Element," Finlay announced. Another student followed, the glass flaring yellow—Tech Element. One after another, the children were tested, the mirror blazing with a spectrum of colors.
At last, Norton rose. Hostile stares followed him to the front. He placed his palm upon the glass. A sharp tingling rushed through his hand, like unseen threads stitching him to the mirror. He felt his heart race, though his face remained calm.
The mirror erupted in deep blue light, saturating the room. "Water Element," Finlay began, but his words were cut short.
A low hum rose from the mirror, faint at first, then swelling into a deafening vibration. The light flared, brighter, brighter still, until glass across the classroom shattered. Norton tried to pull away, but his hand was locked to the mirror.
"Everyone! Out—now!" Finlay roared, but before the order could be obeyed, the mirror burst apart. Water splashed across the floor, shards flying like razors. Students and teacher were spared, but Norton's hand and face were cut, blood dripping onto the tiles.
Silence followed. The mirror was no more.
The room lay in stunned silence, shards glinting in the morning light, droplets of water glistening on the floor like fragments of some broken star. Norton stood in the center, hand bleeding freely, his face nicked where glass had struck him, yet he seemed more bewildered than pained.
Finlay stared, lips parted in disbelief. "The mirror… it's never…" His words trailed off before he gathered himself, sweeping the class with his eyes. "Are any of you hurt?" he demanded, the students shaking their heads in unison, every voice returning a trembling no. All except Norton, who remained with crimson streaks across his hand.
"Come," Finlay said, seizing Norton gently but firmly by the shoulder. "You need Mrs. Snow, the Academy's Life Wizard. She'll tend to you."
The teacher turned back to his students, attempting to mask his unease. "Continue reading until page eighteen. Norton and I will return shortly." And with that, he guided the boy from the wreckage of the classroom.
They crossed the marble halls, the echoes of their steps mingling with Finlay's hurried breath, until they entered the infirmary. At once, Elara Snow looked up from her work. A warmth filled her eyes, her tone lilting as she addressed Norton.
"Oh my, what happened to this cutie?" she teased, but the moment she noticed the blood trickling from his hand, her expression hardened with professional urgency. "Let me see your hand, please."
Finlay lingered near the door, his own cheek lined with a shallow cut. "Don't forget about me, Elara," he muttered, though his attempt at humor came out weary.
"You're a grown man," Snow replied dryly without lifting her gaze from Norton's wound. "What surprises me is that this child isn't even crying."
"Yeah… me too," Finlay admitted, running a hand down his face. "You do your work. I need to speak with someone." Without further word, he turned on his heel, boots striking sharp against the floor as he strode away.
Snow pressed her hands over Norton's palm, her magic knitting torn flesh with a faint glow. "And there, all of that pesky glass has been removed," she murmured, withdrawing her touch as Norton flexed his fingers experimentally.
"Doesn't that feel sore?" she asked.
"Not really," Norton replied, voice even. "I only felt a sharp pain for a moment, and then it disappeared."
"Then do me a favor—don't write with that hand for two days." She smiled kindly.
"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Snow," Norton said, inclining his head with quiet dignity.
"No problem, dear. Now, back to class with you. And I need to find Finlay—he looked more wounded in spirit than in body." Her smile returned, gentler this time, before she rose and left the room in search of her colleague.
---
Meanwhile, Finlay moved swiftly through the Academy's corridors, tension knotting his shoulders. He rapped at the principal's office, brushing past the receptionist with barely a word, and entered without ceremony.
Everly, the principal, looked up from her paperwork. Her long white hair, tied back in a sharp ponytail, fell to her waist, and her single red eye regarded him coolly from behind a black eyepatch.
"Finlay," she said, surprise flickering in her tone. "Your first class isn't finished. What brings you here?"
He drew a breath, steadying himself. "It's about one of my students, Norton Kurtis Solumbra."
At the mention of the name, Everly's brow lifted slightly. The surname resonated, though she did not yet voice why. "What about him?"
Finlay hesitated, then forced the words out. "He… broke the mirror."
The room seemed to still. Everly's hands slammed against her desk, eyes wide. "What? Impossible! No one has destroyed that artifact in eight centuries. And yet… a child?" Her voice cut itself short, her mind racing. "Repeat his name."
"Norton Kurtis Solumbra," Finlay said again, and watched her lips curl into the faintest smirk.
"Of course. I should have known."
Finlay frowned, utterly lost. "I don't follow."
