The royal envoy arrived first—just as the sun was halfway to its peak and the morning dew had yet to fully dry from the grass lining the village road.
Ren heard the sound of hooves from inside his house before he saw anything. Two horses, he guessed from the rhythm—one heavier than the other, likely carrying a larger rider or extra weight. Their pace was steady and assured, not rushed, but the kind of stride that said they knew exactly where they were going and saw no need to hurry because their destination wasn't going anywhere.
The kind of horses ridden by important people.
Ren set his spoon down on the edge of his half-finished bowl of porridge. He wasn't hungry—his stomach had felt knotted for two days now, ever since that night at the Black Forest. Not from illness or exhaustion. More like something in his chest refused to rest, something that kept turning like a mill wheel long after the water had run dry.
He stood, smoothed out his worn shirt—then sat back down, because what was the point of straightening an old shirt for a royal envoy—then stood again because sitting didn't feel right either.
Stop it, he told himself. You knew this was coming. You've had three days to prepare.
Three days. Spent wondering whether to run, stay silent, or head to the capital himself and surrender before anyone bothered to fetch him. None of the options appealed to him, so he chose none of them and instead stayed home, eating porridge that tasted like paper.
The hoofbeats stopped in front of his house.
Then came a knock. Three times—firm, measured, the knock of someone accustomed to knocking on doors on behalf of someone more powerful.
Ren opened the door.
The man before him looked to be around forty, with a posture so straight it seemed ingrained in his bones since birth. His uniform was deep blue with gold accents at the shoulders and cuffs—a mid-ranking royal official, if Ren remembered correctly from the books he'd read in the chapel library. His hair was short, graying at the temples, and a thin scar cut across his left eyebrow—old, long healed, but distinctive.
Behind him, tethered to a horse held by a young soldier in matching uniform, was a large black leather satchel bearing a seal.
A golden crown atop a blue circle.
The seal of the Kingdom of Luminara.
The man looked Ren up and down—not dismissively, but like someone assessing something new, not yet categorized. Brief. Professional. Then his expression settled back into neutrality.
"Ren Arclight?" he said.
"Yes."
"I am Commander Edric Voss, official representative of the Luminara Palace." He did not extend a hand. Palace officials didn't offer handshakes to villagers—not out of arrogance, but protocol. Ren knew that, and took no offense. "I bring an official message from the Military Governor of the Northern Province on behalf of the Crown. Are you willing to receive it?"
Willing to receive it. Not may I come in or may we speak. A very specific phrase—technically giving Ren the option to refuse, but in a way that made refusal feel like a grave mistake.
Ren opened the door wider. "Please, come in."
Commander Voss didn't glance around the house the way some villagers did, sneaking curious looks into every corner. He sat where Ren indicated, placed his leather satchel carefully on the table, and withdrew a sealed scroll.
He set it down—but did not slide it toward Ren.
"Before I deliver the contents," he said, "I need to confirm a few things directly. Protocol."
"Go ahead."
"Three days ago, on the twelfth of Abyssfall, you used light magic to destroy at least twelve Crawler-class demons and close an active Abyss Gate at the boundary of the Black Forest, Ashveil Village." Not a question. "Correct?"
"Correct."
"No other mage was involved?"
"No."
Voss gave a slight nod. "Your age?"
"Seventeen."
Something flickered behind his neutral expression—quick as a passing cloud shadow. Gone just as quickly. "Magical affinity?"
"Light."
"Rank?"
Ren didn't answer immediately.
It was a simple question—technically. But the answer wasn't. Luminara's ranking system had six levels: Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master, Grand Master, and Sovereign. Anyone with magical affinity was required to register before turning twenty and undergo official evaluation.
Ren had never registered.
And the rank he would give—if he were honest—was one no one his age, with his background, should be able to claim.
"I've never been formally evaluated," he said at last. Which was true—just not the whole truth.
Voss studied him. "According to the report from Ashveil Chapel's priest—Father Doran, if I recall correctly—the affinity stone reacted at a level he described as 'beyond standard measurement scale' within twenty meters of you that night."
Ren said nothing.
