Wyzett instinctively activated his Oculus Magicae, and at once, the world around him blazed with a stunning silver-blue brilliance—rivaling even the great hall he'd once seen in the Mirror Realm.
Ominis led the group, his steps sure and silent. Wyzett lingered at the rear, wand in hand, quietly drawing in the wellspring of Ancient Magic that saturated the air and channeling it into the pages of The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide.
Panting slightly, Xenophilius caught sight of the towering structure ahead and called out, "Mr. Ominis, are we nearly there?"
"We are," Ominis replied with a nod. "Once we pass those ancient trees, you'll see the wizarding ruins Odin left behind."
Luna darted to her father's side, offering him a handkerchief with a gentle smile. "Here, Dad—wipe your brow!"
"You're the best, sweetheart." Xenophilius beamed, dabbing away the sweat on his forehead.
Just as they had the day before, the group circled the outskirts of the ruins, searching in vain for any sign of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Disappointment tugged at them, but they pressed on, determined to explore the wizarding ruins themselves.
As Wyzett stepped onto the broad plaza before the palace, his eyes were drawn instantly to the sheer majesty of the building.
This was once Odin's resting palace: high stone walls, rough-hewn but mighty, now cloaked in a living tapestry of emerald ivy. Time had left the doorframe mottled and worn, yet the carvings within had only grown more profound—deep grooves tracing the eternal dance of wind and cloud.
Those clouds and winds seemed almost alive, weaving and swirling in a rhythm that felt both ancient and arcane, as if they were writing out some forgotten rune.
Wyzett could feel it in his bones—these carvings weren't made by chisel and hand. They seemed conjured by magic itself, as natural as breathing.
He let his senses drift into the flow of wind and cloud, and suddenly, inspiration struck: he remembered the magical circuit diagrams he'd drawn over Christmas break. Heart pounding, he pulled out his notebook, eager to see if he could combine these new impressions with his old diagrams—perhaps even create a brand new magical pattern.
Luna gazed up at the carvings above the door. "They're so vivid… It's like they grew here, not carved by anyone at all."
Ominis smiled. "As far as I know, those carvings were already here when wizards first arrived on the island."
"Maybe you're right—maybe Odin poured his thoughts and feelings into the stone with magic itself. That would explain why there's no sign of any tool marks."
On either side of the entryway, exquisite reliefs captured the clash of waves and lightning—each panel freezing a moment of violent, breathtaking energy, making the ocean's wildness eternal.
"Odin was a remarkable artist!" Luna said, stepping closer to Wyzett. "Are you… drawing?"
"I just have this feeling," Wyzett replied, sketching another line. "Like the carvings could connect to this diagram somehow."
"Like this?" Luna leaned in, studying the top of his notebook—two magical circuits, and below them a dozen rough connection sketches.
Wyzett caught the scent of grass and leaves, and instinctively held the notebook out for her. Her cool fingers brushed his as she took the pen, eyes bright with curiosity.
"These look a bit like those carvings outside… Did you get the idea from them? I think this one is the prettiest—maybe you could make the whole thing flow more."
She spoke softly, setting the pen tip to a connection diagram and adding her own touch.
A subtle tremor ran through Wyzett's hand.
Moments later, Luna pushed the notebook back. "See if this looks better?"
Though the page was crowded with diagrams, Wyzett spotted her changes at once. The others still felt blocked and awkward, but the fourth from the bottom—now, the two magical circuits flowed together as if a gale were rolling a boulder down a hillside.
"How about it? Looks better than before, right?" Luna asked, a hopeful note in her voice.
Wyzett grinned, his face lighting up. "It's brilliant—better than anything I've drawn."
"Good!" Luna nodded, hands clasped behind her as she skipped a few steps ahead.
Wyzett let out a quiet breath, slipped the notebook into his pocket, and hurried after her.
He'd have to study that new magical circuit once they got back to the inn!
...
They followed the colonnade into the main hall, pausing to admire the reliefs on the walls. For a moment, it felt as if they were adrift on a lone boat, battered by storm and thunder.
The round hall was also ringed with seafaring reliefs. Here, though, the ocean was calm and serene, a setting sun sinking beneath the waves.
The vast chamber was nearly empty, save for a single stone chair standing alone in the center.
Nothing else.
"It feels… empty," Xenophilius muttered, pacing the echoing floor. His footsteps rang out—clack, clack—in the silence.
"Yes," said Ominis. "Plenty of wizards come here with high hopes, only to be disappointed by this empty hall—just like you."
"Maybe that's why so few tourists visit this place. It can't compare to the ruins in Egypt."
Wyzett kept his Oculus Magicae active, pacing as Xenophilius did, drawing in every trace of Ancient Magic and pouring it into The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide.
In his mind's eye, most of the island's magical map was now lit up. Yet the book still refused to yield a new page.
"Don't tell me it wants me to climb up to that cloud," Wyzett joked, stretching and glancing around.
But as the last of the Ancient Magic was absorbed, something astonishing happened—murals began to shimmer into view on the chamber walls.
Beside him, Xenophilius mumbled, "There's really nothing here? Even my heart feels empty…"
With those words, Wyzett realized: perhaps only he could see the murals.
They appeared layered atop one another, blurry and indistinct—impossible to make out their meaning.
Wyzett frowned and, on a whim, cast a silent, wandless Levitation Charm. To his surprise, the murals responded, peeling apart and separating before his eyes.
He stepped forward, heart racing, and studied the four revealed murals:
The first mural: a colossal tree, its roots and branches encircled by countless shadowy figures, all raising their hands high.
The second: a barren land littered with bones, a spear thrust skyward—its tip piercing the chest of a man whose face showed not pain, but perfect serenity.
The third: the same spear, still raised to the heavens, but the impaled man was gone, replaced by rippling halos of light spreading outward.
The last mural was stark and simple—a lone wizard astride a majestic, long-horned steed.
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