His gaze swept across the empty room. There wasn't much left to take, nor much left to leave behind.
He sighed deeply. In a few days, he'd turn thirty-eight... or so he believed. His birthday had been randomly chosen by Edictus, the day he'd bought him from an orphanage, like a useful object, like a blank notebook. Since then, his life had been study, discipline, and work. There was never time to question, nor space to desire. And yet, there was a promise that weighed on his chest more than any spell or incantation.
"Be happy, Dyan. Live... and be happy."
Edictus's last words. A wish so simple, and at the same time, so cruel. Because in all those years, Dyan hadn't achieved it. He didn't know a mother's warmth, a brother's blood tie, or a friend's shared laughter. He had never loved, nor been loved beyond his master's paternal gaze. He never had children, a partner, or even a fleeting touch of passion or tenderness. He had given himself completely to magic, to duty, to sacrifice. And in the end... he had nothing left. Only his solitude, as deep as the silence between two stars.
"Don't let life slip away without having loved, like me..."
He remembered holding Edictus's cold hand with desperate force, as if in that gesture he could contain the soul that was already escaping. He also remembered his final words:
"Thank you for being here, Dyan. Without you, my life would have been nothing but loneliness."
But it was Edictus who had given him everything. A purpose. Meaning. A reason. With his death, Dyan had only inherited duty... and emptiness.
That's why he was leaving. He didn't want to end up like him, alone in an empty bed, surrounded by books no one would read and achievements that couldn't embrace him at night.
He lay down with the bag at his feet, his heart in suspense and his thoughts trembling.
He knew that announcing his decision to Queen Eleanor would perhaps be the hardest thing he had ever done. But he couldn't keep waiting. His life couldn't be postponed any longer. Not now. Not anymore.
And with that certainty beating in his chest, he closed his eyes. The wind howled outside the tower, as if already calling to him.
The next day, with the first rays of the sun, Dyan was already riding towards the Palace of Willfrost.
The Tower of Magic stood on the outskirts of the capital, on a solitary hill, like a carved stone beacon against the sky. It had been built over a thousand years ago, when an ancient queen allowed the mages to establish their seat there, hoping that arcane wisdom would protect the heart of the kingdom. And she was not mistaken: the mere presence of the tower brought unprecedented flourishing. Merchants, artisans, healers, alchemists, all began to settle around it. What was initially a service village eventually grew, transformed, and swallowed the landscape.
So much so that the capital's original name, Salmastre, was gradually replaced by the new nickname the people naturally imposed: Scabia, in honor of the settlement that formed around the Tower. In time, both names merged into one, as if magic itself had rewritten history and maps. Today, it was an immense, vibrant city overflowing with life, but Dyan remembered well that it hadn't always been so. When he first arrived, just a child under Edictus's wing, the streets were few and dusty, and the Tower dominated everything from its height, like a solitary crown over a still-young landscape.
The journey to the Palace took him about half an hour on horseback. The wide, cobbled road snaked between already awakening markets, fountains decorated with ancient statues, and flags fluttering in the morning wind. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and chimney smoke.
But that morning, Dyan didn't stop to look or greet anyone. His mind was focused solely on what he was about to do.
He was going to see the queen.
And this time, he wasn't bringing a report, or a prediction, or advice on politics or magic. He was bringing a decision. One that, with all certainty, Eleanor did not expect.
The Palace of Willfrost stood as a monument to time: austere and elegant, made of light stone and green roofs, with towers that seemed to scratch the clouds. Although he had visited it many times, Dyan could never enter without feeling like he was crossing the threshold of a place that belonged more to memory than to the present. Each wall carried stories, dynastic disputes, alliances sealed with blood, and broken promises. And there he was, again, walking towards an outcome he had been postponing for too long.
The royal guards recognized him immediately. He didn't need to show any seal or give explanations. His neutral-toned robe, his restrained gait, his somewhat absent gaze: he was still Dyan Halvest, Archmage of the Realm, although that title was already beginning to weigh on him like a burden.
"Your Majesty is not yet ready to receive you, Archmage," the butler said courteously, bowing his head slightly. "If you wish to wait in the winter gardens wing..."
"No. I prefer to visit Queen Silvania," he replied calmly, though the echo of his words in the vast hall seemed to accuse him of seeking refuge.
The butler blinked, nodded, and without adding a word, signaled for one of the pages to escort him.
The palace was calm, but not silent.
The polished marbles reflected the light entering from the tall windows, and a distant symphony—strings, flute, and harpsichord—traveled from some corner where musicians rehearsed for an official dinner. The scent of beeswax and lavender accompanied him through the corridors, along with the whispers of maidservants and the hurried footsteps of servants with fine fabrics and covered trays. Dyan didn't fit into that world, and he knew it. He never did. He was a recurring guest, but never a true inhabitant of that gilded sphere. He had had the opportunity... but he let it pass.
Silvania.
The Queen Emerita lived in one of the less frequented wings of the palace, surrounded by gardens that she herself tended with the obstinacy of one who, having survived many wars, decides to fight the last ones with flowers.
"Dyan..." Silvania murmured upon seeing him appear in the glass-enclosed gallery, her voice sweet as autumn. "You're thinner."
She was sitting in a low wicker chair, wrapped in a navy blue cloak with old gold embroidery. Her gray hair was gracefully tied back. On her lap, a closed book. Beside her, a small teapot steamed on a marble table.
Dyan smiled and bowed briefly.
"Your Majesty."
"Oh, please. Here, among jasmine and nightingales, there are no more majesties," she said with a soft laugh. "Only old women with too much time and too many memories. Are you going to sit down, or do you intend to announce your retirement standing up?"
Dyan paused, surprised. Then he laughed, with a mixture of bitterness and affection.
"How did you know?"
"Because you're terrible at hiding what you feel from those who know you. You inherited that from Edictus. And because I know you came to see Eleanor today... with news that will change things."
He sat down without saying anything. The glass, fogged by the cold morning, showed the trees swayed by the wind. Outside, the world went on. Inside, time seemed to have stopped just for that conversation.
"She loves you, you know?" Silvania said bluntly. "Eleanor. Not in the childish way girls dream of heroes, but with that kind of love you keep in the deepest box, the one you never open. Because once you open it... nothing is ever the same."
Dyan lowered his gaze. How many times had he felt the weight of that. The closeness, the tenderness in the letters, in the shared silences... and yet, he always chose to pull away. Out of fear, out of duty, out of feeling he had no right to something so human.