"That is not an accusation," Voss continued evenly. "Merely clarification of data. The Royal Magic Office will conduct an official evaluation if you are willing to travel to the capital." He finally slid the scroll toward Ren. "Please read."
Ren broke the seal and read.
The language was formal—layered with phrases like with due respect we invite and in consideration of the kingdom's safety and as a strategic asset. But stripped of its formality, the message was simple:
The kingdom knew he existed. They wanted him in the capital. They offered protection, residence, access to the Royal Magic Academy, and a monthly stipend greater than what Ren earned in a year at Mrs. Caldwell's shop.
And in the final paragraph, more direct than the rest:
Your presence would be invaluable to the kingdom's defense against the increasing activity of Abyss Gates across Luminara.
Ren folded the letter neatly and set it down.
"May I have time to think?"
Voss nodded. "You have time." He stood and fastened his satchel. "I will stay at the village inn tonight. I will return in the morning for your answer." He paused at the door. "One more thing, Arclight."
"Yes?"
"This is not the only letter arriving in Ashveil today." His gaze held Ren's—not quite a warning, but not not a warning either. "The choice you make tomorrow should be yours. Not one made for you."
He left before Ren could ask what he meant.
The Church envoy arrived two hours later.
Ren was sitting on the wooden bench outside his house, watching the quiet midday road, when he heard another horse. Just one this time—lighter, calmer, with a rhythm different from Voss's mount. Not a warhorse. A long-distance traveler.
The rider wore a white robe trimmed with silver—the attire of a Holy Church priest on official business. The robe was spotless despite the journey, which somehow made Ren more uneasy than if it had been dirty. Anyone who could keep their robe that clean after days on horseback paid attention to details.
And people who paid attention to details were rarely easy to talk around.
The rider dismounted smoothly, tied the horse without assistance, and walked toward Ren at an unhurried pace.
A woman. Ren only realized it when she came closer—Church travel robes didn't distinguish between men and women, and her hair was tightly bound beneath the hood.
Her age was hard to tell. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her face held a sharpness that wasn't just in her cheekbones, but in her gaze—pale green eyes that didn't feel invasive, yet somehow you knew you were being examined.
"Ren Arclight," she said. Not a question—like Voss, but with a different tone. Like someone finally naming something she had been searching for.
"Yes," Ren said again.
"I am Inquisitor Seraphina Caelus, Holy Magic Division, Church of Light of Luminara." She didn't sit, though there was space beside him. She stood, not intimidating, but like someone accustomed to speaking on her feet. "I bring a message from Archbishop Orland."
"I know." Ren kept his gaze on the road. "The royal envoy came this morning."
Something faint shifted at the corner of her lips—not quite a smile. "Voss arrived sooner than I expected. He always does." She drew out a smaller letter, sealed with white wax bearing a halo insignia. "Will you read this?"
"After I know one thing."
She waited.
"Inquisitor," Ren said carefully, unsure if his tone sounded as neutral as he intended. "That title is usually for—"
"For investigating and handling magic deemed dangerous or irregular by the Church, yes." She finished for him. "And before you ask—no, I am not here to arrest you. The Church does not operate that way for cases like this." A pause. "At least, not for cases like this."
Ren studied her, then took the letter.
It was much shorter than the royal one. And its tone was different—not informal, but carrying the voice of someone too tired for pleasantries, yet too disciplined to abandon them entirely.
—
To Ren Arclight of Ashveil,
You have used Primordial Light to close an Abyss Gate. This is no small feat—it has not occurred in three hundred years.
The Church holds records of Primordial magic. Records not available to the public. If you wish to understand your power—its origin, why it chose you, and what it means for this world—we have answers.
We invite you to the Holy Academy in the capital, where you will receive guidance, protection, and answers you have never been given.
This is an invitation, not a command. But understand this: those who do not understand their power tend to become dangerous—to themselves and to others.
We would rather you understand yourself before the world forces you to do so in harsher ways.
—Archbishop Orland, Church of Light of Luminara
—
Ren read it twice, then folded it.
"Three hundred years," he said.
"Yes."
"So there was someone before me."
