Ares's vision blurred as he stumbled sideways, one hand catching the cold edge of a wall that hadn't been there a second ago. His stomach lurched from the sudden shift — not just from the teleportation, but from the shock of where he'd landed.
The room was... ordinary.
A plain, rectangular space made of smooth grey stone. No glowing murals. No magical glass ceiling. No pillars or floating lights. Just a bed in one corner, a small alcove carved into the wall — maybe a cupboard — and a thin silver thread running across the ceiling. It didn't move. Nothing here did.
For the first time since arriving, nothing hummed with power. The room didn't glow or shift. It just existed. Still. Quiet. Unbothered.
Ares took a slow breath and touched the wall again to make sure it was real. It felt solid. He didn't have the energy to investigate it further.
Emma stood nearby, watching. Her expression was calm, almost unreadable — like someone used to following orders she didn't agree with. When she finally spoke, she gave a short nod.
"My apologies," she said. "I should've realized you're not used to magical travel. The master told me you're not allowed to use spells, so I'll avoid shortcuts from now on."
Ares didn't answer. He was still trying to understand where he was. No windows. No visible door. Just stone walls and a ceiling that didn't reflect light — it swallowed it.
Eventually, he nodded. Not because he agreed with her. It was just easier than asking questions he wasn't ready to hear answers to.
They left the room — through a door that appeared only when Emma touched the wall. This time, they walked.
And Ares was grateful.
There was something grounding about using his own feet. About hearing his steps echo on stone. No floating. No spinning through space. Just floors, walls, and the faint thrum of magic under everything. You couldn't see it. You couldn't hear it. But it was there — like heat left in bricks after the fire goes out.
"This academy," Emma said, voice steady, "is called the Celestial Arcanum. It's divided into seven sections, called the Seven Moons. Each is led by a Grand Magician. And above them are the Three Suns — the most powerful of all."
Ares glanced at her. "And Arwen is one of them?"
She nodded. "Yes. Master Arwen is the First Sun. The highest seat."
There was something in her tone — not respect. Not awe. More like... irritation. Ares made a mental note to always call him "Master Arwen," untill he got better grasp of the situation.
Emma walked ahead, hands behind her back. "Most of what you see here is shaped by old magic. That's what you'll be learning."
To demonstrate, she summoned a small ball of fire in her palm and tossed it at the wall.
Ares flinched.
The flame vanished on impact. No mark. No smoke. No warmth left behind. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed she'd done anything at all.
"Runic reinforcement," she explained. "One of the oldest branches. Not exciting, but important."
They moved on.
"Old magic doesn't use energy from inside your body," Emma continued. "It draws power from the world itself. That makes it harder to control. But it's stronger. And permanent."
"So it's more physical?" Ares asked.
"Not exactly," she said. "But it lives in things — objects, places. Enchanted items. Symbols. Tools. Runes carved into stone or sewn into cloth." She touched the edge of her cloak. "This has a few simple enchantments — for healing, for defense. They don't fade."
They stopped at a wide archway.
The mess hall.
A table inside was already set. A bowl of golden stew shimmered faintly. A warm loaf of bread let off soft steam but didn't cool.
"Engraved to keep them fresh," Emma said. "And warm."
Ares sat down slowly. He eyed the food, then took a cautious bite.
It was simple. No strange flavors. Just warm, solid, and real.
He ate in silence. But his mind was still turning.
Something she'd said earlier hadn't left him.
Before he could ask, Emma spoke again.
"To work with old magic, you'll need a sight weave."
Ares paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "What's that?"
"It's a magical lens," she said. "Not something you wear. It's a spell — sewn into your vision, layer by layer. A healer, or a very skilled mage, weaves it into the mana around your eyes over time. Slowly."
He stared. "Wait... sewn into my eyes?"
"Yes!," she clarified. "It doesn't hurt. But it changes how you see the world. Once it's complete, magic won't be invisible anymore. You'll see it all — the good and the bad."
Ares lowered his spoon. "What happens if it's done wrong?"
"You might see things you shouldn't. Or see nothing at all. That's why it has to be done by someone you trust."
He looked down at his food again, appetite fading.
"Do you have one?" he asked.
Emma shook her head. "I don't use old magic. Modern mages don't need it. We reshape the world's mana into our own. It's easier to control. More efficient. But the world doesn't like being taken apart like that."
She let the sentence hang.
Ares shifted in his seat. He felt like someone had handed him a tool from a job he never signed up for.
"It's not a weakness," Emma added. "It's just a different path. The weave doesn't give you power — it lets you see what's already there."
Ares let out a breath. "So… what now?"
"I'll take you to a healer tomorrow," she said. "He's odd, but talented. And he won't refuse someone under Master Arwen's care."
She didn't say more than that.
They walked back in silence, the halls dimming behind them as they went.
Back in his room, Ares moved slowly. He ran his fingers along the cupboard again. It still felt like it weighed nothing. The bed, though plain, was softer than it looked. His robe shimmered faintly along the edges — not visibly, but he could feel it. Some kind of spell woven into the threads, maybe.
He sat on the edge of the bed, then lay down, eyes on the silver thread in the ceiling.
He still didn't know why he was here. Why Arwen hadn't just killed him. Why he was being trained in magic he didn't ask for — in a place that didn't feel real.
He thought of his sister.
Her laugh.
The way she'd climb into his bed when storms got loud.
The cereal she always stole when she thought he wasn't watching.
His chest tightened.
He missed her.