The towering gates of Paladas Academy loomed under the copper-hued sky, carved with the sigils of the Five Great Houses and etched with spells so ancient they hummed against the bones. Magic curled in the air like dust—old, slumbering power waiting to be stirred.
Nagara Veldorys approached them alone. His footsteps were slow from the long road, but his presence carried a silent weight. His breath misted despite the summer heat, and his pale blue eyes mirrored the glint of distant glaciers. His heart—ever since that day in the North—remained colder than the frost that had once swallowed everything he knew.
But before he could reach the gate, he saw them.
Two students—around his age, mismatched, and clearly overwhelmed—stood frozen beneath the shadow of a screaming Jinn. The creature was a tempest of fire and wrath, its molten form twisting like smoke given rage. Its eyes blazed with golden fury, and its claws raked trenches in the earth with every lash of heat. A High-Tier Ifrit—rare, ancient, and deadly.
Nagara didn't hesitate.
A sharp breath. A flick of his wrist.
The moisture in the air shimmered, congealing into liquid threads that hardened into crystalline chains. He stepped forward like the tide—fluid, deliberate, cold.
Magic curled around his arm in elegant spirals before crashing forward in a blast of pressurized water, extinguishing flame, drowning fire. The Ifrit howled, its form wavering—until the water froze mid-roar, locking it in a jagged sculpture of ice and fury.
And then, something shifted.
Nagara moved closer, boots crunching over the glassy frost. He raised a pale hand and placed his palm against the creature's frozen core.
The Ifrit's eyes—still glowing—flicked toward him.
Then, impossibly, it spoke.
"You… I remember you…"
The voice was layered with heat and echo—ancient and pained. Cracks spread through the ice, not from heat, but from memory.
Nagara flinched, his expression tightening. "You're mistaken."
"He wore the cold like a crown. He walked the ice as you do now."
"He… bound me once."
The magic around Nagara's arm flickered.
Azlin, behind him, blinked. "Is it… speaking?"
The Ifrit's voice deepened, haunted now.
"Your soul… carries his scent."
For a moment, Nagara said nothing.
Then, softly: "I don't remember him."
The creature's molten eyes narrowed.
"You will."
Nagara exhaled, his breath frosting the air. Light surged from his palm—not destructive, but pure. The Ifrit groaned as its form began to collapse inward, folding rather than shattering. Flame dissolved into light. Its core unraveled like silk, drawn into Nagara's hand.
"Tell him…"
"…I remember."
And then it was gone. Silence reclaimed the world.
The green hair boy, his glasses slightly askew, could only gape. "That was… a High-Tier Ifrit. He purified it. Like it was nothing…"
The girl beside him—elegant and composed, her golden eyes like sunlit glass—watched in stillness. Her dark braids and straight-across bangs remained untouched, her cloak dirtied, but her poise remained intact.
Nagara glanced at them, brushing ash from his sleeve. "If you're that helpless, perhaps you shouldn't be here."
The boy blinked, but instead of bristling, bowed his head slightly. "Thank you for your help… regardless of your tone."
The girl scoffed, folding her arms. "How noble. Saves two strangers and acts like he's better than us. Charming."
Their eyes met—hers sharp and golden, his pale and unreadable. For a moment, the frost in him paused.
"You're welcome," he said dryly, stepping past them toward the gate.
The girl's voice followed, low and cutting with sarcasm. "Truly a gentleman."
"You're still alive. That's what matters," he responded.
She narrowed her eyes, watching him go. "Arrogant," she muttered under her breath. "Who even was that?"
The green-haired boy exhaled slowly. "Whoever he is… he's not ordinary."
And with that, all three stepped closer to the path that would change not only their lives, but the fate of the realm.