The first light of morning found Kaelen still seated in his study, the ruined astrological chart spread before him like evidence of a crime. Every time exhaustion threatened to pull him under, the visions returned with punishing clarity—Lyra dissolving into shimmering particles, the silver-haired woman's defiant last stand, the child with his eyes being unmade into nothingness.
This can't be real. It has to be some form of madness. But the knowledge feels too real, too complete. His fingers trembled as he reached for a fresh quill. Seven schools of magic, each more profound than our entire magical tradition. And they fell. What hope does Veridia have?
His gaze drifted toward the door where Lyra slept. How do I tell her? How do I explain that I must become the man from that vision—a man with multiple wives, a man who wields power that would terrify the Royal Council? You are my heart, Lyra. The thought of others feels like betrayal, but the thought of losing you is unthinkable.
He dipped the quill, his hand moving almost independently of his will. Strange symbols flowed across the parchment—Aethelgard runes for void and protection and unity. This is the key. Their factionalism destroyed them. Their pride kept their schools separate. I have all seven. I must unite them. I must become what they never could.
A soft knock interrupted his dark thoughts. Lyra entered carrying a tray that smelled of freshly brewed kaffe and warm bread. Her eyes, usually bright with intelligence and humor, were shadowed with concern.
Gods, she's beautiful. And I saw her die. I saw those things tear her apart. Kaelen's throat tightened. I have to protect that light in her eyes. Even if it means walking through fire. Even if it means becoming someone else entirely.
"You never came to bed," she said softly, her voice thick with sleep and worry.
I can't tell her everything. Not yet. The truth would shatter her. "It was a sending," he managed, the half-truth bitter on his tongue. "From a dead civilization. They called themselves the Aethelgard."
Lyra's eyes widened. She set the tray down carefully, her scholar's mind already engaging. "A sending? But the power required for cross-dimensional communication—Kaelen, that's theoretically impossible!"
Impossible. That word means nothing anymore. "They were consumed by entities called Void Weavers. They sent their knowledge as a final warning." He gestured to the strange symbols covering his parchment. "Their magic makes ours look like children playing with sparks."
She's taking it better than I expected. But I see the fear in her eyes. The doubt. She thinks I might be losing my mind. Kaelen watched as Lyra studied the runes, her brow furrowed in concentration.
These symbols feel familiar somehow. Ancient texts from my master's library mentioned star-eaters, civilizations that fell to the silence between worlds. Lyra's mind raced even as her heart ached for her husband. He's different. There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there yesterday. It's like he's aged years in a single night.
"Let me help you," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "Whatever this is, we face it together."
Together. If only it were that simple. Kaelen's heart wrenched. The vision showed me others standing with us. How do I tell her that? How do I explain that our together must grow to include women we haven't even met?
"Not yet," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "The knowledge is dangerous. Volatile. It nearly shattered my mind. I need to understand it first, create a safe framework."
He's pushing me away. Why? We've always shared everything—our research, our dreams, our fears. Lyra's smile didn't reach her eyes. There's something he's not telling me. Something that frightens him even more than this sending.
"Be careful," she whispered, the words heavy with unspoken fear.
Careful? No, my love. Careful won't save us. Careful won't stop what's coming. Kaelen watched her leave, his resolve hardening like steel cooling in the forge.
The Royal Archives stood as a monument to Veridian knowledge, its marble halls echoing with the whispers of centuries. But today, Kaelen saw it for what it was—a child's picture book compared to the library now burning in his soul.
They have no idea. All these scholars debating minor points of thaumaturgy while extinction lurks between the stars. He moved through the familiar corridors like a ghost, his mind constantly comparing Veridian magic to the elegant, brutal efficiency of Aethelgard principles.
War Magic as geometric perfection. Not brute force but surgical precision. Why didn't we ever see it? We're like barbarians swinging clubs while they crafted scalpels.
Loremaster Theron looked up from his desk, his ancient eyes sharp behind their crystal lenses. "Archmage Kaelen. To what do I owe this rare visit?"
How much to tell him? Nothing. The old fool would call the Inquisition, have me declared mad. "Cosmological research, Loremaster. Specifically, any records of the Aethelgard or Void Weavers."
Theron's eyebrows rose. "Aethelgard? That's myth and children's tales. Arrogant star-walkers who fell to their own pride."
Myth. He calls the graveyard of a civilization myth. Kaelen kept his face neutral. "Humor an old scholar's fancy."
As Theron fetched the materials, Kaelen reached inward, exploring the School of Soul Arts. The soul as a matrix, not some mystical essence but a complex energy structure. No wonder our resurrection spells always fail—we're trying to rewrite a book from its ashes when we should be rebuilding the printing press.
He's different, Theron thought as he gathered the ancient texts. There's a light in his eyes I've never seen before. Dangerous knowledge often shines brightest before it consumes its bearer.
When Theron returned with the texts and the strange stone slate, Kaelen's breath caught. I know this design. His fingers itched to trace the symbols. It's a dimensional resonance scanner. Basic Aethelgard security technology. They had these in every home like we have smoke detectors.
He recognizes it, Theron observed with growing unease. How can he recognize something that predates our civilization?
Kaelen spent hours cross-referencing, his mind a whirlwind of connections. The Songs of the First Spheres—their seven cities were the seven schools! They literally built their capital around their magical disciplines. No wonder they couldn't unite.
When his fingers finally traced the slate's cool surface, knowledge flooded him. Not just a scanner but a ward. An early warning system. The materials—celestial bronze, void-touched crystal, starlight silver. Rare but obtainable. I can build this. I can know if they're coming.
What have I awakened in him? Theron watched from the shadows. He reads texts that have baffled scholars for centuries as if they were nursery rhymes. This is either a miracle or a catastrophe in the making.
As Kaelen stood to leave, his path crystallized. First, this device. Then I find them—the women from the vision. The silver-haired sorceress, the warrior in emerald, the alchemist, all of them. I will gather them, protect them, build the family the vision showed me. I will become the Archmage who stands against the dying of the light.
He walked out of the archives as the sun dipped below the horizon, his shadow stretching long behind him. The man who entered that morning was gone, replaced by something harder, sharper, more dangerous.
Let them come, he thought, the Aethelgard knowledge burning like cold fire in his soul. I have seen the end, and I refuse to let it happen. I will build a legacy that even the void cannot touch.
The Empyrean had taken his first step on the path to war.