"You've never heard of Jonathan Oz Solumbra?" Everly's tone was incredulous.
He shook his head.
She leaned back in her chair, her voice low and deliberate. "Jonathan Solumbra was a man ahead of his time. At thirteen, he annihilated an entire army of the Isador Empire singlehandedly. At nineteen, during the Family Wars, he led his bloodline to victory by wiping out every rival that opposed him. Being of the Solumbra Family, he was chosen by the Dark Element itself—a rarity as great as the Light. For regular people, to even be noticed by such an Element takes countless generations, and yet he was born with it."
Finlay's mouth fell open.
"When Jonathan was tested by the mirror, it too shattered under his power," Everly continued, her single eye burning with memory. "It is no coincidence that his son has done the same. Norton is here not to be taught, but because Jonathan wills it so."
Finlay's panic rose. "What am I supposed to do? If I push him too hard—if I offend him—will his father hear of it?"
"Calm yourself," Everly said sharply. "Be respectful, nothing more. If Jonathan raised him as I expect, the boy is here only to socialize. There is nothing this Academy can teach him that he does not already know."
Finlay swallowed, nodding, though unease still shadowed his face.
---
Snow found him moments later, leaving the office, his features pale. "What were you doing in the principal's office? Did you get in troubleee?" she teased, stretching the word with playful mockery.
"No," he muttered. "I just needed to speak with her."
"About what?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"Norton," Finlay admitted after a pause. "He… broke the mirror."
Snow stopped in her tracks, shock flaring across her face before fading almost instantly into calm acceptance.
"Why are you so calm?" Finlay demanded, unsettled by her composure.
"Because he's Jonathan's son," she replied simply. "It should be expected."
"You're not surprised? Not frightened?"
"Why should I be?" Snow asked softly. "If Norton ever turned against the continent, Jonathan himself would stop him. Besides, Norton is just a child—it's far too early to judge him as anything else."
Finlay said nothing, the weight of Everly's words still heavy upon him. Together they returned down the hall, Elara healing his wounds in silence, said silence stretching on until at last he forced a smile.
"Thank you, Elara, for tending to our injuries," he said.
"Anytime," she answered, waving him off with a smile of her own. "Have a good day with your class."
---
When Finlay reentered the classroom, the students were bent over their books once more, the earlier chaos smothered under forced concentration. Norton sat at the back, his hand now clean and whole, his gaze fixed upon his palm with an expression unreadable.
Quiet, withdrawn, yet carrying the weight of something unspoken, he appeared less a boy of six and more a figure already aware that destiny itself had begun to stir around him.
Finlay cleared his throat as he stepped back toward his desk, straightening his posture in an attempt to regain the class's attention.
"Alright, class, excuse my earlier departure," he said, his voice calm but carrying authority. "Have you read up to page eighteen?"
Every student nodded in unison—except Norton.
"Good. Then let me explain in greater detail what you've just read."
He began to pace slowly before the class, his hands folding behind his back as though this lesson required gravity.
"Humans are unique in that within the structure of our prefrontal cortex, the arcuate fasciculus, and the rosehip cells, there exists a capacity unlike any other creature's—a capacity that allows us to manipulate Magical Energy. This energy flows through every part of our bodies, but it gathers most heavily around the brain, a reservoir that must remain in delicate balance. If the body fails to regulate it properly, or if the flow of Magical Energy is suddenly severed, then the brain collapses into silence—and death follows."
The words weighed heavily in the air. The class, once restless, had gone perfectly still, their wide eyes fixed on their teacher, rapt in awe.
"Now that you understand where Magical Energy comes from and how we are able to shape it," Finlay continued, "it is time you learned to put this knowledge into practice."
Just then, the door swung open. A towering figure stepped into the classroom, his presence filling the space before he even spoke. His skin was dark and weathered, his build colossal—muscle stacked upon muscle, each fiber defined beneath a plain white tank top. Brown trousers hung from his frame, his black shoes heavy against the floorboards. He looked to be in his thirties, yet carried the presence of a seasoned veteran, someone forged in endless trials.
Norton's heart leapt at the sight of him. Excitement flushed his face until it seemed almost feverish. He knew this man—everyone did. The Flow of All Direction.
"This here," Finlay said, gesturing with a touch of reverence, "is my friend, Kuno Yngvarr—your instructor in the art of Magical Energy Manipulation."
