The lecture hall quieted as Professor Halden Mire rapped his knuckles once against the stone lectern. The sound carried—sharp, deliberate—cutting through the nervous murmurs of first-year students packed shoulder to shoulder on the tiered benches.
Behind him, a broad crystal panel shimmered to life, bands of color slowly blooming across its surface.
"Welcome," he said, voice calm but carrying easily, "to your first formal lesson in realm theory. This is not dueling. This is not spellcraft. This is understanding where you stand—and where you might never reach."
A few students straightened.
Mire gestured, and the lowest band darkened.
"Black Realm. Raw potential. Untrained resonance. Every one of you was born here."
The color shifted upward.
"Brown Realm. Stability. Control enough to live with magic rather than be consumed by it." He paused, letting his gaze sweep the room. "Most citizens—artisans, healers, scribes—reach Brown. It is not shameful. It is enough."
The next hue pulsed faintly violet.
"Purple Realm. Discipline. Purpose. Those who truly practice magic without devoting their lives to it often settle here."
A ripple of quiet pride moved through the benches.
Mire lifted a finger, and the crystal brightened to deep blue.
"Blue Realm. This is where soldiers and working mages begin to separate themselves from the populace. Years of training. Years of strain." The blue warmed to crimson.
"Red Realm. Battle-hardened veterans. Field mages. Commanders. Many of you aspire to this." His expression hardened. "Most will not reach it."
The colors climbed again.
"Orange Realm. Exceptional."
Then brighter still.
"Yellow Realm. Elite."
A hush fell over the room.
"These are the realms of your finest imperial battlemages, your most decorated officers. To reach Yellow is to give decades of your life to mastery—and sacrifice."
The crystal shifted once more, blooming into a deep, living green that seemed to breathe.
"Green Realm."
Even Mire lowered his voice.
"Few reach this stage. Fewer still remain whole after doing so." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Most members of the Twelve Pillars stand here. Not because of titles. Not because of birth. Because survival at this level demands absolute harmony between will, body, and the ley lines."
He let the green light linger.
Then, almost casually, he added, "Which brings us to recent news."
The room leaned forward as one.
"Last week," Professor Mire said, "Pillar Brom Ironhart completed his breakthrough into the Green Realm."
Gasps broke out. A student near the front whispered a stunned oath.
Mire allowed himself a thin, rare smile.
"That achievement makes him the forty-third individual in the kingdom's recorded history to ever reach the Green Realm. Also known as The Living Resonance Realm."
Professor Mire's fingers tapped the lectern once, sharply, pulling the room back from its awe.
"The Living Resonance Realm," he repeated. "So named because at Green, magic no longer merely obeys you—it responds. The ley lines listen. The world notices."
The crystal dimmed slightly, the green glow softening into a steady pulse.
"For those of you already entertaining foolish dreams of racing toward it," he added dryly, "understand this: resonance at Green exposes everything you are. Flaws are amplified. Doubt becomes lethal. Conviction becomes law."
His gaze swept the hall again—and then, briefly, stilled.
Kaelen sat halfway up the eastern tiers, arms folded, posture loose in a way that suggested disinterest. Yet his eyes were sharp, fixed on the fading green light. At the mention of ley lines responding, something tightened in his jaw. His fingers flexed once, unconsciously, as if remembering stone shifting beneath his palms—power earned, lost, and earned again the hard way.
Mire's eyes moved on.
A few rows back, Baxter Gillard swallowed.
Unlike the others, he stared at the crystal as though it might stare back. Forty-third. The number echoed in his head, heavy and oppressive. Not inspiring—terrifying. His quill hovered unmoving above the page, knuckles pale. If Green was that rare… what chance did someone like him have of ever even being noticed?
Mire cleared his throat.
"Remember," he said, voice firm once more, "this academy does not exist to create legends. It exists to ensure you survive your own growth."
The crystal fully faded, leaving bare stone behind it.
"Your goal for the next six years," he concluded, "is not Green. It is not Yellow. It is control. Those who rush the ascent are the ones whose names never make it into history at all."
A murmur had only just begun to rise when Professor Mire lifted one hand.
The sound died at once.
"There is," he continued, " two more realms most academies do not teach in their first year. Some do not teach it at all." His eyes hardened, the weight of history settling into his posture. "But since you now know what Green truly means, you must also understand what lies beyond it."
With a subtle gesture, the crystal reignited—not with color, but with absence.
