>--War has swallowed the land. Under Mirror Queen Anystasia Glacial Lis, the Human Kingdom has endured losses I once thought impossible. Of nearly one hundred thousand square kilometres, only a handful of cities remain fit for human life. Our people, once more than ten million strong, have been reduced to a fifth of that. Alexsandria, Braga, and Malevalon still stand, but only just. They are no longer symbols of strength. They are walls against extinction.
Monsters now hunt humans within our own borders. Roads once used for trade have become feeding grounds. Villages vanish between one census and the next. And beyond our ruined frontiers, our neighbours watch us bleed.
To the east, Architect King Redeal Song drives the Savanna Kingdom up the coast, city by city, port by port. To the west, Corpse Queen Maria and the Bloodfallen Kingdom leave nothing but ash, bone, and silence in their wake. Only the northern Chessfield Kingdom holds back, though not out of mercy. Demonkind has no desire to expand, so long as our aberrations stay beyond the mountains.
I suspect history will name this era The Catalyst. Perhaps that is fitting. A catalyst does not mourn what it changes. It simply begins the reaction, and everything caught within it becomes something else.
Humanity was never meant to be a nation of Fire. From the world's birth, The Maker gave us Ice, and we shaped our lives around it. We became cold because survival demanded it. Ruthless because hesitation killed. Efficient because anything less was waste.
Other races received gifts of their own, some so vast they felt almost divine, but our command of ice was unmatched. At the head of that legacy stood the Mirror Queen, blessed at the beginning of time. Her ice was said to be so pure it defied reason itself.
And yet she is not the reason we survived.
Some would say she nearly ended us.
The one who saved humanity—the one who turned us into a nation of fire and left us hating what we once were—was someone else entirely.
A lone rebel. A traitor, if one trusts the crown's histories. A saviour, if one listens to the graves.
Azar Flamberge.
His past is a fog no historian has managed to clear. Some argue he came from The Silver City. Others insist he was not human at all. A few, more daring or more foolish, whisper that he was once the Queen's lover. None of it has ever been proven.
What is certain is that he became the hero humanity had begged the heavens for.
To me, however, he was simply a man who wanted quiet.
Azar was a soldier before anything else, forged in the battles against the monsters southeast of the kingdom. His mastery of the longsword was so complete that even today's finest swordsmen struggle to explain it. He fought like a man who had learned the shape of death and found it wanting.
Still, he never sought admiration, neither from women, men, nor superiors. He wanted work, battle, and little else.
His dislike of authority kept him from rising quickly, though I suspect that suited him. He loved crossing blades, not ordering others to die. Ironic, considering what history would later demand of him.
He seemed like the sort of man no one should burden with expectation.
To me, however, he was…—<
"CUR!"
The shout tore him out of the page.
For a moment, Cur did not know where he was. The words of the old diary still clung to the back of his mind, all war and ash and names history had not quite buried. Then the classroom returned by degrees: the rows of wooden desks, the faded red walls, the thin afternoon light across the floor, and Markus sitting beside him with the expression of someone who had been ignored for far too long.
"Dude." Markus leaned closer, waving a hand between Cur and the book. "I've been talking for three minutes. Were you seriously ignoring me the whole time?"
Cur blinked once more, then gave an awkward little laugh. "Sorry. Sorry. What were we talking about?"
Markus stared at him for a beat, then dropped back into his chair with theatrical disappointment. His boots found the edge of the table a second later.
Cur looked at him properly this time. Five years had stretched Markus upward and sharpened the shape of his face, but had done nothing to improve his posture. His black hair was longer on top now, the sides kept shaved, and his midnight-blue eyes still carried the same restless brightness Cur remembered from childhood.
"Calliarna's birthday," Markus said, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. "Please tell me you've at least picked a gift."
Cur's smile faded by a fraction, which was answer enough. Markus watched him with growing concern. Cur had grown as tall as him, though the resemblance ended there. Markus dressed like someone who cared how others saw him. Cur looked as if he remembered uniforms existed only because someone forced him into one every morning. His shoulder-length hair was tied loosely back, his blazer sat a little too tight across the chest, and the golden glow in his eyes seemed sharper than it used to.
Cur closed the book at last. Markus caught the title before it disappeared beneath his hand: Compendium: Diary of the Mirror Queen Vol. 17. It was not exactly light reading, and for a second Markus looked like he might say so.
Cur leaned back before he could. "I mean… kind of? I was thinking of getting her the same thing as before."
He stretched, folded his arms behind his head, and tipped his chair back onto two legs with the confidence of someone avoiding the real problem.
Markus stared at him. "You're kidding."
Cur did not answer quickly enough.
"Cur." Markus dragged his name out like a warning. "She already basically hates you, and now you want to give her the same thing you give her every year? Maybe another book isn't your strongest move."
Cur's chair hovered on its back legs. "What else, then?"
"Look around, man." Markus gestured vaguely at the classroom, the desks, the walls, the whole Academy as if it personally offended him. "We're a few years from leaving this hellhole, and you want to give her something that reminds her of it? Buy jewellery. Flowers. Sweets. Literally anything that says you thought about her for more than five seconds."