Kuno raised one calloused hand in greeting. "Hey, kids." His voice was rough, gravel scraped against steel, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of several students. "We're going to have so much fun…" His words were lighthearted, but the tone, deep and harsh, made it sound more like a threat.
"Now, now, students," Finlay said quickly, raising his hands. "Do not be afraid of Kuno. Despite appearances, he has a kind soul and a golden heart."
Kuno frowned, his massive arms folding across his chest. "What's that supposed to mean, Finlay?"
"Only that you're nicer than you look," Finlay replied lightly.
Kuno muttered something under his breath but said no more, instead waving for the students to follow him. Norton leapt to his feet without hesitation, eager to obey. The rest rose more slowly, their hesitation lingering, but one by one they trailed after Kuno, Finlay included, since no other lessons would take place that day.
The group was led outside into the school's training grounds, where open earth stretched wide beneath the sky. At the far end stood a tree, broad and solid, its roots knotted in the soil. Beneath its shade, five scarecrows waited in silence, arranged like soldiers at attention.
"Now," Kuno said, stepping forward with deliberate weight, "we will practice drawing Magical Energy outward—releasing it from the body." He raised his arm toward one of the scarecrows, and without another word, the air seemed to shiver. A slash, sharp as the edge of a blade and carried by the wind itself, ripped free from his motion, cleaving the scarecrow in two before tearing deep into the tree behind it. Bark exploded outward, the wood gashed open in a single violent stroke.
The students gasped, staring in open shock, but Norton only smirked. He had seen it clearly. He understood.
Kuno turned back to them, his arms still raised slightly. "What you witnessed was the result of focusing Magical Energy into a single point within my body, then pressing more and more into that point until it burst outward."
The students nodded after a beat, their faces pale with astonishment.
"But you did more than that." Norton's voice cut through the silence, sharp and confident. Every head turned toward him. "Had you only focused your Magical Energy into a single spot, the slash would have been invisible to the others. What you did instead was pour your Magical Energy into your Element first, then channel it into that point. That is why they saw it—a slice of wind, given shape by your Element."
Kuno's eyes narrowed. Slowly, he folded his arms, studying Norton with newfound weight. "You are correct." He said, Norton had fallen into his trap. "What is your name, boy?"
"Norton Kurtis Solumbra," he answered, his smirk widening.
"Ah," Kuno said, recognition flashing across his face. He strode forward until he loomed directly over Norton. "The firstborn of Johnathan Oz Solumbra. Tell me—do you always flaunt your limited knowledge?"
"Depends," Norton said, coughing into his fist but keeping his gaze locked on Kuno's. "It's only limited if the person I'm explaining it to is stupid."
A low laugh rumbled in Kuno's chest. "Careful, boy. Tone it down, or I'll break that arrogance out of you."
"Say that again," Norton shot back, his voice hard, his eyes burning with a fire that made even Kuno pause, "and you'll leave here with every limb shattered."
For a long moment, silence stretched, but then Kuno smirked. He stepped back, turning with deliberate slowness. "Why don't we test that, then? A mock fight. Since you're so certain of yourself, this should be easy, shouldn't it? After all… the son of Johnathan Oz Solumbra, the firstborn heir of a bloodline dormant for nine centuries, should have nothing to fear." His tone dipped, sharp as a knife. "Unless you're nothing but a pathetic excuse for a son… and an heir."
That broke Norton's restraint. He lunged forward without a word, his fist cocked back and ready to strike. Kuno shifted to the side with effortless ease, letting the blow pass harmlessly by.
Momentum carried Norton toward the tree. He sprang upward, his feet pounding against the bark, then pushed off, launching himself down at Kuno with another strike. Again, Kuno moved aside, the blow missing by inches. Norton rolled across the ground, springing to his feet with growing frustration. Kuno's hands shoved into his pockets as though daring Norton to underestimate him.
It was then that Norton removed his restraint. The watery barriers over his eyes dissolved, and the flood of Magical Energy around Kuno became starkly clear. His gift switched on in full, his mind racing to digest the sight.
Kuno's brow furrowed; he felt the shift, a disturbance in the air.
A sudden blast of water erupted from Norton's palm, pressurized and deadly, streaking straight for Kuno's head. Kuno ducked beneath it, watching as the blast tore a clean hole through the tree behind him. Another strike followed immediately, forcing him to summon his Element. His hands swept up, Magical Energy pouring through his arms and into his palms, coalescing into a shield of roaring wind that shattered the blast before it could strike.
