Enriq had always been an enigma in the tower.
Rumors about him traveled through the stone corridors like restless ghosts, soft, uneager, yet saturated with unease. The mages spoke his name with the same caution they reserved for forbidden grimoires.
Enriq, heir of the Mage Tower, the silent lord with wings that no one had ever truly seen. His footsteps were soundless, as if he were treading not on stone but on the thin membrane between realms.
No one knew his true age. No one knew his origin. And above all, no one knew the depth of the void behind his eyes.
Many simply believed he was human, cold, prodigious, and emotionless. But those who had lived longest in the tower, the senior mages with senses sharpened by centuries of magic, understood the truth, that Enriq was not mortal. He was a Fallen Angel, one of the few who survived the ancient purges, a remnant of a shattered race whose history was carved into silence.
He was the last of Agatha's bloodline.
