Valerius and Lorde walked along a winding forest path, leaves crunching underfoot as the morning sun filtered through the branches above. The world around them was calm, but Valerius wasn't.
He wiped sweat from his brow and frowned.
"Why is it that every time you show up, I start feeling drained?"
Lorde, hands folded casually behind his head, glanced sideways and grinned. "Oh, that? I'm using your energy to stay here."
Valerius stopped mid-step. "What?"
"Yeah." Lorde rolled his shoulders. "You'll be fine once I go back. Probably."
Valerius groaned. "Great."
He closed his eyes. Yelleen, he called silently. Can you show me where my siblings are?
Immediately, a glowing map projected itself in his vision—an ethereal three-dimensional outline of Donesria floating before him. Two colored dots pulsed gently on its surface: one red, one blue.
"The red is your siblings," Yelleen's voice said gently, "and the blue dot is you."
Valerius stared.
"Damn... that's really far."
"If you walk," Yelleen replied with serene finality, "it will take you approximately one year."
Valerius cursed under his breath. "God damn, okay. Let's try another option then."
Lorde, still striding ahead without a care in the world, called back over his shoulder, "So where are we going, man?"
Valerius caught up. "To my siblings."
Lorde nodded. "Nice. Well, now that those people are gone, I can finally tell you some stuff."
He turned, walking backward with his hands still laced behind his head.
"You've assimilated a seed," he said.
"A seed?" Valerius raised a brow. "I've heard someone mention that before."
"Yep," Lorde said, popping the p cheerfully. "There are all kinds of seeds. Different types, different abilities."
He pointed dramatically at Valerius. "You, my friend, have the Kingdom Seed."
Valerius blinked. "The Kingdom Seed? Who came up with that name?"
Lorde shrugged. "Beats me. We've been calling it that for generations. Sounds cool, doesn't it?"
Valerius gave a tired sigh. "Sure. So what does it do?"
Lorde's voice grew slightly more animated. "Well, the main thing is… it connects you to my world. The Spirit World. Which means you can ask us for help."
He made a see-sawing motion with his hands. "And if we feel like it, we might actually help."
Valerius gave him a flat look. "Oh, might. That's comforting."
"Hey," Lorde said with a wink, "we're spirits, not servants."
Valerius ran a hand through his hair. "So how do I contact you? You know—ask for help?"
Lorde tilted his head. "That… is a great question."
Valerius stared at him.
Lorde laughed, twirling a twig between his fingers. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
---
In the Heful, a magnificent carriage glided through cobblestone streets toward a towering black gate. The Ause that pulled it—a sleek, beast with blue fur—moved with graceful authority. Inside the carriage sat Andrea, Eryndor, and Ziraiah, dressed immaculately in the official uniform of Festitude Academy.
Eryndor's uniform was regal—a deep, navy-blue coat lined with intricate gold embroidery across the lapels and cuffs. The Academy's crest, stitched in fine thread, gleamed on the breast pocket. His trousers were white with vertical blue panels along the sides, cleanly pressed, and tucked into polished leather boots.
His hair had been neatly styled—clean, refined, and combed back like a young noble's—complementing the poise in his posture.
Ziraiah's uniform mirrored his, though adapted for her level. A tailored blue blazer sat snugly over a crisp, white blouse. The golden threading shimmered with each motion, and her grey pleated skirt fell just to her knees. She wore knee-length socks and polished black shoes that clicked softly as she moved. Her hair had been pulled up into a tidy ponytail, tied with a ribbon that matched the deep blue of her blazer. Despite her elegant attire, her stature—small for her age—made her look like a porcelain doll among giants.
The gates creaked open, revealing the sprawling grandeur of Festitude Academy—an institution so revered it educated children from noble nurseries to prestigious university halls. The campus itself was a marvel of architectural harmony. All buildings were crafted in shades of white and deep blue, trimmed in gold, with domed rooftops and arching windows that let in the sunlight like halos.
The Academy was divided into three majestic sections:
Primary School for the youngest minds, nestled in the eastern grove with wide lawns and colorful stone paths.
