Spring, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  It was a beautiful spring morning with hoarfrost whitening the grassy plains. The faint warmth of the sun struggled to temper the bite of the breeze rolling in from the sea. Salty air mingled with the mild tang of storm-scorched air and a lingering trace of the magical energies that often suffused the area.

  Sitch Nar was a coastal city with roughly a hundred thousand inhabitants, renowned for its bustling trade and vibrant markets, but it owed much of its prestige to the Battle-Mage Academy situated just beyond its northern walls. The Academy was perched on a gentle rise overlooking the city and was encircled by a waist-high stone wall that marked its expansive estate. From this vantage, it stood as a quiet sentinel, removed from the clamor of commerce yet deeply integral to the city's identity. This far north, hearths burned through the night to keep homes from freezing. That brought a faint haze to the city and a scent of burning wood which mixed the other acrid smells that were part of all cities. But the academy was spared from that due to a permanent enchantment that formed a gentle breeze that kept the air fresh for the students.

  The Academy’s layout, though unassuming, served its purpose. Five low white-painted buildings showed signs of the abuse from the sea air, flanked a central lecture hall crowned with a modest spire. Beyond the main structures, on the eastern side of the estate, stood the arena, a testament to the academy's focus on battle magic. The sanded ground was enclosed by a low sturdy wooden fence and bore the marks of countless drills and duels, the fine golden grains scuffed and disturbed by the movements of eager apprentices. Four weathered stone pillars, their surfaces etched with intricate runes of containment and protection, stood sentinel at the arena's corners. These runes pulsed faintly in the daylight as a silent assurance that stray magic would not endanger spectators or disrupt the tranquil outskirts of Sitch Nar.

  The centerpiece of the arena was a small dueling ring where two middle-aged men stood facing each other. Their padded gambesons, worn over fitted tunics, bore the scuffs and marks of countless practice sessions. Their balanced and poised stances indicated that they were experienced battle-mages. The sun reflected off shimmering shields of force between them, which flickered into being whenever they deflected an attack. The senior mage presiding over the duel was a tall figure of a man draped in rich azure robes embroidered with intricate arcane symbols, watching the duelists with a practiced eye. His presence exuded authority and his sharp gestures and occasional corrections cut through the muted hum of the handful of apprentices watching them.

  The duel itself was a dazzling display of skill and control. One of the mages extended his palm and a flickering glow emanated from his fingertips before it condensed into a sharp, crackling bolt of lightning. He hurled the bolt at his opponent with a swift motion, and the air sizzled as it streaked across the sand. The other mage threw up a hand to conjure a glimmering shield of force that absorbed the impact with a resonant hum. Sand sprayed into the air from the blast but the mage didn’t falter. He countered with a bolt of his own, channeling a crackling line of lightning through his palm before launching it in a sharp arc. The exchange continued, a rhythm of attack and defense, each mage testing the other’s defenses for weaknesses.

  A separate group of young students was engaged in their own training a short distance from the main duel. They stood in a neat line, and their youthful faces set with concentration as they focused on wooden targets propped against the far wall. The targets bore the scorch marks of prior sessions, their surfaces blackened by countless minor bolts of lightning. The group was overseen by a middle-aged instructor with a stern but patient demeanor, clad in soft black leather armor. He walked up and down the line and corrected stances, adjusted grips, and offered quiet encouragement.

  “Steady now,” he called, his voice carrying over the crackle of energy. “Let the power flow, but control it. Don’t rush the release, or you’ll lose accuracy.”

  The instructor raised a small sandglass, its narrow belly already half-emptied. “Hold your shapes for one minute,” he said. “That’s the Academy measure, one sixtieth of an hour. You’ll learn to count it by rhyme, breath or bead, but for now, watch the fall.”

  Someone at the end of the line muttered to the man next to him, “What’s this about minites? Hours should be good enough. And a little while or half-an-hour perhaps. No common folk ever use that word.”

  “Minutes, not minites! And common folk don’t throw lightning either,” the instructor replied, turning the glass. “Mages must use precise measurements for their spellwork.”

  A boy with a shock of unruly hair grimaced as his first attempt fizzled out before leaving his palm. The instructor stopped beside him, his hand hovering over the boy’s shoulder. “Breathe. Focus. Then channel,” he said gently. “Feel the energy gather before you release it.” The boy nodded, his face scrunching with effort as he extended his hand again. This time, the bolt formed properly, a bright sharp line of energy that arced forward and struck the target dead center, earning him a clap on the shoulder. His companions cheered softly, their enthusiasm breaking the otherwise disciplined atmosphere.

  The crackle of lightning from both duel and practice targets filled the air, mingling with the rustling of the sea breeze through the surrounding trees. The arena, alive with activity and purpose, was a testament to the city’s dedication to honing magical combat skills. It was a place where novices learned discipline and technique, and seasoned mages refined their craft, all under the watchful eyes of their mentors.