Norton's eyes blazed. He traced the flow of energy within Kuno, watching the precise control, the intricate way it moved from point to point, burning every detail into his memory.
He attacked again, water bursting from his palms as he propelled himself to Kuno's flank, firing another shot mid-dash. Kuno's wind shield shifted in a blur, sliding to his exposed side just in time.
Over and over, Norton pressed the attack, each strike not reckless but calculated, his gaze never leaving the weave of Kuno's energy. Then, at last, he shifted his tactic. Planting his foot hard against the ground, he released a blast downward, forcing energy deep into the earth where Kuno's defenses did not reach.
He had found the weakness. Beneath him, Kuno was unguarded.
The ground erupted beneath Kuno's feet with a thunderous crack, the blast tearing through soil and stone alike. For the briefest instant, shock flickered across his face, his eyes widening as the earth gave way beneath him. Yet instinct ruled him faster than thought—his body surged upward, propelled clear of the explosion with a burst of precision, leaving Norton cursing under his breath at the narrow miss.
'His reaction time… it's unreal,' Norton thought, his eyes narrowing as he tracked every movement. 'The way he controls his Magical Energy—it's not just sharp, it's instantaneous. He can redirect the flow at the highest speed, moving it in perfect tandem with his reflexes. Heh… the ultimate wind sage!'
Norton thrust his palms outward, blasting himself backward with a torrent of water until he landed in the very spot he had begun, the distance giving him a moment to breathe and reassess. His mind worked furiously, already sketching the outline of his next attack—when suddenly, everything changed.
Kuno's presence vanished. His Magical Energy, a constant storm in Norton's vision, disappeared in a single instant, as though it had never been there at all. Norton's eyes widened, horror rising in his chest as he felt it flare back to life, not before him but behind.
"Enough games," Kuno's voice came, sharp and merciless. And then—darkness claimed Norton.
---
"Are you certain this is the path you want me to take?" Kuno's voice was low, uncharacteristically hesitant.
He sat in a high-backed chair of polished brown wood, its leather cushions dyed a deep purple that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. The room was cloaked in dimness, a single flame burning on the desk before him, its flicker casting long shadows against heavy curtains drawn tight over the windows.
"Indeed," came the reply, the voice distant yet commanding, its tone steeped in mystery. "I need my son at his peak. No—beyond his peak. He must become more powerful than even I ever was."
Kuno frowned, his massive hands gripping the arms of the chair as he leaned forward. "That is asking too much of him. The boy is not even four years old. You cannot expect a child to surpass all of his peers, let alone eclipse you."
A long sigh answered him, heavy with both resignation and inevitability. "I know." Silence lingered afterward, thick as smoke, until the voice spoke again. "For every firstborn child of the Solumbra line, there is a truth that repeats itself: they rise higher than the last, stronger, sharper, more filled with potential. Yet with each new heir, another truth grows darker—the curse deepens."
Kuno's expression hardened, the words spoken like poison on his tongue. "That curse… festering and rotten."
"Yes," the voice confirmed softly, a whisper edged with steel. "The Undying Forever Curse. The Shadow Curse."
---
There was darkness—thick, oppressive, and seemingly endless. Yet within it, sound persisted: whispers, hushed voices that drifted like currents through a void, as though the unseen were conspiring in secret.
Slowly, with effort that felt monumental, Norton opened his eyes. The haze of unconsciousness lifted to reveal the world bathed in the dying hues of sunset, its orange light bleeding across the classroom windows. Students ringed him in a tight circle, their faces pale with curiosity and unease. Finlay knelt closest, hands brushing carefully over Norton's shoulders and arms, searching for injuries though deep down he already knew none would be found.
Realization struck Norton like a blow. Memory surged back—the clash, the humiliation—and his body lurched upright in a sharp motion. Pain answered instantly, coursing through his limbs, forcing a grimace to seize his features.
He turned his head frantically, scanning, desperate to find the man who had put him down so effortlessly. And then he saw him. Kuno.
But before Norton could push himself to his feet, another presence entered—one so unexpected it rooted him where he sat.
"How are we faring, my boy?" The voice was low, commanding, and laced with an intimacy that silenced the room.
The figure stepped into view, draped in a trench coat black as midnight that fell to his boots, concealing everything but the glint of gold at his throat. From the chain hung a pendant of deep crimson, a gem so vivid it seemed alive with its own fire.