Secondary School, where Ziraiah would attend, situated in the southern range and built like a miniature citadel.
Tertiary Halls, the university division, rose to the north—stern and towering with stone spires and lecture coliseums.
Each section had its own principal, facilities, and fields, though all were united by the central axis: a circular administration building at the heart of the grounds. White as marble and crowned with a golden dome, three grand roads spiraled outward from it, reaching each division like veins of order from a beating heart.
The carriage halted outside the Secondary School. Andrea helped Ziraiah down gently while Eryndor remained seated inside, hands clasped calmly on his lap.
Andrea turned to him. "I believe you can handle yourself, right?"
Eryndor offered a calm smile. "Most certainly."
With a flick of the reins, the Ause began to pull the carriage away. Eryndor watched them through the pane, eyes following his little sister.
Ziraiah stood still, taking in the towering buildings, the neat stone walkways, and the bustle of uniformed students—most of them far taller than she was. Her small hand clenched the edge of her coat, nerves rising.
Andrea gently draped an arm around her shoulders and leaned in. "Alright, little star. Time to show them who you are."
Inside, the halls echoed with chatter. As they passed, students turned their heads. Some whispered. Many stared. Ziraiah was smaller than any of them, and her presence—delicate, strange, radiant—drew quiet attention.
They arrived at a door labeled Mr. Author, Secondary Principal. Andrea knocked once.
The door opened to reveal a tall man with a kind face and soft brown hair, tied back into a low knot. He stood over ten feet tall, with long limbs and gentle, intelligent eyes.
"Welcome," he said in a warm baritone. "Come in, Ziraiah. I'll take you to your class."
Andrea knelt, wrapping her arms around Ziraiah in a tight embrace. "Be good, alright?" she whispered, kissing her cheek. "I'm going to miss you, cute little thing."
She lifted Ziraiah up in the air for one last spin, then set her down gently.
"I'll come get you every weekend," she added, straightening her coat.
Ziraiah nodded. "Okay, Aunty Ann."
As she turned to follow Mr. Author, she looked back one last time and waved. "Bye, Aunty Ann!"
Andrea waved with a proud smile, watching Ziraiah vanish into the halls of Festitude Academy.
---
They passed several classrooms along the long, echoing corridor—each filled with chatter and activity—until finally arriving at a wide, arched doorway framed in silver wood. Inside, a class of roughly thirty students stirred with noise and movement.
But the moment they saw Arthur, silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Chairs scraped into place. Books opened. Backs straightened.
Arthur turned to Ziraiah with a kind but firm nod. "Go on, find an empty seat."
She nodded quietly and stepped into the room, small even among the chairs. All eyes turned to her—wide, curious, some skeptical. She made her way to an empty desk and sat.
Arthur left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
The silence thickened.
Then a boy snorted. "She's short as hell."
The whole class erupted in laughter.
Ziraiah looked down at her desk, face still, saying nothing.
A few moments later, the door swung open again.
The teacher entered.
She was tall—easily 9-foot-4—with sharp eyes behind simple glasses. Her brown hair was pulled into a bun, and she wore a modest navy robe lined with silver trim. She carried no wand, no tome. Only a piece of chalk and presence.
"Alright, quiet down," she said, voice calm but commanding. The class obeyed instantly.
"We have a new student today." She turned toward Ziraiah. "Ziraiah, would you kindly stand and introduce yourself?"
Ziraiah rose, her small frame somehow graceful despite the stares. "Hi everyone. I'm Ziraiah Delindor. Nice to meet you."
There was a murmur. One boy leaned toward another. "She's a noble."
Another whispered, "Never heard of the Delindors though."
"Thank you, Ziraiah. You may take your seat," said the teacher. "I am Miss Jane."
She turned toward the green board at the front of the class, chalk in hand, and began to write as she spoke.
"Now, let's begin. As you all know, magic is vast and complex. But at its root, all mages fall into one or more of four primary categories."
She drew a square on the board and divided it into quadrants.
