Once, this realm was whole. United.
Then came the Towers—rising like pillars of destiny—and with them, division.
Three great regions, each ruled by its own Magic Tower, each claiming dominion over a fractured world.
But before the split, there was a fourth: the Central Spire.
It held no land—only purpose.
A sanctuary of knowledge where all gathered: mages, scholars, builders, dreamers.
When the realm broke, the Spire lost its voice. But it endured—silent, watching, waiting.
Now, it is reborn as CAM: Calestra Astra Magna Academy.
No longer just a haven for mages, CAM opens its gates to swordbearers, scholars, healers, technologists, artists—even the mer-born.
Here, magic and machine walk side by side—or clash.
One student might cast fire with a whisper; another might bend light with wire and code.
In the grand halls, scholars study politics with the same rigor as spellcraft. Musicians perform alongside magicians, while legal experts engage in debates with abstract theorists. Though old blood still holds power, merit, and ambition now shine brighter than ever.
CAM no longer rules the realm.
But it still shapes those who will.
Ten sleek, opulent cars glided onto CAM's front grounds—each a limited-edition model adorned with golden wings.
Ancient magic shimmered across them: enchantments of time acceleration exclusive to the oldest and wealthiest families.
One of them belonged to the Nightshades.
On a nearby bench, Elizabeth sat quietly, lost in a book.
A white spaghetti-strap crop top hugged her slender frame. Her pastel-blue, pleated high-waisted pants and suspender straps gave her a vintage charm. A cream beret rested lightly on her head. Silver drop earrings and a layered choker caught the sunlight.
She was utterly oblivious to the buzz around her.
Beside her lounged Zekai—midnight-black hair tousled, ocean-blue eyes sharp.
A calm, sea-blue magic shimmered faintly around him.
He scoffed, lips curling.
"Another rich show-off. Can't they do anything minimal?"
Elizabeth smirked without looking up.
"For them, this is minimal, Zekai."
They rolled their eyes in perfect sync.
The courtyard stilled.
Some students hovered mid-air. Others froze on the stone pathways.
Mage cloaks fluttered beside enchanted hoodies. Spears leaned against laptops with fluttering wings.
Whispers swelled like waves.
A man stepped out from one of the golden-winged cars.
Tousled purple hair framed his sharp features, catching the light like strands of amethyst. He lowered his sunglasses just enough to reveal eyes laced with quiet defiance. Hands buried in the pockets of an oversized indigo jacket.
Silver chains layered over chokers shimmered faintly, a dagger-shaped earring swaying at his ear.
Rings lined his fingers, cold and deliberate, and a twisted pendant brushed his shirt—quiet, cryptic.
Every step moved with effortless grace as if the world shifted to accommodate him.
Asher Renan Hall.
He circled the car and opened the passenger door.
Silver heels shimmered with illusion magic, their stiletto curves catching starlight. Glass butterflies fluttered at her ankles, wings glittering like frost. Crystal vines climbed her feet, blooming with frozen light. Long legs followed—graceful, otherworldly.
And then—her.
Seraphina Nightingale Nightshade.
Her mint-green hair flowed in gentle waves.
A double-layered white ruffle crop top floated gently against her skin, thin straps brushing her shoulders.
High-waisted black pants accentuated her figure. A sky-blue jacket slipped from her arms like breath.
Gold floral earrings framed her jaw; a golden waist chain rested over her exposed stomach, glinting at the navel.
Oversized sunglasses shielded her eyes, but her smirk, confident and cruel, needed no disguise.
Together, they walked like storms dressed in sunlight.
Casual. Minimal. Breathtaking.
From the second car, a boy, barely thirteen, tumbled out.
Messy golden-green hair. Sunglasses slid low on the boy's nose. Five rings glinted on each ear.
He chewed gum lazily, red lips curled in mischief.
Black T-shirt. Cargo pants.
One hand buried in his pocket, the other flicking a lighter on and off.
Danial Lark Nightshade.
Born with too much charm—and even more trouble.
Two more cars opened.
From one emerged a man demonic in presence—his sunglasses sliding into place as if to shield him from the indignity of CAM's very soil.
Dominic Nightingale Nightshade.
Beside him, unfazed and unreadable, The Michael Lark Nightshade.
Then came Senior Nightshade, stepping out with measured dignity.
And at his side, the ever-peacemaker: Forrest Michael Nightshade—dark green hair, sun-kissed skin, simple shirt lined in gold-thread embroidery.
Royalty cloaked in humility. A man is trying to earn forgiveness.
At the front stood Dimitry Dominic Nightshade, already smirking.
"Welcome to my territory," he thought.
One last vehicle stayed behind—larger, reinforced.
A fortress on wheels. Bodyguards: silent, alert.
Then came the staff.
The very principals of CAM descended to receive them.
High above, perched in the sky, floated the glass-topped tower: The Elite Club, CAM's political heart.
On its balcony, three boys leaned against the rail, watching.
In the center stood a boy with long, fire-red hair that spilled across his face like flames.
Pale-orange eyes gleamed with quiet arrogance, framed by lashes sharp as blades.
His lips, soft and strawberry-pink, held a hint of mystery.
A teardrop gem hung at his collarbone, its chain glinting against bare, porcelain skin.
His half-unbuttoned white shirt shimmered, revealing a sculpted chest beneath.
Around his throat, a black collar whispered of both nobility and defiance.
With every glint of light on his silver chains, he looked less like a boy and more like a fallen star.
Justin Lucas Devron.
To his left: Jezz Roman Myrid—pink-haired, eyes ever-calculating.
To his right: Aron Squirrel Black—dark-haired, tense.
Justin's gaze wasn't on the cars.
It was locked on Elizabeth—until a pulse of energy rippled through the air.
The Nightshades had arrived.
Jezz frowned. "Why is the Nightshade main house here?"
Aron's lips parted, trembling.
"Asher Renan Hall…" His voice cracked. "Does Setaro know he's here?"
Jezz's gaze sharpened. "Dimitry's with them too. Something's wrong."
But Justin wasn't listening anymore.
His eyes had shifted—Seraphina.
Their eyes met.
A silent clash of power and pride.
She rolled her eyes and turned away. Effortlessly.
It bruised the prince's ego more than any insult.
The only girl who never bowed.
He murmured,
"Seraphina Nightingale Nightshade… Why are you here?"
Down in the courtyard, Zekai's jaw dropped.
Elizabeth chuckled without lifting her eyes.
"Crushing already, Zekai? She's out of your league."
"She's so beautiful," he mumbled.
Elizabeth glanced once and nodded. "Fair."
Above, Justin's thoughts tangled. He hated uncertainty.
And Seraphina was a storm with no center, a maze with no solutions.
Her magic? Still unmeasured.
Her soul? Shrouded in veils.
Even the council couldn't pin her down.
She had no weakness. No anchor.
And Justin Devron despised anything he couldn't predict.