Cur frowned. "Wouldn't that send the wrong message?"
Markus threw both hands up. "ISN'T THAT THE MESSAGE YOU WANT TO SEND?"
The chair dropped back onto all four legs with a dull thud. Cur sighed at the table like it might offer better advice.
"I don't know anymore." He let his forehead fall against the wood. "What did you get her?"
Markus grinned. It was not a reassuring grin.
"New shoes."
Cur lifted his head just enough to look suspicious. "Combat boots?"
"Heels, asswipe." Markus pointed at him. "Unlike you, I actually talk to women."
Cur's eyes narrowed. "You mean your sister picked them."
Markus froze.
Cur had him, and they both knew it.
With another sigh, Cur pushed himself to his feet and began packing his books.
Markus watched him shove the diary into his bag. "Where are you going? Shopping?"
"Practice." Cur slung the bag over one shoulder. "Need to clear my head."
He left with a half-hearted wave before Markus could offer more advice. Markus watched him go, still half annoyed and half concerned, then sank back in his chair with a sigh.
Cur stepped out into the campus garden and let the spring air meet him. The younger students were still trapped in lessons, but the older years had claimed the paths and grass, laughing beneath the trees, lingering by the fountain, and making the most of the bright afternoon. Cur moved through them quietly, the diary's words still somewhere behind his eyes, and headed for the training grounds.
The moment Cur stepped indoors, the heat of the spring sun slipped from his shoulders. Cool shade settled over him instead, and for a brief second he let himself enjoy it. Quiet. Distance. A few minutes where no one asked him about gifts, birthdays, or anything else he had no answer for.
He veered right toward the registration desk, where a few Academy staff waited behind a narrow table. Cur stopped in front of them and tried to sound like someone who had come here with purpose.
"I'd like to sign in. Cur Ynha-El."
The man at the desk looked up from his papers.
"Of course, Cur. By yourself?"
Cur nodded. That had been the idea.
"In that case, would you mind waiting a few minutes? There will be—"
"Make that a duel. I'll spar with him."
The voice cut through the room before the man could finish. Cur knew it immediately, which was exactly the problem.
And here I thought I was going to clear my head.
His gaze lifted to the ceiling, as if patience might be hiding somewhere above him.
"You don't look too happy about it."
Her footsteps came closer, light and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to enjoy his misery.
Cur exhaled through his nose.
"Hello, Calli. Good to see you."
He said it with such obvious exasperation that even the staff member glanced down at his papers to hide a smile.
"Says the guy not even looking at me."
Cur held out for another second, then gave up. His head dropped, his shoulders followed, and he turned to face her.
Calliarna had changed less than either of the boys. Her hair was still long and smooth, though now she often kept part of it braided. Her eyes still held that same fiery red glow, sharp enough to make it feel like she could see straight through whatever excuse he was about to make.
He had expected her to outgrow him one day. Somehow, she had not. She remained pretty, composed, and entirely too pleased with herself. The colder edge she had carried as a child had softened, but only enough to make the teasing feel deliberate instead of cruel.
She stepped closer and tapped him lightly on the back.
"Afraid you'll lose again?"
Cur gave her the flattest look he could manage.
"Last time I checked, I'm still at the top of the weapons leaderboard."
"And yet," Calliarna said, drawing the words out as her smile widened, "you remain all the way down in fire training. So I'd call that fair."
Cur opened his mouth, found no answer worth giving, and shut it again.
Satisfied, Calliarna turned to the staff member.
"Could you book it as a duel?"
"Of course. You'll have to wait a few minutes, as no fields are available right now. What rules should I give the officiating referee?"
Calliarna looked back at Cur, eyebrows raised in challenge.
"Fatal Strike?"
Cur stared at her for a moment, then let the last of his resistance die with a sigh.
"Sure. That works for me."
The man nodded and began filling out a slip, his pen circling down the page as he marked the details. Cur waited with his arms loose at his sides, very aware of Calliarna standing beside him and looking entirely too pleased with how easily she had stolen his quiet afternoon.
At last, the man handed the paper over.
"Field Four. You can wait nearby if you want."
"Thanks, sir."
Cur took the slip and started toward the fields. Calliarna followed at his shoulder, light-footed and smug, as if she had already won the first round.
They had only taken a few steps before the silence began to bother Cur.
Not because it was awkward. If anything, Calliarna looked far too comfortable walking beside him. That was the problem.
"So," he said at last, glancing down at her, "what are you doing here?"
"Same reason as you."
Cur gave her a sidelong look.
"I highly doubt that."
Calliarna smiled without looking at him.
"You're struggling to find me a gift, aren't you?"
Cur stopped.
It was brief, barely more than a hitch in his step, but Calliarna caught it. Of course she did.
Cur sighed and started walking again.
"I take back what I said. Let me guess… Markus?"
"I just find it funny," she said, stepping half a pace ahead so she could look at his face, "that despite knowing how good he is with girls, you seem determined to ignore his advice."
