Askov rose before them like a jewel set in ice. Despite the constant cold, its streets were alive, brimming with movement and color. Merchants called out to customers from stalls covered in thick cloth, while the scent of spices and fresh bread drifted from bakery windows. Children darted between passersby, wrapped in heavy coats, their laughter cutting through the gray melancholy of the sky.
It was a wealthy city, built upon a pact of neutrality. There was no single ruler—no king, no mayor. Askov was governed by four powers that balanced one another, supported by the lesser orders, who acted as "deputies" in this strange form of politics. The coexistence of so many factions created an uncommon atmosphere: mages walked side by side with commoners, arcane swordsmen watched over the plazas like silent sentinels, and merchants dealt in coins that flowed with the same ease as the cold wind.
The city's architecture reflected its prosperity. Houses of pale stone with glass-paned windows, balconies draped with flowers hardy enough to withstand winter, streets paved in polished stone that gleamed under the thin veil of snow. Magical lights floated within iron lanterns, illuminating the paths even beneath the dim daylight. Harsh though the climate was, there was warmth in gestures, life pulsing at every corner.
Among all the buildings, however, the branch of the Tower of Wisdom stood out like a beacon of pride and opulence. It rose in the city's heart like a ducal mansion, surrounded by gardens meticulously tended even in the frost. Trees were pruned into geometric forms, and small marble statues of arcane figures watched over the paths leading to the main entrance.
The building itself was a hybrid of temple and palace: white stone columns upheld high balconies, and stained glass windows projected the order's symbols within. Golden shields engraved with the triangle and eye of the Tower of Wisdom were carved into the outer walls, reflecting the day's pale light like restrained embers. The tall dark-wood doors were guarded by two arcane swordsmen, their long blades glowing faintly blue — steel tempered with magic.
As they approached, Lysander walked taller, as though the mere sight of his order's seat restored his pride. Elise, however, wore the same serene, distant expression, untouched by the architectural grandeur the place radiated.
The cold wind struck harder as they reached the steps. The guardians inclined their heads in slight acknowledgment of Lysander, and the doors opened without delay. Inside lay a vast hall, adorned with tapestries that narrated ancient deeds, the polished marble floor reflecting the glow of crystal chandeliers.
There, within the mansion that resembled more a sanctuary of knowledge and power, Elise knew: the true weight of this visit did not rest on gilded walls, but on the words to be exchanged with Elder Azemir.
She had visited this branch before, but its solemn grandeur never failed to leave its mark. Each time she crossed those monumental doors, the air grew heavier, as if the corridors themselves held the memory of every secret and intrigue of the order.
As soon as they entered the main hall, a mage in a gray-blue robe approached with measured steps, his bow steeped in near-ceremonial respect.
"Magus Lysander, Maga Elise," he said, lowering his head before them. His voice echoed softly against the marble. "Elder Azemir awaits you in the main chamber."
"Thank you," Elise replied, returning the bow with discretion.
Their path to the chamber was silent, broken only by the echo of boots on marble and the faint crackling of magical torches lighting the corridor. Elise knew the lower floors, the study rooms and libraries, but now she ascended to the third floor — a reserved space, closed to most. It was here the private meetings with the elder were held, and each step felt heavier than the last.
At last they stopped before a double door of carved wood, etched with arcane symbols. Lysander raised his hand and knocked twice.
"Elder, I am here with Maga Elise."
From the other side came the deep, controlled voice of Azemir:
"Enter."
The chamber revealed its grandeur the moment the doors opened. Elise held back a sigh. She had never stepped foot here before. The space was vast, perhaps twenty square meters, steeped in an aura that fused luxury with power. To the right, a fireplace burned high, its warmth gleaming over the magical artifacts arranged upon the stone — translucent orbs, heavy-bound grimoires, small metal statues that seemed to observe.
At the center, three wide sofas of wine and gold were arranged in a triangle, separated by a low table of dark wood. A sky-blue carpet, embroidered with nearly imperceptible arcane symbols, stretched across the floor, carrying the hidden weight of a ritual circle disguised as mere ornament.
Behind the desk, a towering window spanned wall to wall, letting in the dim gray light of the day, along with the melancholy of the overcast sky. There, Elder Azemir worked amidst stacks of parchment and papers, each bearing matters heavy enough to sway the order itself.
