The classroom door flew open in a puff of lavender smoke.
"Morning, hatchlings!" boomed a cheerfully rasping voice. A swirl of ember-flecked mist drifted in, followed by a wiry old man who smelled of cedar, fresh ink, and whatever spell leaves burn like campfire pine.
Great Wizard Vidarin looked nothing like the portrait in the history wing. His beard was still long, but braided with shining copper beads that clinked when he moved. His robe—sun-yellow, patched at the elbows—was spattered with ink blots and scorch-marks.
Dangling from one belt-loop was a half-eaten honey pastry; from the other, a cracked sand-timer that trickled spark-dust instead of sand.
"Archmage Vidarin!" Professor Silesse blurted, leaping to her feet.
Vidarin waved off the formality. "Archmage, Arch-schmage. I'm on holiday. Call me Uncle Vi." He winked, then sniffed the air and grinned. "Is that Frostboar stew I smell?
Lovely—nothing says 'academic excellence' like soup that can stand up on its own."
A ripple of laughter broke the usual classroom hush. Even Alden woke fully, blinking at the flashing beads in Vidarin's beard.
The old wizard strolled between desks, peering at doodles and notebooks. His staff—really more a walking stick—clicked merrily on the floor. When it tapped someone's inkwell, the ink inside briefly turned neon green, bubbled, then settled back to black.
Vidarin chuckled. "It'll turn turquoise in an hour—don't worry, perfectly harmless."
He reached Thalia's row, paused, and sniffed again. Not the stew this time.
"You," he said, pointing a thumb at his chest and a finger at Thalia, "have something extra in your aura. Smells like… lightning and cinnamon." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Either you're exceptionally gifted or exceptionally hungry."
Marra covered a giggle. Thalia managed a polite smile. "Probably both, sir—uh, Uncle Vi."
Vidarin leaned closer—friendly, not intimidating—and gave her a conspiratorial nod. "Hold that thought."
He popped upright, clapped his hands, and dusted sparkling motes everywhere. "Silesse, dear, I've stolen enough of your lecture. Keep molding minds—save me a bowl of that stew."
He ambled toward the door, then halted, turning back to the professor with sudden purpose—still smiling, but his eyes now sharp and curious.
"Actually… Headmaster's office, yes? Might borrow Miss Mare for a wee chat." He pointed at Thalia again. "You, braided-lightning-girl. Stretch your legs. Bring an open mind and perhaps an extra quill."
The class oohed in speculation. Professor Silesse nodded, clearing her throat. "Yes, Archmage Vidarin. Thalia, take your things."
Vidarin winked at the students, swept an exaggerated bow, and whisked the door open. As he left, every candle flame in the room briefly turned cobalt blue, then righted itself with a satisfied pop.
Marra whispered, "Told you something was up."
Thalia packed her notebook, still catching the lingering scent of cedar-smoke and sugar. Her stomach fluttered—but it wasn't the stew.
Outside, Vidarin waited in the corridor, rocking on his heels. "Well then, Miss Mare," he said, offering his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. "Shall we go cause a tiny bit of trouble?"
They walked side by side down the sun-dusted corridor, boots tapping against ancient stone, torches flickering with lazy orange light.
"You ever been in trouble before?" Vidarin asked, his tone playful but laced with curiosity.
"Not recently," Thalia replied, side-eying him. "Unless you count the library fire. Which I don't. And neither should anyone.
Vidarin let out a sharp laugh. "Atta girl. Always good to have a healthy fear of consequences—just not a paralyzing one."
They passed a group of first-years practicing levitation. A quill floated sideways, smacked a boy in the nose, and dropped.
Vidarin gave them a theatrical thumbs-up and kept walking.
When they reached the Headmaster's wing—quiet, vaulted, sunbeams through stained glass—he didn't knock. Just walked right in, humming something off-key.
The Headmaster looked up from a cluttered desk of scrolls. "She's here?"
"She is. And she's interesting," Vidarin said, then flopped into a chair that puffed dust like it hadn't been sat in since the last solar cycle. "You know she dreams in violet fire?"
The Headmaster raised an eyebrow.
Thalia blinked. "I didn't—wait. You knew that?"
Vidarin grinned. "Not officially. But I smelled it on you. It's rare. Not dangerous… unless you're very unlucky."
The Headmaster steepled his fingers. "Thalia. What did you see during meditation?"
