The next morning, the palace gates stood solemn, a stark contrast to their usual bustling flow of guards and courtiers. A sleek, black carriage waited, its obsidian frame gleaming against the white marble. By it, Sir Reinhart stood alone, a man in his late fifties with thick black hair already threaded with silver. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of light mana seemed to cling to him, subtle as morning mist. As Johan approached, with his ever composed presence , Reinhart's keen jade eyes, sharp as a hawk's, locked onto him.
"Ah, Prince Johan," Reinhart's voice boomed—sharp, yet rich with experience. He offered a small, knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Punctual as a tax collector, I see."
Johan felt a flush creep up his neck. He bowed deeply. "My apologies, Sir Reinhart. A... prior engagement ran longer than anticipated."
Reinhart chuckled—a dry, raspy sound. "A prior engagement, huh? I hope it wasn't with a pen. Because if it was, I bet you found yourself in a bind."He paused, his gaze sweeping over Johan's still-stiff posture, then back to his eyes. The few nearby guards stiffened, their faces a mix of confusion and blankness.
Johan felt a laugh rise—whether at the pun or the tension, he couldn't say. It escaped anyway. "Indeed, Sir. My prior engagement had me… quilled up."
For a second, Reinhart blinked—then snorted. A rare glint of warmth lit his jade eyes. "Cheeky brat I've got for a disciple, huh? Alright. Let's get moving—we're already late."
Johan rose, and the two climbed into the royal carriage, which immediately began its journey toward the distant Magic Tower.
As the wheels rumbled beneath him, I leaned back, letting the quiet hum of travel lull me into thought. Mana.
The invisible lifeblood of our world. Flowing through all living things—beast, man, and even monster's. Sir Reinhart had drilled it into me for years: feel it, shape it, respect it, and know my place within its order.
And that order was strict. Unforgiving.
I still remember the tiers, etched into my mind from childhood lessons:
Bluds the beginners, raw and clumsy, barely able to coax a spark from their fingertips.
Navres useful enough for small spells and housework. Adequate, but never remarkable.
And here's where the fun begins here.
Zols trained elemental mages like me. We formed the backbone of the kingdom's military might.
Highserks like sir kael elite battle monsters, the kind who led armies and rewrote the tides of wars .
Volkers — myths wrapped in mortal skin. Their command over mana bordered on divine.
Sir Reinhart was one of only two Volkers in Solaris—and the only one who wielded Light. A rare and revered magic, seen as a direct gift from Helios himself. In a kingdom of fire, Light was sacred.
And then there's me.
Azure Flames. My burden. My blessing.
Hotter, purer than any ordinary fire—said to appear only once in a hundred years, always in someone marked by the sun god. A sign of favor, they whispered.
But I've learned this much: where there are blessings, there are always curses.
There's another magic that no one speaks of unless they have to. Dark magic. Twisted. Forbidden. A punishment from Helios, if the church is to be believed. Those who wielded it were branded, hunted, and erased from history.
Except one.
My aunt. Sera.
The last living Dark mage. A Volker, even. The youngest ever.
I've met her a few times—brief, cold encounters. But even those short moments haunt me. She never needed to raise her voice. Just a look. Her eyes always seemed to peel back something in me, like she could see thoughts I hadn't had yet. And that faint smile… too knowing. Too calm.
Though her life was bound to my father from a young age .
I pushed the thought away.
No use thinking of ghosts.
Not with Reinhart watching.
The first glimpse of the Magic Tower neared it had been a while since I visited but it always sent a strange chill down my spine.
It loomed ahead now—tall, smooth, and black as night glass, catching the morning light in its jagged angles. Runes shimmered faintly along its surface, shifting colors like the tower was breathing. The upper balconies floated slightly off the core structure, suspended by spells so no one dared touch them.
As we rolled into the outer plaza, I spotted the usual bustle—apprentices in ink-stained robes hurrying between wings, robed mages deep in conversation, and a pair of alchemists unloading crates of something that I don't want to know.
Merchants filtered in and out—some hawking enchanted tools, others escorting slaves in chains, their eyes still clinging to hope but inside awaited their sentence to slavery. Their collars glowed faintly.
The scent hit next—smoke, parchment, and a tang of metal and incense. I could almost taste the mana in the air, dense and humming, like the Tower itself was watching, ahh I missed this place.
As I entered the Tower's central hall, my gaze fell on a figure across the vast hall. Surrounded by eager young mages and alchemists, a man in his early twenties exuded a palpable warmth of mana, and that familiar blond hair. It was Rodrick. Even from afar, I felt the familiar pricklish face, as our eyes met. A slow, devilish grin spread across his face as he detached himself from the crowd, striding purposefully closer.