Seraphina didn't answer immediately. She looked down the road, her expression unreadable. "There are records of one."
"What happened to them?"
Silence.
Not the silence of ignorance. The silence of someone deciding how much to reveal.
"That," she said at last, "is among the records not available to the public." Her eyes returned to him. "And one of the reasons the Archbishop wants you to come as soon as possible."
Ren handed the letter back. "I need time."
"Of course." She accepted it. "I will stay the night before returning to the capital." She turned, then paused. "Arclight."
"Yes?"
"Voss is a good man." Her tone was flat—neither praise nor dismissal. "But he serves the kingdom, and the kingdom wants something different from you than the Church does. Both have good reasons for what they offer—and both have interests that may not align with yours."
"And the Church is different?"
This time, she almost smiled—a brief, restrained flicker. "No," she said honestly. "We have our own interests as well. But at least I won't pretend otherwise."
Then she left, and Ren sat alone again with two letters in his mind and no answers in his hands.
—
That night, Ren couldn't sleep.
Not unusual—he hadn't slept well since three days ago. But tonight was different. His thoughts, which usually spun in circles, now spun with fuel: two offers, two agendas, and one question he hadn't asked Seraphina—but had been asking himself since afternoon:
What happened to the Primordial Light user three hundred years ago?
He lay on his narrow bed, staring at the wooden ceiling he knew by heart, trying to arrange his thoughts like a puzzle without knowing the final image.
Facts: his magic wasn't normal.
Facts: important people knew he existed.
Facts: the Church had records—and they weren't public.
The troubling question: why?
The most likely answer: because the contents weren't something the Church wanted ordinary people to know.
And the next question: what could be in those records that warranted hiding them?
Outside his window, Ashveil slept. Only the wind and occasional night creatures from the Black Forest broke the silence—now returned to its ordinary darkness, no trace of that unnatural purple glow.
As if nothing had happened.
But it had. And now both envoys waited at the inn for his answer.
Ren raised his hand in the darkness.
No light tonight. Either he was calmer, or the light itself was resting—or perhaps even it knew this wasn't the time.
Why are you here? he asked silently. Why me?
No answer.
Of course not.
But then—just as his thoughts began to drift toward sleep—he felt something.
Not from outside. From within his chest. Something small and warm, like an ember forgotten in a dying hearth.
And from it—somehow—a voice.
Not spoken. Not heard.
A pressure behind his mind.
Go.
That was all.
Ren sat upright.
He stared at his chest, trying to understand what had just happened. In seventeen years, his power had never spoken. It flared when he willed it. Faded when he suppressed it. It had never felt like it had a will of its own.
But just now, clear as a knock at the door:
Go.
Go where?
No second answer. The ember fell silent again.
He lay back down, eyes wide open, thoughts racing faster than ever.
—
The next morning, Ren stood at his door when Voss arrived—already dressed for travel. A small bag hung over his shoulder, filled with spare clothes and a few belongings. His porridge bowl was empty for the first time in three days.
Voss looked at the bag. Then at Ren.
"Your answer?"
"I'll go."
Voss nodded once—brief, controlled, but with a hint of relief in his eyes. "Good. We depart in one hour after—"
"One condition," Ren cut in.
Voss waited.
"I'm going to the Holy Academy." He spoke carefully, making each word clear. "Not the palace. Not military barracks. The Holy Academy. I want access to its library and the freedom to study without constant supervision."
Something shifted in Voss's expression—not surprise, but recalculation.
"That falls under Church jurisdiction," he said carefully.
"Yes."
"The kingdom offers—"
"I know what the kingdom offers." Ren met his gaze. "And I appreciate it. But I need to learn before I can be useful to anyone. And to learn, I need access to information on light magic—which, according to the Church envoy, exists at the Holy Academy."
Voss was silent for a long moment.
From a distance, Ren could see Seraphina tending to her horse, back turned—but there was a stillness to her, a subtle tension, that suggested she was listening.
"I will need to relay this to the Military Governor," Voss said at last.
"Of course."
"The final decision is his."
"I understand."
Voss studied him again—then nodded once and turned to prepare a message.
In the distance, Seraphina finally glanced over.