Thalia hesitated. Her fingers curled slightly. "I… I was somewhere dark. Red sky. Stars bleeding. A ruined tower. And someone… behind me. I got stabbed. Then I woke up."
Vidarin leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Did you see the blade?"
Thalia shifted in her seat, fingers twisting in her lap.
"I… I turned around. There were footsteps. Heavy ones. Behind me. I think—someone was there. I didn't see their face. Just—something cold. Metal? I don't know. Then there was this sharp—this pain, right here—" she tapped her side gently, "and then I woke up."
Vidarin leaned forward, smile gone. "Did you see the weapon?"
She hesitated. "I think… it was a sword? Not like a normal one. Curved. Fancy. Maybe one of those swords? I don't know. It happened fast."
The Headmaster nodded slowly. Vidarin rubbed his jaw, muttering, "Classic. Always a sword."
Thalia looked between them. "What does it mean?"
"That," Vidarin said, eyes sharp but voice still easy, "is exactly what we're going to find out."
Thalia's breath had just steadied when the conversation shifted.
Far across the continent, where frost never melted and mountains wore iron crowns, the cold halls of Eisenstadt stirred with boots and orders.
A steel door hissed open.
Inside the War Assembly Hall—carved from black stone and lit by towering oil braziers—three figures stood before the throne-like table reserved for Eisenreich's highest minds. Their uniforms were flawless. Their postures rigid. These were not politicians. These were instruments of conquest.
At the center stood Generaloberst Viktor Brandt, a mountain of a man in charcoal armor traced with frost. His voice was a gravel growl even in silence. He did not blink. He did not shift. Every soldier in the room stood taller just by proximity.
To his left, the one with wind-slicked silver hair and polished flight goggles resting around his throat: Hauptmann Franz "Blitzfalke" Meinhard, commander of the Sturmschwinge, Eisenreich's finest air force. His coat fluttered faintly as if catching phantom wind. A grin pulled at his lips—restless, sharp, amused at everyone except Brandt.
To his right, tall and pale as fog over the Northern Sea, stood Admiral Albrecht Krüger of the Sturmflotte, Eisenreich's Navy. Dressed in a high-collared navy coat trimmed in iron filigree, he smelled faintly of salt and cold. His hands, gloved in black, never stopped adjusting a golden timepiece. Minutes mattered.
The air felt thinner here. Strained. Weighted by silence and command.
The fourth seat—cold, empty, bearing the engraved sabre and iron cross of Oberstleutnant John 'Nova' Reinhardt—remained untouched.
Generaloberst Viktor Brandt stood at its head, hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders wrapped in a storm-gray coat lined with medals. His stare was the kind that silenced rooms—stern, scarred, and sharpened by decades of frontline command.
"Where is Reinhardt?" he asked, voice like distant thunder.
"Already deployed," Admiral Albrecht Krüger replied from his seat near the window, puffing his pipe. "Took half a battalion south to reinforce the Severin Line. Radio silence until his objective's secure, standard cloak-and-blade."
Brandt grunted. "Hmph. As expected."
"Always does prefer working in shadows," murmured Franz Meinhard, seated just left of the Admiral. Younger than the rest, but the flicker in his eyes matched his father's—though none in the room spoke the relation aloud. Meinhard wore a sleek officer's coat, unadorned, bearing the crimson falcon pin of the Sturmschwinge air division. "But he gets results. Fast ones."
Across the table, a woman in jet-black gloves adjusted the clasp of her collar. "Let him chase ghosts," said Oberst Helena Vos, commander of the Schattengarde. Her hair was tied into a tight braid, and she spoke with the weight of a battlefield survivor. "We have meat to carve in the east. Reports show heavy mage concentrations near the Azure border."
"Their conclave dares bark after what happened at Kestel," Brandt muttered. "Let them. Their flames won't stop our might."
"Agreed," Krüger said, tapping ash into a silver dish. "But fire spreads. I say we cut off the wind before it feeds the blaze."
Brandt nodded once. "Then we hold position. No retreats. No diplomacy. Only watch—and wait."
He turned to Franz. "Franz. Eyes to the skies. None of their arcane wings breach our airspace. Is that clear?"
Franz straightened in his seat, hand to his chest. "Crystal, sir."
As the war table dimmed, one chair remained empty—John Reinhardt's. His nameplate untouched, cold under the lamplight.
Brandt's gaze lingered on it only briefly before facing forward again. "Dismissed. We move at dawn."