The green drained away, replaced by a muted, shifting grey that seemed to blur at the edges, as if reality itself were uncertain how to hold it.
"Grey Realm," Mire said. "The Veiled Threshold Realm."
No one breathed.
"At this stage, resonance becomes… quiet. Neutral. Almost invisible." His voice lowered further. "Magic ceases to announce itself. It cannot be easily sensed, disrupted, or opposed. Those who stand here are not louder than the world—they are unnoticed by it."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"In the entire recorded history of the kingdom," he said, "only three individuals are confirmed to have reached the Grey Realm."
A beat later .
"Archon Veynar."
Several students stiffened at the name alone.
"The late Grand Empress Aeloria Crestwood."
A deeper hush followed—reverence layered with grief.
"And her mother," Mire finished, "Athena Crestwood."
The grey light darkened, sharpening—no longer vague, but cold and absolute.
"On the battlefield," he added, "Athena Crestwood was known by another name."
His eyes swept the room, unblinking.
"The Reaper's Warden."
Something like fear passed through the hall.
Mire did not soften.
"In every war she fought," he continued, "enemy casters reported the same phenomenon: spells unraveling mid-cast. Formations collapsing without impact. Death arriving without warning."
The crystal shifted again.
Grey did not brighten.
It vanished.
In its place, the hall was flooded with white.
Not blinding—but fundamental. Clean. Total. As though every other color had been swallowed into a single, impossible unity.
"White Realm," Mire said, and for the first time, there was no dryness in his tone. Only certainty. "The Source Ascendant Realm."
No one moved. No one dared.
"In all known history of this kingdom," he said slowly, "only one person has ever reached it."
The light pulsed once—vast, infinite.
"Athena Crestwood."
Kaelen's breath caught before he realized it had.
Baxter's quill slipped from his fingers and clattered softly to the stone.
"White is not power," Mire concluded. "It is authority. Reality ceases to resist. Law becomes… optional."
The crystal dimmed completely, plunging the hall back into ordinary torchlight.
Mire faced his students, expression ironclad once more.
"You are not here to chase myths," he said. "But you are here to understand the cost of becoming one."
Silence held for several heartbeats longer than comfort allowed.
Then, hesitantly, a hand rose.
Professor Mire's gaze shifted—sharp, assessing—before he inclined his head a fraction. "Yes. You."
Lara stood, smoothing her robes with fingers that trembled only slightly. She swallowed once before speaking. "Professor… if breakthroughs beyond Green are real—if Grey and even White have been reached—then why haven't the methods been… recorded?" Her brow furrowed in earnest confusion rather than fear. "Why hasn't advancement been refined the way the lower realms have? Surely the empire would have devoted everything to uncovering it."
A few students nodded. Others leaned forward, hanging on the question.
Mire regarded her for a long moment.
Then he exhaled—slowly.
"An intelligent question," he said. "And a dangerous one."
He stepped away from the lectern, boots echoing softly against the stone as he descended one tier, placing himself closer to the students than before.
"Up through Yellow, breakthroughs follow patterns," he explained. "Strain, refinement, balance. Scholars can observe them. Generals can replicate them. Failures are… survivable."
He lifted a hand.
"Green is where that ends."
The air seemed heavier.
"At Green, resonance ceases to be internal alone. It entwines with the world itself—ley lines, life, intent. Advancement no longer depends on technique, but on alignment." His eyes met Lara's. "And alignment cannot be standardized."
He turned slightly, gesturing back toward the now-dark crystal.
"Grey Realm breakthroughs," he continued, "have never been witnessed. Only inferred after the fact. Those who reached it did not leave manuals." A faint, grim curve touched his mouth. "They left… aftermath."
A ripple of unease moved through the hall.
"As for why progress has stalled," Mire said quietly, "consider this: Athena Crestwood did not ascend because she sought White."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"She ascended because the world could not stop her."
Lara's fingers curled into her sleeve.
"Every confirmed Grey or White ascension," Mire finished, "occurred under conditions that cannot be recreated—total war, existential collapse, moments where the laws of reality themselves were… insufficient."
He straightened, returning to the lectern.
"That is why advancement beyond Green has not been refined," he said. "Because to study it properly would require risking the end of the kingdom."
The room was silent again—this time not with awe, but with understanding.
Mire folded his hands behind his back once more.
For several breaths, no one spoke.
Then a chair scraped softly against stone.
Kaelen rose to his feet.