"Casters. Augmenters. Summoners. Enchanters."
Her voice carried with rhythm, as if this was more than just lesson—it was tradition.
"Casters," she continued, "are those who project mana outward to create spells or effects. They are what most people think of when they hear the word 'mage.' Among Casters, there are Evokers—elemental spellcasters—whose affinity for fire, frost, lightning, or wind is usually inherited."
She paused, underlining the word.
"There are also Necromancers—casters who channel death energy—and Mind Mages, like Illusionists, who manipulate perception, emotion, and sleep. Then we have Healers, who restore the body, and Diviners, who see into minds, futures, or truths."
A few students scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
Miss Jane moved to the next quadrant.
"Augmenters use mana inwardly. They don't cast spells—they empower their own bodies. Speed, strength, resilience—these are their domain. Some go even further, becoming Combat Mages—hybrids who wield both sword and spell. They are warriors who think and move like mages."
She turned and tapped her chalk on the third section.
"Summoners. These mages reach beyond this world. They form pacts, draw symbols, speak ancient tongues to bring forth spirits, beasts, or ancestral memory. You've heard of Spirit Summoners, Beast Callers, and Pact Mages. The most gifted among them summon with nothing but intent."
A murmur of interest passed through the class.
"And lastly," she said, moving to the final square, "Enchanters. The quiet architects of the mage world. They embed mana into things—weapons, armor, scrolls, traps. Runeforgers carve magic into stone. Artificers craft enchanted tools. Trapwrights build hidden defenses. And Sigilbinders use tattoos, paper charms, or seals to hold spells."
She turned back to face the class.
"Some of you have or will discover affinities toward one category. A rare few... may walk two paths. But remember—magic is not merely power. It is identity. Know who you are before you try to shape the world."
She turned and began to draw a rune.
And from the back of the class, Ziraiah slowly began to smile.
---
In the Tertiary Section of Festitude Academy—the highest tier reserved for advanced studies and gifted youths—Eryndor strode through the arched entrance with quiet confidence.
The halls were vast, lined with luminous crystal sconces and banners bearing the Academy's sigil. Students milled about, many older, taller, and already robed in advanced mage attire.
As he passed, a girl lounging against a marble column called out with a grin, "Hey there, handsome."
Eryndor didn't pause. His stride continued, perfectly measured. He walked like someone who already belonged.
He reached a tall office door marked:
Mr. D. Drake – Senior Mage Instructor
He knocked firmly. "Mr. Drake, I have arrived."
The door swung open.
"If it isn't the prodigy himself," said Mr. Drake.
He was a towering figure—ten and a half feet tall—with long brown hair tied loosely behind his shoulders. His robes bore seven gold stripes: the mark of a master. A sly smile played on his face.
"Walk with me," Drake said.
They moved down the hallway, the polished floor reflecting their steps.
"I don't mean to doubt you, Eryndor," Drake said, his tone even, "but you only began studying magic a few weeks ago. If you fall behind, I won't hesitate to reassign you to Section Two."
Eryndor replied without the slightest hesitation, "Unlike my dear sister, I have devoted every waking hour to the relentless assimilation of all available knowledge. I shall not languish in mediocrity. My intellectual acumen," he continued with a faint, confident smile, "is every bit as formidable as my burgeoning arcane potential."
Drake gave a short laugh. "I like your confidence. But confidence alone won't carry you. You have until the first test to prove it."
They reached a grand double-door chamber that opened into one of the largest classrooms in the Academy. Domed ceilings shimmered with floating glyphs. The room buzzed with mana, and desks were arranged in elevated rings around a central rune-carved stage.
Eryndor found his seat near the front, flanked by upperclassmen. He sat with his back straight, eyes sharp.
The instructor stepped onto the central platform and raised a hand.
"Today's subject," he began, "is Vitalis Analysis."
As the glyphs in the air flared to life, Eryndor's fingers were already poised above his notebook, ready to show the room—and perhaps the Academy itself—that he would not be underestimated.
---
To be Continued....