The amber light of late afternoon filtered through the arched windows of Iridale Academy's upper halls. Thalia walked beside Archmage Vidarin, his long robe fluttering behind him with the scent of old parchment, smoked herbs, and something faintly electric.
Students gave him a wide berth—not out of fear, but reverence. He was the kind of man who never yelled yet everyone listened.
"You've been paying attention to the headlines, yes?" he asked, tone light, but his eyes sharp.
Thalia blinked. "Uh… sort of?"
"Mm. You know why the King's sending battalions east? To the Eisenreich border?"
She frowned. "They said Eisenreich deployed troops into the neutral ridgelands again. I guess the King wants to show we won't just… sit on our hands?"
Vidarin chuckled. "Good! You've been listening." He paused by a balcony, glancing at the banners above the courtyard—fluttering blue and silver in the wind. "And tell me, why does Eisenreich want the ridgelands?"
"Resources? Access to trade roads? Some old forts?"
Vidarin leaned on the rail, nodding. "All true. But there's more. That land was once arcane territory—before they burned the shrines and sealed the runes beneath concrete."
Thalia looked over the railing, her brow furrowing. "So… it's about magic?"
He gave her a side glance. "It's always about magic, girl. Even when they say it isn't."
They continued walking. The halls quieted as most students filtered out for the evening.
"Do you know what Eisenreich's anthem is?" he asked suddenly.
"No?"
He grinned. "Steel remembers. That's what they say. Not 'the people remember.' Not 'the king remembers.' Just… steel. And they've been reforging quite a lot of it lately."
Thalia felt a chill, despite the sun still hanging low outside. "So we're going to war?"
Vidarin's smile faded, replaced by something more worn. "Not yet. But war is like winter. It doesn't knock—it seeps under the door."
They stopped outside the sealed gates of the Tower Archives. A flicker of arcane light scanned Vidarin's hand before the locks disengaged.
He turned to her. "Listen to me closely, Thalia Mare. What you saw today wasn't just a dream. It was a symptom."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pushed the door open. "Come. I want to show you something old. Very old. And very dangerous."
The golden light of dusk washed through the long corridor as Thalia followed Archmage Vidarin deeper into the quiet wings of the academy. The scent of parchment, spice smoke, and ozone trailed behind him—he moved like a wandering storm disguised as an old man.
"You're quiet," he said, glancing over his shoulder with that knowing smirk. "Thinking about lunch? Or still wondering why an old wizard's dragging you through the archives?"
Thalia crossed her arms. "A little of both. Mostly the second."
Vidarin chuckled. "Good. Stay skeptical. It means your mind's working."
They stopped outside a large door—twisted wood framed in bronze. Arcane symbols pulsed faintly in the grain, like veins under skin. The locks opened with a whisper of light as Vidarin waved his hand.
"Come in," he said, stepping through.
The room was circular, lined with stone shelves and tomes bound in dragonskin, silk, and bone. At the center stood a crystalline lectern. On it lay a single page—yellowed, brittle, ink faded almost to dust.
Thalia approached slowly. "What is this?"
Vidarin didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared at the page as if it might vanish if he blinked.
"A prophecy," he said at last, voice soft. "Older than most kingdoms. Preserved from the Drowned Temple, long before Eisenreich was steel and fire."
Thalia raised a brow. "Let me guess. Some child destined to save the world?"
He looked at her sideways. "Not save. Unmake. And defend it from what comes after."
She shifted her weight. "Still sounds dramatic."
"Most truths are," Vidarin said, gently tapping the page. "It speaks of a soul born beneath flame, neither arcane nor steel. One foot in shadow, the other in spark. They will walk paths untouched by either empire."
Thalia blinked. "And they're supposed to… what? Kill kings and topple armies?"
"No," he said. "They're meant to end empires. To collapse the systems that chained the world in steel and spell, and protect what remains from the things even empires fear—ancient threats, daemon lords, the kinds of evils that don't wear crowns but devour them."
Thalia stared at him. "And you think this person's alive?"
Vidarin gave her a smile—soft, but unreadable. "Alive, yes. Awake? Not yet."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
He paused.
"I don't know," he said. "But when you meditated… the sword, the snow, the sky bleeding… I've heard those signs before. Once. A long time ago."
Thalia looked away, uneasy. "I don't believe in prophecies."
"Good," he said again, that smirk returning. "Belief's not required. Just readiness."
They stood there in silence, the candles flickering around them. Outside, the snow had started again, soft and slow, like the mountain itself was exhaling.