The morning fog clung low over the valley when Kieran arrived in the upper courtyard, bundled in his thick woolen cloak. The training yard was still slick with dew, and the wooden dummies stood like sentinels in the gray light. He had risen before the bell, too restless to sleep.
His chalk-scrawled rune from the night before still faintly marked the floorboard under his bed. He had stared at it for a long time, replaying the spark in his mind again and again. Magic—not just in books, but in his blood. His first spark. A step.
Magic in the Kingdom of Virelith was not an art for the faint-hearted. It was a discipline, ancient and codified, divided into five grand Pillars: Elementalism, Enchantment, Transference, Sigilcraft, and Invocation. Each school represented a different means of understanding and manipulating mana—the fundamental force that flowed through all living things and the world itself.
Elementalism bent mana to command fire, water, earth, and air. Enchantment wove it into objects to create runes of power or items of wonder. Transference moved energy or force from one place to another—used in healing, transportation, and amplification. Invocation called upon spirits or higher powers to manifest magical effects. And Sigilcraft—the most precise and esoteric Pillar—focused on the creation of magical scripts, wards, and matrices that could store, channel, or delay spells through written form.
All magic in Virelith was cast using mana. A mage drew on their internal reservoir, focusing their will into the spell they wished to perform. Most spells required three components: a mental image of the desired effect, a verbal incantation to shape the flow of mana, and a controlled release through gesture or tool. More advanced mages could cast silently or with minimal movement, but doing so required deep reserves of mana and a razor-sharp mind.
Mana was not infinite. Overuse could leave a mage drained, unconscious, or worse. Some were born with deep wells of potential; others trained for years to expand their capacity. Rarely, magical talent could erupt violently in those untrained—usually with tragic results.
Arkwyn Academy, nestled in the capital, was the heart of magical scholarship. Only the brightest or the best-connected were admitted. Within its walls, students were molded into Arbiters, Battlewrights, Courtmages, and even Royal Thaumaturges. For a fading noble house like Ashveil, entrance was more than prestige—it was a lifeline.
Kieran had a long way to go. But the glyph had sparked. That meant there was potential.
He walked the grounds as the keep stirred to life. Maera shouted orders from the kitchens, directing the servants with crisp precision. The guards changed shifts at the gates, their armor dull with wear but still functional. It was an ordinary day, yet Kieran saw it differently now.
By midmorning, he found himself in the solar, summoned by his father.
The solar was a high-ceilinged chamber perched at the keep's eastern flank, catching the full light of the rising sun through its tall, mullioned windows. Once, it had been a place of leisure—a private retreat for the lady of the house, filled with silks, books, and gentle music. Now it served as Caelum's strategy room. A massive oaken table dominated the space, scarred by candle burns and decades of use. The walls were lined with old maps, faded pennants, and framed correspondence from allies long dead or distant. Dust motes danced in the sunlight, catching on old armor displays that hadn't been polished in years.
There was little softness left in the room. Just resolve.
Lord Caelum stood at the map table, his good hand resting on a carved wooden figure of Ashveil Hold. Around it, smaller tokens denoted neighbors, roads, and boundary markers.
"You'll be expected to present yourself at Arkwyn's selection day in two months," Caelum said without preamble. "Until then, you'll train daily—magic theory, recitation, physical discipline, history, sigilcraft. If we fail this, we may not get another chance."
Kieran nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He knew what it meant. This wasn't just a test for him. It was survival for their house.
"I've arranged for Maera to oversee your scheduling. You'll have sessions with our court scribe on sigils and glyphs. I'll handle your rhetoric and memory work. And I will personally oversee your swordsmanship training," he added, glancing briefly toward the window. "The forms passed through our family have not seen glory in my lifetime—but perhaps they may find it in yours. You'll learn every stance and sequence. One day, you may take them further than I ever could."
Kieran tried not to let the pressure show on his face.
"Yes, Father."
Caelum looked at him for a long moment. "Don't aim to impress them, Kieran. Aim to remind them who we are."
Training became a rhythm. In the mornings, glyph practice under the tutelage of old Master Cettan, who smelled of dust and ink. Midday brought swordsmanship in the courtyard, where Lord Caelum drilled him in the ancestral forms—each stance, strike, and movement a relic of a prouder past. Though Caelum's leg prevented him from demonstrating all the sequences, his voice never wavered, and his corrections were sharp as any blade. These sessions left Kieran sore and breathless, but with a growing sense of purpose. Afternoons were reserved for history and recitation drills with his father—lessons as brutal as any swordplay. Evenings were spent copying sigils by candlelight until his hands cramped.
He didn't complain. He couldn't afford to.
One evening, as he studied alone in the keep's small library, he heard a hesitant knock. Ysolde Raithe stepped in—tall, pale, with a nervous grace and hair like sun-bleached hay.
She carried a tray with tea and two slices of honeyed bread.
"I thought you might need this," she said softly.
He blinked in surprise. "Why?"
She shrugged. "You looked tired. And… my brother says you'll never make it into Arkwyn. I think he's wrong."
Kieran stared at her for a moment, then took the tray. "Thank you."
She lingered a moment, brushing her fingers across the spines of the books nearby. "It's not wrong to want something more, you know."
He gave a faint smile. "That's not the hard part. The hard part is earning it."
She left him to his studies.
That night, Kieran stood beneath the old ash tree on the western wall, looking out at the dark valley beyond. Emberfall's hills stretched into shadow, the distant torches of far estates flickering like dying stars.
He whispered the Ashveil motto into the night: From Ash, Fire.
He traced the glyph again. This time it flared brighter.
He was learning. He was rising.