This was Johnathan Oz Solumbra. His father.
The atmosphere changed at once. Every student stiffened. Finlay's breath hitched, his body instinctively bracing as if before a predator. Johnathan's power needed no display; his aura alone—raw, unrestrained, impossibly potent—flooded the room like an ocean pressing against fragile walls. He was not channeling a Technique, nor was he consciously shaping his energy. This was simply what he was.
Even Norton, who had known this presence since childhood, felt it weigh upon him like the hand of a giant. Yet his silence came not from fear but from humiliation—the shame of being witnessed in defeat by the very man whose approval mattered most.
Kuno stepped forward then, coming to stand at Johnathan's side. His voice carried authority, stripped of ceremony. "He lost," he stated plainly, and Norton's fists clenched at the words. "His temper holds firm, but his ego—his pride—drives him into recklessness. He is too self-absorbed, and far too quick to believe himself untouchable."
A pause lingered, sharp and heavy, before Kuno continued. "But there is something else. His grasp of Magical Energy, his instinct for manipulating and analyzing its flow, eclipses every student present. He saw the weakness in my Wind Shield and struck at it without hesitation. His ability to adapt, to devise countermeasures mid-battle, would outpace students twice his age. For that alone, he deserves to be placed among the advanced—among the mature."
Johnathan listened, the faint curve of a smile tugging at his lips. At last, he lowered himself into a crouch, bringing his eyes level with his son's. "Well, then," he murmured, voice edged with amusement and challenge alike, "I think you need improvement. Do you?"
Norton's pride screamed for silence, but his father's gaze allowed no escape. Hesitation thickened the air until, at last, he swallowed it back, his voice strained yet steady. "Yes, Father. I need to become more."
Johnathan reached out, clasping Norton's hand, and with an effortless pull, lifted him upright. "Then let us go home, my son. This lesson has run its course."
As they turned, Johnathan glanced back over his shoulder, eyes finding Kuno. "Your honesty is appreciated," he said with a measured nod, and then, in the next heartbeat, both he and Norton vanished—swallowed by a tide of shadows that slipped from the room like a wave retreating to sea.
Silence hung heavy in their wake. The students stood transfixed, their minds reeling. Though Norton had fallen, he had stood toe to toe with Kuno Yngvarr, a legend in his own right, and forced him to defend seriously. That alone marked him apart, far beyond what any of them could hope to achieve.
For Finlay, however, the greater weight was in the presence that had filled the classroom only moments before. To behold Johnathan Oz Solumbra, History's Greatest Wizard, not as myth but as flesh and shadow, was a revelation so staggering it left his thoughts scattered, scrambling for sense.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered, storming toward Kuno. "Why was Johnathan here?"
Kuno, calm as stone, answered simply, "To see how his son performed."
"Don't play dumb. There's more to it than that." Finlay's voice sharpened. "You know it."
Kuno smirked faintly, his reply evasive. "If you know there's more, why ask me? You already have your answer."
The sharp glare that followed made Kuno sigh. He waved to the students, his tone commanding. "Go. Follow the hall to the main doors. Your parents are waiting."
One by one, they dispersed, the chatter of nervous whispers filling the corridor. When the last of them had gone, Kuno's voice dropped low. "Johnathan promised me something, years ago. That's all you need to know."
"Really?" Finlay's outrage burned. "And what of the Principal? Did you even inform her? Johnathan can't just appear wherever he pleases without it being recorded."
"No," Kuno admitted. "No one knew. Not even I expected him."
Finlay exhaled sharply, a sound of both resignation and dread. He knew the truth would never be given, not by Kuno, not by Johnathan, perhaps not by anyone.
---
The Solumbra Family Compound.
From the cobblestone path, two shadows emerged, resolving into the figures of father and son. Behind them loomed wrought-iron gates anchored by high brick walls, enclosing fifty acres of estate. Manicured lawns stretched on either side, the grass trimmed to perfect uniformity, dark green in the fading light.
A granite fountain rose at the center, crowned with the sculpture of a woman, her form graceful and eternal. Beyond it, the path ascended toward a manor of staggering scale—six stories of pale stone and whitewashed walls, its entrance framed by towering pillars and guarded by a door of dark, polished wood adorned with golden fixtures.
