YEAR 1: THE SPARK OF IGNISC
The morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Valoria City, thick and gray, shrouding any remaining scars from the war a century past.
Inside the foyer of Seamo Manor, the air smelled of melted wax and aged wood.
Phantsin Dawnfire stood by the main door, his hand gripping the handle of his travel trunk tightly.
He was thirteen, though he didn't look it. Tall for his age, he possessed an athletic build and broad shoulders forged by early, rigorous training. His hair was a deep, unruly crimson, falling over eyes of the exact same shade that burned with quiet intensity. He wore a stiff, dark red tunic, chosen specifically by Ellie.
"You're going to wrinkle it before you even step into the carriage, Young Master."
Ellianora—or Ellie, as he affectionately called her—materialized at his side with the silent grace innate to her elven heritage. She looked like a fifteen-year-old girl, but her amethyst eyes reflected a century and a half of wisdom. Her violet hair was pinned up in two flawless buns, and her black-and-white maid's uniform was immaculate.
She reached out with pale fingers and smoothed an invisible crease on Phantsin's shoulder.
"It doesn't matter, Ellie," Phantsin muttered, his voice caught in the wavering space between boyhood and adult gravity. "It's going to get burned anyway."
"These are clothes for presenting yourself, not for burning," she corrected gently. "Listen to me, Phantsin. You are going to a place that teaches how to kill monsters. But never forget that a knight is not defined by what he destroys, but by what he protects."
Ellie tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"Do not let recklessness consume the boy inside. Ethics are the only thing separating a soldier from a murderer."
Phantsin nodded, swallowing hard. Before he could reply, small arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
Flower buried her face in his tunic. At ten years old, she barely reached his chest. Her bi-colored hair—a vibrant mix of orange and fiery red—was messy and smelled of lavender soap.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered against the fabric.
"I have to, Flower," Phantsin said, resting a hand gently on her head. "I have to keep my promise."
"Come back, then," she ordered, pulling away to look up at him with massive emerald-green eyes. "And bring me a story. One where you win."
"I always win," he lied, forcing a smile.
"Enough sentimentality. Time is money, and the carriage charges by the hour."
Master Seamo's figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway.
As always, he was a walking anachronism: a black tailcoat shot through with silver threads, a crimson cravat, a top hat, and those dark, opaque spectacles that hid his eyes even in the morning gloom. He moved with a predatory elegance.
Seamo stopped in front of Phantsin, studying him the way a blacksmith inspects a newly tempered blade.
"One last thing, Phantsin," Seamo said. His voice was cold, the polar opposite of Ellie's warmth. "At that Academy, everyone will wear a mask. The mask of the noble, the hero, the scholar. You carry the heaviest mask of them all."
Seamo leaned in, dropping his voice so only Phantsin could hear.
"The fire you carry inside... if you let them see it, they will execute you before dinner. Filter it. Suppress it. Whatever it takes. Let them believe you are an Ignis prodigy, a brute with too much mana. Never let them see the true color. Understood?"
"Understood, Master."
"Good. Now go. Conquer or die. Both are educational."
The Arcanum Bellator Academy looked less like a school and more like a fortress.
Built atop the eastern cliffs, its gothic spires and magitech-reinforced walls dominated the landscape. Military airships drifted lazily around the highest towers, and the air vibrated with the constant hum of Aethite crystals.
Phantsin stepped out of the carriage into the entrance courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of other hopefuls.
Most were children of Valoria's nobility or wealthy visitors from other kingdoms. They were all draped in silks and velvets, flanked by servants carrying their luggage.
Phantsin dragged his own trunk, feeling painfully out of place in his rough tunic.
"Well, well. Did someone leave the servants' entrance open?"
The voice was smooth, drawling, and oozed superiority.
Phantsin turned.
Leaning against a marble column, surrounded by a gaggle of sycophants, stood a boy.
He looked to be about fifteen, but held himself with the poise of an adult prince. He was tall, with sharp, aristocratic features and perfectly styled jet-black hair. His eyes were a glacial gray. He wore a black coat embroidered with silver, the crest of the Thorny Rose of House Blackthorn proudly displayed on his chest. Solarian Blood.
The boy looked Phantsin up and down, his gaze lingering on the worn boots.
"I don't see a crest on that tunic, which means you're a lowly commoner," he said, a smirk failing to reach his eyes. "Whose boots did you have to lick to get a letter of recommendation?"
The surrounding nobles snickered.
Phantsin felt a flare of heat in the palm of his right hand. The violet fire seemed eager to answer.
Burn him, the Void whispered inside him. Wipe that smile off his face.
Phantsin clenched his fist tight. He remembered Ellie's words. Ethics.
"I have just as much right to be here as you do," Phantsin said, his voice dropping low.
"Rights are inherited. Permission is bought," the boy replied with disdain. "We'll see how long you last when the real magic begins."
"Aspirant Vlad Blackthorn!" a Proctor called out from the dais.
Vlad pushed off the column. He strode to the center of the courtyard, where a massive Resonance Crystal hovered above a pedestal.
With a gesture of utter boredom, Vlad placed his hand on the crystal.
Instantly, the gem filled with a black and red blaze, elegant and perfectly controlled. A cold shadow-flame that made the onlookers shiver.
"Impressive," the Proctor murmured, making a note on his clipboard. "Pure elemental affinity. Exceptional control. Ignis Faction."
Vlad removed his hand, wiped his palm with a silk handkerchief, and shot Phantsin an arched brow before joining the ranks of those wearing red sashes.
"Next! Aspirant Phantsin Dawnfire!" the Proctor called.
Phantsin swallowed hard. It was his turn.
He walked toward the pedestal, feeling the weight of every stare: the general curiosity, Vlad's scorn, the instructors' indifference.
He placed his hand on the crystal. It felt cold to the touch.
Do it, he thought.
The very second his skin made contact with the surface, the Void inside him awakened. It roared like a caged beast, a tidal wave of destructive purple energy rushing down his arm.
NO!
Phantsin gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He built a mental wall. He visualized filters, floodgates, anything to hold back the violet hue.
He smothered the true nature of the fire, twisting it, forcing it to change its frequency. The effort was agonizing.
The crystal began to violently vibrate. A high-pitched whine pierced the courtyard.
"Aspirant?" the Proctor asked, taking a panicked step back. "What is—"
NOW!
Phantsin released the pressure, but only the rawest, hottest fraction of it.
It was a detonation.
A roaring, feral column of crimson fire erupted from the crystal. The sheer force of the blast shattered the gem into a thousand pieces, sending glittering dust raining down and throwing the Proctor flat onto his back.
The fire dissipated as quickly as it had spawned, leaving behind only plumes of smoke and the sharp tang of ozone.
Phantsin stood there, chest heaving, his right hand smoking.
He had managed to hide the purple color, but at the cost of unleashing absurd, untamed violence.
Whispers rippled rapidly through the courtyard.
The Proctor scrambled to his feet, coughing and brushing the sparkling dust from his robes. He looked at the shattered remains of the crystal, then at Phantsin, his eyes wide with terror.
"R-raw... destructive... unstable," the Proctor stammered, his voice shaking. "But... it is still fire."
The man pointed a trembling finger toward the red ranks, refusing to take a single step closer to Phantsin.
"Ignis Faction. Obviously."
Phantsin lowered his head and walked toward his new faction. Vlad Blackthorn was no longer watching him with mockery, but with a cold, calculating stare.
Phantsin looked down at his own hand, still trembling from the magical detonation.
He clenched his fist. He was in. The lie had just begun.