Chapter One: The Blindfolded Blade
The carriage wheels rattled over the uneven cobblestones, each jolt echoing in Noosemaker's boots. He sat still, hands folded neatly in his lap, back straight as a blade. His blindfold, once white, was now stained a deep crimson that never washed out, no matter how many times he replaced it. His eyes had bled every day since the injury, the curse—or gift—left behind by that powerful stranger years ago.
Noosemaker did not complain. He had grown used to the burn, the wetness, the copper tang that seeped into the cloth. It was a part of him, as much as the armored boots on his feet. Their steady weight grounded him in the world, gave rhythm to his steps, and reminded him that even blind, he still moved forward.
The carriage slowed. He heard the crack of the driver's whip and the snort of horses before the wheels ground to a halt. Noosemaker shifted his head, though his sightless eyes saw nothing but eternal dark. His mana reached outward like smoke, brushing the edges of the world around him. He felt the cold stone arch rising ahead, the vast sprawl of towers beyond it, each built of mana-saturated stone.
The Academy of Aethern—where the best mages across the continent came to shape their destinies. Where he would finally begin his own.
"End of the line," the driver muttered, clearly unnerved. Noosemaker could feel the man's unease prickling through the air. It was a sensation he'd grown accustomed to: the way others stiffened under the cold aura that clung to him like frost. He did not mean for it to spread, but mana reflected the soul, and his had been shaped by pain and defiance.
He stepped down, armored boots striking the stone with a low clang. The sound carried, sharp and deliberate, like the toll of a hammer on an anvil. Other students nearby turned to look. He could feel their gazes, their whispered words slipping like feathers into his senses.
"Who's that?"
"The blindfold… is he hurt?"
"Creepy."
"…he feels dangerous."
Noosemaker ignored them. He always did.
A breeze brushed across the training fields beyond the archway, carrying the raw hum of mana. It prickled against his skin, invigorating and sharp. He reached into himself, calling his own mana forth. The air warped. Light condensed. A blade of pure force formed in his hand—a longsword shaped of magic, its edges humming with energy.
He did not wield steel or wood. He created his weapons
The sword thrummed in his hand, alive with his breath and pulse, as if his blood had become molten light and taken shape beyond his fingers. The weapon was flawless, honed to an edge sharper than reality itself. It radiated heat and hunger, and every time he summoned it, he felt that gnawing truth: the blade was not separate from him. It was him.
The whispers around him grew louder. Some voices quivered with awe, others with unease.
"Is that… conjuration?" "No. Look closer—the resonance is too stable." "By the Saints, he's forging."
The last word rippled through the crowd like a stone cast into still water. Forging. A forbidden art, thought to be long extinct. The kind of magic spoken of in old ballads, where kings fell and monsters bled before warriors who carried no steel, only will.
Noosemaker closed his fist, and the weapon dissolved back into threads of mana that sank into his skin. The air chilled at once, the ground beneath his boots sighing as if relieved. He stood straighter, adjusting the crimson-stained blindfold at his face. The blade's memory lingered in the air, and silence followed him as he walked beneath the towering gates.
---
Inside the courtyard, the Academy of Aethern spread like a labyrinth of towers and bridges. The air shimmered faintly, charged with the weight of countless wards and enchantments. Noosemaker felt them pressing against his aura—layers of protection woven by masters of the craft. Even blind, he could sense how vast the place was, how heavy with history. It was a citadel of power, humming like the core of the world.
"Name?" a voice demanded.
Noosemaker turned. A scribe stood at a desk near the entrance, quill poised above a great tome. The man's mana fluttered nervously, like a bird trapped in a cage.
"Noosemaker," he said simply.
The quill paused mid-stroke. The scribe coughed softly, then bent back to his work. "House? Lineage?"
"None."
The quill scratched, uncertain. A silence followed. The scribe cleared his throat. "Proceed."
Noosemaker inclined his head in thanks and walked deeper into the academy grounds, his boots ringing against the marble like steady drumbeats.
---
Students swarmed across the courtyard. He felt dozens of auras—bright, wild, untamed. Bursts of flame lit the air as someone tested a spell. A gust of conjured wind knocked another student's hat free. A girl's laughter spilled like bells as she painted illusions across the sky. They were young, eager, unscarred. Noosemaker stood apart, wrapped in the gravity of his own presence.
Still, one aura approached him, bold and steady. A boy's voice followed, warm with curiosity. "You're… new? Obviously, but… different. I'm Jerrik."
Noosemaker turned his head toward the sound. The boy's energy burned bright, like firewood crackling on a hearth. He carried the heat of someone who'd never yet been beaten down. Noosemaker envied him for that. "Yes," he said. "I arrived today."
"You really can't see?" Jerrik asked, eyes darting to the blindfold.
"No."
"And yet… you made that sword back there." Jerrik's voice trembled with excitement. "That was real, wasn't it? Not illusion, not shaped mana—real."
"Yes."
The boy whistled low. "Saints. They'll be talking about you in the dining halls tonight."
Noosemaker tilted his head. "They already are."
That made Jerrik laugh, not mockingly but with honest mirth. "You've got a sharp tongue. I like that."
It was strange. Most recoiled from him. This one drew closer.
---
A bell tolled from a high tower, deep and resonant. The students gathered, pulled by routine. Noosemaker followed the tide, his mana brushing the stone steps beneath his feet. He counted each clang of his boots, letting them anchor him against the ocean of voices and the flood of unseen eyes. His blindfold itched. He did not adjust it. The stain beneath was permanent.
In the great hall, the air shimmered with runes carved into pillars. Candles floated overhead, burning with cold flame. At the dais, figures in robes stood like statues—masters of the academy. Their power pressed like mountains, old and immense.
One of them spoke, her voice a ringing chord. "Welcome, initiates, to the Academy of Aethern. Here, you will be tested, broken, and reforged into what you were always meant to be. Magic is not gift—it is burden. To wield it is to shoulder the weight of the world."
Her words sank into Noosemaker like iron. He understood them already. Burden. Weight. He had carried both long before stepping foot here.
The master's gaze swept the crowd. "Tonight, you will rest. Tomorrow, you will be measured. And from your measure, your place in this academy shall be determined."
Murmurs rippled through the students. Measured? Tested? Some trembled. Some grinned. Noosemaker simply listened. Tests meant nothing. He had lived every day as one.
---
That night, as he lay on the hard bed of his assigned dormitory, Noosemaker removed his boots. The floor was cold stone. He flexed his toes, feeling the ground directly for the first time all day. The air was heavy with the breath of sleeping boys, each dreaming of glory or fear.
He pulled off the blindfold. Blood dripped slowly from his eyes, pooling into his cupped palms. He could not see the world, but the world burned in him regardless—mana spilling in shapes and edges, shadows and sparks.
He whispered into the silence, his voice steady.
"I will forge my own place."
The crimson cloth slid back over his face, binding his vow.