Johnathan led Norton up the wide stairs, his hand firm on his son's shoulder. The door opened under his touch, revealing the grandeur within: a sweeping hall dominated by a golden statue of Johnathan's own father, two staircases curling upward like twin spines, and at their base a rich red carpet bordered in white. To either side, long corridors stretched into shadow, lined with doors and relics of the family's history.
They turned to the right, the hallway's walls crowded with shelves and cupboards heavy with books. A second crimson carpet unrolled their way, this one plain, stretching endlessly forward until it ended at a set of ornate double doors.
Within was Johnathan's office, wood-paneled and severe, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and candle wax. Norton sank into his father's lap as Johnathan lowered himself into the chair, its weight groaning under him.
"What troubles you, my son?" Johnathan asked, voice softened in rare gentleness.
Norton said nothing. The sting of failure pressed too deeply, his pride raw and tender, his father's presence amplifying the wound. To lose, and worse, to lose before him, was unbearable.
"Are you upset?" Johnathan pressed, though his tone remained calm. His hand drifted to the desk, sliding open a drawer, from which he drew a weathered book bound in cracked leather.
Its cover was dark brown leather, worn and torn by time. From a glance alone, Norton guessed it was at least five centuries old, perhaps more.
"This is the legacy of the Solumbra Family," Johnathan said, making Norton perk up.
"Ah, so you can hear after all," Johnathan added, and Norton cursed inwardly.
"You're upset because you lost, aren't you? Embarrassed?" Johnathan asked. Norton hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
"And why are you embarrassed, exactly?"
"What?" Norton's brow furrowed. "What kind of question is that? I'm upset because I lost. I'm embarrassed because I lost. That's all."
"Yes, you lost—but why does that wound you?" Johnathan pressed, deepening Norton's confusion.
"I don't understand," Norton admitted.
"Perhaps you underestimated your opponent. Perhaps you thought too highly of yourself. Embarrassment rarely comes from defeat alone—it comes from the conditions of the fight. Those are what shape whether victory tastes sweet or hollow, whether loss feels bitter or instructive."
He leaned forward. "If you fought an old woman, you would win without effort. The conditions are clear—you are young, strong, agile, and she is not. Would you rejoice in such a victory, or feel shame?"
"I'd feel terrible," Norton replied without hesitation.
"Indeed. Just as you do now. You fought one older, more skilled, more seasoned. You overestimated yourself, underestimated him, and fell without striving to grow. Under those conditions, should you feel content in your loss—or shamed by it?"
Silence. Norton lowered his eyes. Pride had blinded him.
"I would feel ashamed," he admitted softly. "I didn't realize how little I valued those around me."
"That is enough," Johnathan said.
"What? No—it isn't! That's not enough at all," Norton protested.
"Of course it is. You have seen your error. You take responsibility. That is already more than most. Think of the countless egos before you; fewer than half ever recognized their arrogance. Count your mistakes, and they will dwindle."
Johnathan softened his tone. "When my father taught me this, I too was confused at the time. It took me until I was three-hundred-and-fifty-eighty years old to know what it meant. I do not want you to lose your confidence. Hope in yourself is vital. But confidence must serve truth, not image. Hold your head high, but not so high that you cannot see the ground beneath your feet. Have wisdom before pride."
He lifted Norton gently from his lap.
"Now, your mother has prepared more of her delicious food... mmm..." His mouth watered. "Quickly, get ready—before I eat it all and leave you nothing but scraps."
Johnathan left, and Norton lingered in the office that was not truly his father's, but the Library of the Solumbra Family. Every shelf, every volume, every relic belonged not to the man, but to the bloodline.
He gazed at the old book, filled with the histories of the First Borns before him—their deeds, their failings, their legacy. Carefully, he placed it back into the drawer and made his way to the kitchen.
The day's events weighed heavily upon him. Despite what he had said to Kuno, he respected his opponent's skill. He knew his own mistakes now, yet had not realized how deep they ran. His tutors had been the finest, but knowledge of a thing is not the same as doing it. He had known this truth since childhood, but never felt its weight until now.
At the Solumbra table, as he ate, his thoughts turned restless. How was he to become better than himself? Time brings growth, mistakes bring wisdom—but what if he proved immune to change? His greatest fear was not defeat, but repeating it endlessly, never learning.
He was not some spoiled, talentless child. In his age group—and even among those older—he stood unrivaled. Kuno's words only confirmed it.
And so Norton made a vow. As the First Born, he would not settle for mere talent.
He would become the best version of himself.