Ares woke to silence.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. The ceiling above him—smooth stone threaded with silver veins—was unfamiliar. Cold. Impossibly still. Not the cracked paint of his bedroom ceiling, not the soft whir of the fan. Just stone. Immovable. Ancient.
"Mon?" His breath hitched as panic crept in.
Where was he?
Then it hit him: the academy.
Last night had happened. Arwen, the sea of fire, the hallway that sang, Emma's steady voice, the dinner that sparkled on his tongue like magic and soothed his wounds from the inside out. None of it had been a dream.
He sat up, brushing a strange sheet from his chest. It felt like mist woven into fabric—cool and clinging. His robe shimmered with threads of color he couldn't name, like starlight seen underwater. Everything here was different. Not unreal, just… new. Profoundly new. Every inch of this place whispered that he no longer belonged to the world he came from.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
"Okay," he murmured. "Step one: get out of the room."
There was just one problem—he couldn't find the exit.
The walls were smooth and seamless. No doorframe, no handle, nothing to mark a way out. He circled the room once, then again, pressing his palms flat against the stone. It felt the same everywhere: cool, slightly damp, and entirely unwilling to help.
"Emma could've at least told me how to open a damn door," he muttered.
He tried tapping. Lightly at first, then more firmly. He tapped each stone, hoping for some magical click or shift. It felt ridiculous. But after what felt like his hundredth try, a faint vibration passed beneath his fingertips. A low click followed. The stone parted silently, revealing a narrow passage of light.
Ares blinked.
The light was too bright. Not warm, but searing. He shielded his eyes and stepped forward—and froze.
There was no corridor.
Outside the door stretched a sea of fire.
Not fire as he knew it. No smoke, no crackle of burning wood or acrid heat. Just pure flame—fluid and endless, like an ocean of molten light. Above it, two suns, one in east and one in the west, floated in a sky so clear it seemed hollow. One of them—larger than the rest—sat directly above him like an unblinking eye.
And it was silent.
Ares didn't feel hot. The air was cool, as if the fire respected his presence, choosing not to touch him.
He stared at it, heart pounding. "What kind of place is this?"
There was no path, no railing, no explanation—just a world ablaze, wrapped around a solitary platform of stone.
"This can't be real," he whispered. "Nothing like this could ever be real." but in his heart he new that it wasn't the world that he knew.
He backed up, stepped inside, and let the door reseal behind him with a whisper. It vanished as if it had never been there.
He leaned against the wall, breath shallow. The weight of it hit him—not just the distance from home, but the impossibility of ever returning.
"I'm not just in another city. I'm on another planet. With two sons and a sea of fire. What do i do now?"
His stomach grumbled and he had his answer
"…Breakfast," he muttered. "Right. Start small."
He followed the scent of something savory, wandering until he found a broad pantry space tucked behind another invisible door. Inside, a woman stood at the counter—older than Emma, with flour on her sleeves and a wooden spoon in hand. Her apron was wrinkled, her hair pinned back with copper clips, and her face was bright with warmth.
"Good morning, my lord," she said cheerfully.
Ares blinked. "You don't have to call me that. Just Ares is fine."
"I'm afraid I must," she replied with a small smile. "You are the apprentice of Lord Arwen. That title carries weight, whether you want it or not."
He winced at that. "Right. Apprentice."
The woman didn't press. She gestured to a small table tucked under a vaulted arch. "Sit. You look pale. I'll bring you something warm."
He sat wordlessly, trying not to feel like a prisoner.
After a moment, the woman returned with a simple plate: roasted duck with crisped skin, two small quail eggs, and a bowl of golden soup that shimmered faintly, like sunlight trapped in broth.
"What is this?" he asked, eyeing the soup warily. "It's glowing."
"It's called Luminis fungus," she said, placing the bowl in front of him. "A mushroom that grows near the heart of a star. It clears the mind. Heals the soul."
Ares raised an eyebrow. "You can eat soul-healing soup?"
"Here! We do," she replied, smiling.
He hesitated, then dipped the spoon and tasted it. The warmth spread instantly—not heat, but clarity. His thoughts untangled. The tightness in his chest eased. It didn't feel like magic. It felt like rest.
He looked at the woman again. "What's your name?"
"Beth," she replied, placing a warm napkin by his elbow. "Chef, apparently—your breakfast guide."
He smiled faintly. "Nice to meet you, Beth."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Ares asked what had been bothering him since he'd stepped outside.
"This place… that sea of fire. Are we really… where is this place?"
Beth nodded. "We are on the first sun, The academy was built here, forged from old magic and cosmic power. Moons and stars were drawn here over centuries. We are at the heart of Celestial Arcanum."
Ares stared at her, speechless.
"I wanted to run," he said after a while. "But now… I wouldn't even know where to go."
Beth tilted her head. "Then don't run. Walk. Slowly, if you must. One step at a time."
He looked down at his empty bowl. "That soup really does clear your head."
Beth chuckled. "It does."
And for the first time since arriving, Ares felt something unexpected: not comfort—but curiosity. A cautious, flickering question in his chest.