Aster didn't feel right.
Even after cleaning his room, even after trying to rationalize everything that had happened, the unease clung to him like a second skin. His body felt heavy, exhausted beyond measure, but his mind refused to settle.
He stared at the clock again—still 11:30—and forced himself to look away.
*It's just broken*, he told himself firmly. *That's all. The mechanism must have stopped working. I'll have it fixed tomorrow.*
He needed to sleep. That was what he needed. Rest would clear his head, make everything seem less ominous in the morning light.
Aster moved to his large four-poster bed and began preparing for sleep properly. He removed his suit jacket, carefully hanging it in his wardrobe, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The silk shirt felt suffocating after wearing it all evening.
One by one, he extinguished the remaining lamps around his room with small gestures of his hand, his magic responding drowsily to his will. The blue flames in the wall sconces dimmed to barely glowing embers, leaving only the faint moonlight filtering through his window.
He climbed into bed and pulled the thick blanket over himself. The fabric was soft, expensive—like everything else in this mansion—and it provided a comforting weight. Warmth began to seep into his tired limbs almost immediately.
As he settled into the pillows, he became aware of other sounds beyond his racing thoughts. The gentle whisper of wind outside his window, rustling through the gardens. It was a cold wind—he could hear it in the way it made the tree branches creak and groan. Autumn was deepening into winter.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to let the tension drain from his body.
*In. Out. In. Out.*
Slowly, gradually, his heartbeat began to slow. The warmth of the blanket, the darkness of the room, the soft sounds of the wind—all of it began pulling him down toward sleep.
---
Then he heard it.
*Tap.*
A single raindrop hitting his window.
*Tap. Tap.*
More followed. Within moments, a steady rainfall began pattering against the glass and drumming on the rooftop above. The sound was rhythmic, almost musical—a natural lullaby.
Despite everything, despite the lingering fear and the strange events of the night, Aster found the sound of rain oddly soothing. It was familiar. Normal. Real in a way that nothing else tonight had felt.
The rain intensified, growing from a gentle patter to a proper downpour. Water streamed down the windows in rivulets. The wind picked up, howling around the corners of the mansion.
And then came the lightning.
A bright flash illuminated his room for a split second, followed several seconds later by the distant rumble of thunder. Then another flash, closer this time, with thunder following more quickly.
A storm was rolling in.
But Aster's exhaustion ran deeper than any storm could disturb. His consciousness was already slipping away, pulled down into the dark waters of sleep. The lightning flashes barely registered behind his closed eyelids. The thunder became part of the background noise, blending with the rain and wind.
Within minutes, he had drifted completely into his world of dreams.
---
**Meanwhile, across the city...**
Near the royal palace, in the most prestigious district of the White Dragon Kingdom's capital, stood a house unlike any other in the neighborhood.
It was constructed from materials befitting royalty—white marble shot through with veins of gold, enchanted wood that would never rot, glass that could withstand cannon fire. But it wasn't the construction materials that made the house remarkable.
Banners bearing the symbol of the White Dragon hung from the walls, their silver thread glimmering even in the dim light. Statues of dragons in various poses—sleeping, roaring, taking flight—were positioned throughout the property. Inside, the finest weapons in all the kingdom adorned the walls: swords forged by master craftsmen, enchanted daggers that never dulled, bows carved from sacred trees, staffs channeling raw elemental power.
This was not the home of a warrior, despite the weapons.
It was the home of a mage.
The house had many rooms, each serving a different purpose. Libraries filled with ancient tomes. Laboratories for potion-making and alchemical experiments. Meditation chambers. Ritual circles. Armories. And living quarters that, despite all the magical trappings, maintained a comfortable, livable quality.
In one particular room—a study deep within the house—the atmosphere was dark and quiet.
No windows broke the walls here; this room was meant to be isolated from outside influences. Lamps and torches provided the only light, casting flickering shadows across the space. A large table dominated the center of the room with a chair positioned before it. On the table sat a crystal orb, perfectly clear, swirling with faint wisps of magical energy. A simple bed occupied one corner, though it looked rarely used.