Unlike Lara, he didn't smooth his robes or hesitate. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed—but his eyes were intent, fixed on Professor Mire with a focus that bordered on challenge.
"Professor," he said, voice even, "you keep saying alignment and authority." A pause. "But what did Athena Crestwood actually use?"
A few heads turned.
"What kind of magic?" Kaelen continued. "What weapons did she wield? Steel? Relics? Constructs? Or was it just… resonance?"
The hall seemed to lean toward Mire all at once.
For the first time since the lecture began, Professor Mire did not answer immediately.
He studied Kaelen—really studied him—eyes lingering a fraction longer than they had on the others.
Then he spoke.
"Records agree on very little," Mire said at last. "Which should tell you something in itself."
He turned, resting one hand against the lectern—not for support, but grounding.
"Athena Crestwood did not favor a single school of magic," he said. "She wielded no fixed element. No signature spell."
A murmur rippled through the students.
"She carried a blade in her early campaigns," Mire continued. "Plain steel. No enchantment worth noting." His gaze sharpened. "It did not remain plain for long.. In her mid-campaign years Athena carried around a large battle scythe, which was one of the reasons for her the iconic name."
Kaelen's fingers twitched.
"By the height of the War of Sundering," Mire said, "witnesses described her fighting without casting. Without chanting. Without gestures." His voice lowered. "Enemy formations collapsed as if reality itself had misjudged their right to exist."
He met Kaelen's eyes directly now.
"Spells failed around her not because she countered them," Mire said, "but because she broke them down and disassembled them."
A cold stillness settled in the room.
"As for weapons," he added, "she was observed discarding them entirely in her later battles. Steel broke. Relics unraveled. Constructs refused to function."
Mire straightened.
"When asked—once—why she no longer carried a blade," he said, "Athena Crestwood reportedly replied: 'I no longer need something that ends things. I decide when they are already over.'"
No one breathed.
Mire's expression hardened once more, the lecture tone snapping back into place like a shield.
"That," he said, "is why her magic cannot be categorized. And why it should not be romanticized."
He looked back at Kaelen.
"You want to know what Athena Crestwood wielded?" he asked.
A beat.
"She wielded inevitability."
Kaelen sat down slowly, jaw tight—not frightened.
But thoughtful.
Mire folded his hands behind his back again.
"And that," he said, "is where this discussion ends."
Professor Mire's gaze swept the hall one final time.
"That," he said, voice once more clipped and immovable, "is all for today."
He tapped the lectern once.
"Class dismissed."
The tension that had been coiled tight through the chamber released all at once. Benches scraped, robes rustled, voices broke out in low, urgent murmurs. Students filed toward the exits in clusters—some pale, some animated, some staring ahead as though the world had subtly shifted beneath their feet.
Kaelen lingered.
He gathered his things slowly, mind still caught on words like inevitability and aftermath. By the time he stepped into the aisle, most of the hall had already begun to empty.
"Kaelen."
He turned.
Lara was hurrying toward him, dark curls pulled loose from their ribbon, eyes bright with something that wasn't fear this time—but excitement barely held in check.
"Did you hear?" she asked, lowering her voice as she drew closer.
Kaelen frowned slightly. "Hear what?"
She glanced around, then leaned in.
"I heard from Talia," Lara said, almost whispering now. "She says Anna might be coming back. Soon."
Kaelen stilled.
"Back?" he repeated.
Lara nodded quickly. "In the next week or two, apparently. They're talking about it quietly, but—" she smiled despite herself, "—it sounds like it's actually happening."
For a moment, the noise of the departing students faded.
Kaelen looked toward the tall doors at the end of the hall, sunlight spilling through them in long bands across the stone floor.
"Anna…" he murmured.
Whatever weight the lecture had left on his shoulders shifted—not gone, but… balanced by something else.
Kaelen forced his expression to remain neutral, schooling his features with practiced ease—but Lara caught the way his breath hitched before he could stop it.
"When?" he asked, a touch too quickly, then smoothed his tone. "Did she say when exactly?"
Lara's smile softened. "Not a date. Just… soon. Talia made it sound like arrangements are already being set. If nothing changes, before the next rotation ends."
Kaelen nodded once, jaw tightening as he looked back toward the doors. His fingers curled at his side, then relaxed. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
"That's… good," he said, carefully. "She deserves to come back."
The words were measured. His voice was not.
Lara studied him for a heartbeat longer, then tilted her head. "You're happy."
He huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Don't tell anyone."
Her grin widened..