He lifted his gaze as the two mages entered. His eyes were deep, almost unfathomable, containing the measured patience of one who had seen generations rise and fall before him. With a simple gesture, he beckoned them closer.
"Sit," he said, his voice calm yet leaving no room for refusal.
Elise and Lysander obeyed in silence. At that moment, a maid entered lightly, carrying a silver tray. She set down three steaming cups of black tea, its bitter scent curling into the air.
Azemir then rose from his desk and took his place on the third sofa, so the three formed a perfect triangle. He lifted his cup, drank slowly, as though every motion were weighed.
"It is good to see you again, Elise," he said, his voice reverberating like a distant bell.
Instinctively, she began to rise in reverence, but the elder lifted his hand before she could.
"There is no need, Elise," he said, calm yet commanding. "Remain seated."
Obedient, she settled back, fixing her gaze on the man who, so effortlessly, made the entire chamber revolve around his presence.
"First, I must apologize, Elise," Azemir began, his voice echoing low. "For the lack of concrete evidence, I could not deliver a favorable verdict on your accusation." A note of sadness weighed his tone, heavy as cold iron.
Elise remained straight-backed, though within her a quiet relief bloomed. To know that one of the elders of her own order believed her words was enough. Justice had not been done—Hoffmann had slipped away through the web of carefully prepared loopholes—but at least her truth had not been entirely buried.
"I am the one who must thank you, Elder Azemir," she replied, her voice heavy with respect yet controlled. "It brings me solace to know you believe me."
Azemir nodded slowly, setting down his cup before continuing.
"I know we have much to discuss, but I will go straight to the point." His eyes pierced Elise like blades. "We know the boy will go to the Dark Throne… but what of his sister? You told me she too can cast spells without incantations, correct?"
Elise had expected the question, and did not falter.
Before her, Lysander widened his eyes in surprise. Until that instant, he had been unaware of another child bearing such a gift.
"Exactly, Elder," Elise confirmed, her voice steady, with a faint trace of pride. "She learned alongside her brother, but does not share the same innate talent. Still, her ability cannot be dismissed. I would say she already nears the advanced level. With proper training, I believe her mana gate could expand beyond what most deem possible."
Lysander could not hold back his question:
"What are the chances she'll follow her brother into the Dark Throne?"
"If Elian wills it… one hundred percent," Elise replied without hesitation. "Do not forget: he was not merely accepted as a member, but as a direct disciple of an elder. That carries weight."
The silence of the chamber was broken by Azemir's grave voice:
"That is both good… and bad." He stroked his beard slowly, eyes sunk in thought. "Good, because before us lies a new promise. Bad, because that promise might slip from our hands. The girl could even be drawn to the Golden Dawn."
Lysander cast a quick, uneasy glance.
"And do you believe we can bring her to our side?" Azemir asked, his tone low but firm.
Elise met the elder's gaze with icy eyes. She had known this proposal would come.
"I believe so," she answered. Then she paused, her voice hard as steel: "But do not try to use her against her brother."
"How dare you—" Lysander began, but was silenced by Azemir's raised hand.
"We would never, Elise," the elder said, his calm concealing any fracture. "I seek no treachery, only talents that will strengthen our order."
"You, no," Elise replied, casting her gaze toward Lysander, who shifted uncomfortably. "But others might."
The silence stretched until Azemir spoke again, his decision firm as stone:
"Here is what we will do," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You will return to the order officially, Elise. And you will be responsible for the girl."
Only then did he realize he had not asked her name.
"What is it again?"
"Emanuelle," Elise answered without hesitation.
"Yes… Emanuelle," Azemir murmured, as though tasting the word. "You will be her guide. The order will grant you all the support you need, and you may choose trusted mages to assist in her training."
Elise said nothing. She lifted the cup of tea and drank it in one long gulp, the warmth doing nothing to ease the chill in her chest.
"I cannot promise anything," she said at last. "But I will do all that lies within my reach."
Azemir smiled, satisfied, like a man who knew he had secured at least half of what he sought.
The conversation stretched for hours, touching on other matters of the order and the political intrigues of Askov. But Lysander, silent most of the time, carried within him a growing unrest, venom coursing quietly in his veins. For him, the matter was far from over — and sooner or later, that unease would fester into something more.