Their eyes met.
This time, she truly smiled—small, brief, like someone who had just found the answer to a long-held question.
—
They departed near midday.
Three horses—Voss's, Seraphina's, and an old brown one lent by Aldric for Ren. Its name was Barley, and it matched: calm, slow, unbothered, moving at its own pace no matter what its rider wanted.
Ren didn't mind.
Ashveil saw them off at the village gate—not everyone, but enough to make the road feel crowded. Mrs. Caldwell stood in front of her shop and gave Ren a short, meaningful nod.
Aldric stood by the gate. "Ren."
Ren halted Barley.
"You don't have to come back," Aldric said, voice steady. "But if you do, the door's open."
Ren nodded. "Thank you."
"And one more thing."
"Yes?"
Aldric met his eyes. "Be careful of people who offer too much before they know what they're asking."
Ren said nothing—but he remembered it.
Then Barley moved on, and Ashveil faded behind them.
—
The capital of Luminara was four days away by horseback—assuming good weather and no refugee congestion, Voss said.
Ren rode and watched a world he had never seen: larger villages, roadside markets, wheat fields drying under a long summer.
And in places—places Voss passed without comment but with slightly increased pace—there were signs Ashveil didn't have.
Blackened soil. Trees shedding leaves out of season. An abandoned village with half its doors left open, no explanation where its people had gone.
Darkness spreading from unseen Gates.
Ren observed quietly.
On the third day, Seraphina rode beside him while Voss was ahead.
"You're very quiet," she said.
"I'm observing."
"What?"
"How bad things are outside Ashveil."
She looked ahead. "Worse than the kingdom reports," she said after a moment. "But not worse than what the Church expected."
"How long before the capital feels it?"
"That's a question for the Military Governor."
"I'm asking you."
She glanced at him. "Why me?"
"You said you wouldn't lie about your interests." Ren shrugged slightly. "I want to know if that applies to everything—or just when honesty benefits you."
A brief silence.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—soft, genuine. "A year. Maybe two," she said. "If nothing closes the smaller Gates appearing across the northern provinces."
"But someone can close them now."
"Yes." She looked forward again. "And he's riding beside me."
Ren didn't reply.
"That wasn't pressure," she added. "Just a fact."
"I know." He watched Barley navigate uneven ground. "But facts can feel like pressure, depending on who says them—and when."
She didn't answer.
But something in her silence felt like a test he hadn't realized he was taking.
—
They reached the capital on the fourth day, two hours before noon.
Ren had imagined it, of course—but reality rarely matched imagination.
Luminara was louder. Denser. Taller—multi-story buildings pressed close along narrow streets. The air carried a mix of cooked food, waste, and something subtler—history, people, ambition.
And something else he hadn't expected:
The same signs of corruption.
Blackened walls. Rotting produce in the market. A quiet acceptance in people's faces, as if they had seen it often enough to stop fearing it.
That disturbed Ren more than the corruption itself.
—
The Holy Academy stood on a hill on the city's western side—a grand white stone structure with towers glowing faintly even in daylight, surrounded by high walls and iron gates large enough for two carriages side by side.
Someone was waiting there.
A girl—around Ren's age, though hard to tell. Silver-white hair. Bright blue eyes. A white academy uniform with blue accents. On her back, embroidered wings.
The mark of angelic blood.
Rare. Nearly extinct, according to the books.
She watched their approach—and when her eyes found Ren, her expression shifted.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Seraphina stopped beside him. "That's Luna Seraphiel," she said quietly. "The only student of angelic blood currently enrolled at the Holy Academy." A pause. "For reasons we don't fully understand, her magical affinity reacts strongly to Primordial Light."
"How?"
"Like a key finding the right lock," Seraphina said. "Or the other way around."
Ren met the girl's gaze.
She held it—calm, steady, without the awkwardness of strangers.
And in his chest, in that same place where he had felt go, something stirred again.
Not words this time.
Just a feeling.
This is where it begins.
Barley walked toward the gate at his own unhurried pace, and Ren let him.
Because this time, the direction was clear.
The gates of the Holy Academy opened.