But what truly defined the room were the books.
They were everywhere. Stacked on shelves that reached the ceiling. Piled on the floor in careful arrangements. Scattered across the table around the crystal orb. Books on elemental magic, divine magic, dark magic, healing arts, divination, enchantment, alchemy, magical history, theoretical thaumaturgy—every branch of magical knowledge represented.
And sitting in the chair, reading by lamplight, was Silas.
He was twenty-six years old, though his demeanor suggested someone older—someone who had seen much and learned more. He wore the traditional robes of a court mage: deep blue fabric with silver embroidery along the edges, a high collar, and a hood currently pushed back to reveal his face. His dark hair was tied back in a simple tail, keeping it out of his eyes as he read. Those eyes were sharp and intelligent, constantly moving as they scanned the pages before him.
In his free hand, he held a glass containing some kind of herbal juice—something to keep him alert during his late-night studies.
The book he was currently reading was written in an ancient dialect, a magical treatise by a mage who had lived three centuries ago. Silas read it as easily as if it were written in modern language, his education encompassing not just magic but linguistics, history, philosophy, and literature.
He wasn't just powerful; he was wise. One of the wisest people in the kingdom, in fact, despite his relatively young age. His reputation had earned him a position as one of the king's personal advisors on matters arcane and esoteric.
He turned a page, taking a sip of his drink.
Then he froze.
His eyes widened, and his hand stopped halfway to setting the glass down.
He felt it.
Something was watching him.
Not with physical eyes—this was something else. A presence. An awareness pressing against the boundaries of his magical wards, testing them, probing for weakness.
And it felt *evil*.
Silas set his glass down carefully, his body tensing. His hand moved to the staff leaning against the wall beside his chair—a beautifully crafted piece of ashwood topped with a blue crystal that pulsed with latent power.
He didn't stand yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and extended his magical senses, feeling the flow of energy through his home.
The wards were intact. Nothing had breached them.
But something was definitely there, just beyond the door to his study. He could feel it like a cold spot in the air, like the sensation of being watched in an empty room.
Slowly, Silas raised his hand and pointed toward the door. Blue light gathered at his fingertips, a defensive spell ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice.
He sat perfectly still, barely breathing, waiting.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
The feeling began to fade.
Silas extended his senses further, pushing them through the house, searching every corner.
Nothing.
He slowly lowered his hand, though he kept his staff within reach. "There's nothing," he said aloud, his voice calm and measured. He spoke to himself sometimes when working late into the night—it helped him think.
Relief washed through him, though he remained cautious.
Whatever presence he'd felt—if it had been real at all—was gone now. He couldn't sense any evil energy anymore. Couldn't see or smell or feel anything out of place.
Perhaps it had been a hallucination. A product of studying too long without proper rest. Even mages needed sleep.
Silas settled back into his chair and picked up his book again, though his eyes didn't immediately focus on the words. He took another sip of his juice, trying to calm his heightened nerves.
After a moment, he resumed reading, turning pages with his usual careful attention.
The house was quiet again. Peaceful.
Outside, rain began to fall.
Silas paused in his reading, cocking his head slightly. "It's raining outside," he murmured, listening to the soft patter against the roof.
Then his eyes widened.
They turned completely blue—not just the irises, but the entire eye, glowing with magical power as he activated his second sight.
"I can feel it," he whispered, his voice tight with sudden tension.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The book fell from his lap, forgotten.
"Its aura... it's all across the city." His glowing eyes stared at nothing, seeing beyond physical walls, beyond distance, perceiving the flow of magical energy throughout the capital. "I can feel the dark spirits gathering in the town."
And he could.
Like ink spreading through water, dark energy was seeping through the streets, pooling in certain areas, concentrating around specific locations. Malevolent spirits—things that should not exist in the mortal realm—were manifesting. Growing stronger.
Something was very, very wrong.
---