"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't struggle so much if you people simply told me what you wanted."
"But then it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"
Cur looked down at her. Calliarna only smiled back, bright-eyed and infuriatingly pleased with herself.
The conversation thinned as they reached the door to the duelling hall. Cur caught the handle and pushed it open.
Sound rolled out first: the dull scrape of boots, the crack of practice weapons, the occasional shout from a referee. Then the room opened before them.
The indoor arena was built like a small stadium, with rows of benches curving around four marked fields at its centre. Each rectangle had clear boundary lines, wide enough for a proper duel but never quite wide enough for students who liked to show off.
A small crowd had gathered in the stands, quieter than usual, their attention scattered between the matches already underway. The staff member had been right. All four fields were occupied: two by students a year younger than them, and two by older students moving with the easy confidence of people who knew others were watching.
Cur and Calliarna walked toward the fourth field and stopped a little behind the referee. Ahead of them, two younger students circled each other with wooden weapons raised, both trying very hard to look calmer than they were.
Cur watched for a few seconds, or pretended to. His mind was still stuck on the conversation walking beside him.
"Can't you just tell me what you want?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Please?"
Calliarna's smile faded by a fraction. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe, but enough for Cur.
"If I ask for what I really want," she said, one hand drifting to her chest, "will you actually give it to me?"
Cur turned from the duel to look at her properly.
"Depends on what you're asking for."
For once, Calliarna did not answer right away. The duel in front of them carried on, wood striking wood, the sound sharp in the brief quiet between them.
Then she looked away from the field and met his eyes.
"I want you to use your Fire."
Cur did not answer. He only turned back toward the field, his expression settling into something so still it might as well have been carved there. Calliarna kept watching him.
"It's been five years, Cur." Her voice stayed low, but the edge in it sharpened with every word. "In that time, you've become almost perfect academically. Your grades rival mine in every subject. You're the best fighter in our year by a ridiculous margin. Your future in the military is practically guaranteed, and even if you walked away from that, half the kingdom would find a use for you."
She took half a step closer, close enough that Cur could no longer pretend the question was only part of their usual banter.
"So why?" she asked. "I know it isn't because you can't. You control your flames just fine when you fight with your spear. But when it comes to Arts, you act like they don't exist."
Her fingers curled at her side. "Five years, and not once. Not once, Cur. People are starting to whisper that maybe you don't have Arts or Abilities at all."
This time, her voice softened instead of rising. "But I saw you. I remember the Soul Render. You were gifted then, and you're gifted now. So why are you hiding it from everyone?"
Cur still said nothing.
The duel in front of them finally ended. The two younger students lowered their weapons and walked off the field, breathless and red-faced. Cur moved almost at once, as if he had only been waiting for the space to clear.
He walked to the referee and handed over the slip without looking back.
The referee glanced over the note. "A Fatal Strike duel. Please proceed to the field. You have one minute to prepare."
Cur stepped onto the left side of the field. Calliarna remained still for a heartbeat, staring at his back.
Then she pulled off her blazer and threw it to the floor with more force than necessary. When she crossed to her side, her expression had lost every trace of amusement.
The referee looked between them.
"Will you be using your own weapons?"
"Yes, sir," they answered together.
Cur's voice was flat. Calliarna's came through clenched teeth.
Cur summoned his weapon first.
"Gungnir."
The spear appeared in his hand with the same familiar weight it had carried for years, though it was no longer quite the weapon it had once been. The head had slowly shifted from a simple piercing point into something closer to a blade, better suited for slashes and heavy strikes. Its black metal still drank in the light, but new silver engravings ran along the shaft, faint as moonlight against an abyss.
Cur let the spear settle in his right hand. The blade dipped until it tapped lightly against the floor.
Calliarna raised her wrist and pressed a jewel set into the bracelet her blazer had hidden. Red flames rushed over her right arm, bright and controlled, before folding inward around the shape of an estoc. The weapon formed in her hand piece by piece: a narrow crimson blade made for piercing, a white-and-gold guard shaped like spread wings, and a pale wooden grip marked with delicate engraving. Even the pommel, half-hidden by her stance, carried the carved head of a hawk.
The last few seconds stretched far longer than they should have. Cur and Calliarna stood across from one another, weapons ready, each silently counting down while they waited for the referee's signal.
Calliarna wanted to speak. No—more than that, some furious part of her wanted to force the answers out of him one strike at a time. Her right hand tightened around the estoc until the tremor in her fingers travelled through the blade.
Then she noticed his eyes.
They were not empty. They were not guarded in the way she had expected, either. Cur was not looking at her like someone protecting a secret, or like someone caught in a lie.
He looked sad.
The anger in her chest faltered, just enough for the silence between them to feel different.
Then Cur spoke, barely louder than the scrape of boots on the neighbouring field.
"I'm sorry."
Calliarna's lips parted. For one fragile second, she thought that might be enough—that if she asked again, quietly this time, he might finally answer.
The referee's voice cut through the thought.
"Start!"
Cur moved first.
The apology still hung between them as he lunged forward.