The Headmaster's office carried an air of ancient and peaceful magic. Full of thick, dusty books that smelled of old and smoke, the shelves extended to the roof. The academy was silently guarded by a massive wooden desk that stood in front of a lofty window that gazed down. Headmaster Alistair, white-bearded, serene, and old, sat comfortably behind the desk. Memories of prior winters weighed heavily on his eyes.
With his hands crossed behind his back and his back straight, Magister Kellan stood at the window, facing him. A guy who had witnessed too much was staring back at him. Like a wire that may break at any time, the quiet drew between them.
"That's all?" Alistair's voice was low and patient, "No sign?"
Kellan's jaw tightened. "Nothing," he said.His remarks were as sharp as the blade at his belt, and his tone was harsh. "The Demon Lord was a trap. A strong one — but still a distraction. After the fight, we tracked their trail back through the marshes. Then, it just stopped. No caves. No portals. Nothing. They vanished. Like smoke."
Alistair steepled his long fingers and glared. "That is not their way. Demons don't vanish. They destroy."
"That's what scares me," Kellan said, finally turning from the glass. "They're learning. Someone is leading them. This wasn't a random attack — it was a test. They wanted to see how fast we'd react. How weak we've grown."
The Headmaster's expression stayed calm, but his eyes darkened. "Then we must uncover their plan and end it before it begins."
Kellan gave a short, bitter laugh. "We might not have that chance. My men are stretched thin. Half are wounded. If a real assault comes, we won't hold the borders." His voice lowered. "We need to prepare the next generation."
"The students?" Alistair lifted an eyebrow. "They're still children, Kellan. Some can barely cast a light spell."
"Then we teach them faster," Kellan said, his tone firm. "Let me train the best of them. I can shape them into something stronger."
Alistair hadn't finished speaking before a knock was heard on the solid oak door.
"Come in," he said.
Professor Valerius entered, neat as always, holding a rolled parchment. "Pardon me, Headmaster," he said with a respectful bow. "I have the final class lists."
"Perfect timing," Alistair replied. He took the scroll, glanced through it, then handed it to Kellan. "These are the ones you'd be working with."
Kellan scanned the names with a soldier's focus — Ragnor, Veyne, Brightblade… his eyes moved fast until they stopped on one name near the bottom. The room seemed to tilt.
Kairen Zephyrwind.
He froze. His lips opened, yet no words escaped. His finger caressed the name as if it would vanish.
"Is this…" His voice faltered. "Is this Torren's boy?"
Alistair's eyes softened. "Yes. Kairen is his son."
Kellan let out a slow, shaky breath. For a moment, the hardened soldier faded. "I remember him," he said quietly. "A shy kid hiding behind Elara's legs. It was… the funeral." His face twisted with something raw — grief and guilt mixed together. "He must be what — fifteen now?"
"Sixteen," Alistair said. "A quiet one. Keeps to himself."
"Does he show promise?" Kellan asked, his voice tight with hope. "Does he have his father's spark?"
Valerius cleared his throat. "If I may," he said politely, "while the boy carries the Zephyrwind name, his magic does not. His aptitude is very low — almost nonexistent. I've tested him myself. He cannot summon even a flicker of light."
Kellan's face fell. "He's young. He needs time. Torren wasn't a master when he started either."
"With respect, Magister," Valerius said, unmoved, "Torren could break training stones as a first-year. His son… cannot even light a candle."
The words hit like stones. The room went still.
Kellan looked again at the parchment. His throat closed up. His voice dropped to a whisper."Torren…"
"It's seven years ago," Alistair whispered.
That broke something in Kellan. His shoulders sagged, and the mask of command slipped away. "Seven years," he said, almost to himself. "I was supposed to be there with him."
Alistair's eyes flicked up, heavy with old sorrow. "You were leading another company that day."
"I know." Kellan's voice cracked. "But I sent him there. I made the call. I thought splitting our forces would help. He said it was risky. I didn't listen."
He turned toward the window again. Outside, the sky was gray — the color of ashes. "His outpost was overrun by the Demon Archon's army. I was miles away chasing shadows while he died holding the line." His hand pressed to the glass, trembling. "His last message reached me the next morning. Two words: 'Protect them.'"
The memory carved through him like a blade. "He meant his family. He meant this academy. He meant everyone we swore to guard. He died doing the thing I forgot."
His voice grew low, ragged. "I carry that every day, Alistair. Every time I draw my sword, I hear his voice."
He turned, eyes blazing with pain turned to purpose. "So I fight. Not for medals or glory. For him. For what I lost. For what I broke."
The room fell silent. Kellan's next words came like fire in the quiet.
"I'll kill every demon that crawls out of the dark. I'll burn their nests and tear down their armies. I'll never let another friend fall while I still breathe. That is my vow. For Torren."
He breathed hard, standing there for a long time. He then readjusted his coat and left the room.
Outdoors, it was cold. The academy grounds were quiet except for the soft crack of wood from the training yards. Kellan walked without aim, his thoughts trapped between past and present — Torren's laugh, his scream, his final words. Protect them. The memory clawed at him.
Then — a shout.
"LUMINOS ARCANA!"
It wasn't proud or steady. It was desperate. A young voice, shaking.
Kellan stopped.
"LUMINOS ARCANA! Come on—please!"
He traipsed through the noise until he reached one of the smaller practice rings. There was a boy in the middle of the room by himself in crumpled and dirty pants with one arm stretched out in front of him as his fingers trembled. He tried again — "LUMINOS ARCANA!" — but nothing happened. Just silence and the faint scent of scorched air.
The boy dropped his hand and cursed. He pushed his dark blue hair from his forehead, his breathing still sporadic, even angry.
Kellan's heart stopped.
He knew that face.
Kairen Zephyrwind.
Torren's son.