  The city of Sitch Nar was famous for the Academy of Battle Magic, which had been founded almost two-hundred years ago. Common myth told the story of a mage, Jikol the White, from Varakar who had fallen in love with a girl from the neighborhood and stayed here. Somehow he had managed to reach an agreement with the Mages Guild of Varakar to be allowed to set up a small academy in Sitch Nar. Over the years, word of it had spread and now it was known as the place to go for learning battle-magic. The academy was located just outside the city with plenty of room for the fledgling mages to throw their spells without any risk for setting houses on fire. With only a few modest stone buildings and a number of practice yards, many new arrivals and visitors were disappointed by the academy at first sight. Compared to the fabled mage tower of Varakar that was rumored to reach the clouds, if one listened to the sailors on the merchant vessels, the Academy of Sitch Nar made a meager impression. At least until the onlookers saw the mages practicing their fireballs or sending writhing bolts of lightning from the head of their staffs or from their very hands and other strange spells.

  Kharg leaned against the arena fence with a handful of other students. He was not yet counted a man, though faint wisps of brown beard had begun to show on his cheeks. It was his last day here, and a lump formed in his gut at the thought. Kharg reached into his pouch and pulled out a spearmint leaf, slipping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the cool taste and the freshness it brought to his breath. The sharp flavor cut through the spring air, a small luxury he had come to rely on during his studies. He only had a few leaves left, but as he was heading home he could get more.

  He really didn’t want to leave, magic was his lifeblood. When power surged through him, his pulse quickened, his senses sharpened—he felt unstoppable, as if he could outrun any horse or hound. Some of his friends had become more interested in girls, but for Kharg, the kiss of a beautiful girl was like a candle compared to the bonfire of magic.

  Ever since he was a little boy he had been fascinated by magic and habitually snuck away from his tutoring to watch the battle-mages practice their fiery displays of magic, much to his father’s chagrin. As a merchant lord and leader of the Silverwolf Merchant House, his father had been grooming him and his brothers from a young age to follow in his footsteps and become merchants as well and to then continue the expansion of their trade empire. But Kharg had never been very interested in any of that nor especially interested in wealth, which was a passion for all three of his brothers. Tallies, pricing and which luxuries fetched the best prices had never caught his interest, even though he learned it far faster than any of his siblings if the tutors managed to catch him before he snuck off to watch aspiring battle-mages. When Kharg entered his teens, and Akgun, his father, discovered Kharg’s astounding talent for magic, things changed. Akgun enrolled him into the Battle-Mage Academy and it was a dream come true for Kharg.

  He primarily studied elemental air at first, a choice that was encouraged by his father. The theoretical studies were combined with practical applications where they learned to harden the air into spikes, blades or clubs which he used to batter practice dolls. It took almost a year before Kharg realized why Akgun endorsed this path. As a mage proficient in weaving elemental air, he would be able to greatly speed up their galleons. He had already realized that one of his two older brothers would inherit their father’s position. His future as a wind summoner for the family ships hardly felt tempting even though he desired the fate of his sisters even less. They were expected to marry into other trading or noble houses to facilitate further expansions. Yet when he shaped air into blades and shields, he felt alive in a way no trade or inheritance could match. Magic had become more than study, it had become part of him.

  Two days ago, Akgun had declared it was time for Kharg to return to the family business and join a trading caravan to the Northern Tribes. By now Kharg should have learned enough wind-magic to satisfy what needs they had for their galleons, Akgun correctly reasoned. In reality, Kharg had learned this within half-a-year so the remainder of the two years he had studied here was more than he had hoped for. Yet even then, Kharg could not shake the dread of what awaited him. The thought of leaving the academy hollowed him. Every lesson, every moment of discovery, had stirred something deep inside him, and the idea of stepping away from it now felt like tearing free a piece of himself. He swore that he would rather become a farmer than spend the rest of his days on ships as a windmaker.

  “That was quite the duel, Kharg,” Arlan said as they walked down the cobbled path leading away from the sparring grounds. Kharg and Arlan had quickly found each other at the academy and become friends. Arlan’s dark curls glistened with sweat and his grin was just as sharp as his firebolts. “You’ve got enough control over air to rip the sails off a ship, or keep them full for years. Maybe your father’s right to pull you back into the family fold.”

  Kharg rolled his eyes and shoved Arlan lightly. “Don’t start.” Yet even as he said it, the laugh that followed felt brittle. The academy’s stone halls and practice fields already seemed distant, like a dream he was being forced to wake from too soon.

  Lysanne snickered as she adjusted her satchel, though her eyes lingered on Kharg for a breath too long before she spoke. She was his age, quite attractive, with long fair hair and almond-shaped eyes that sparkled mischievously. “Oh, don’t be so touchy. Imagine it, ‘Kharg the Magnificent,’ the man who made the Silverwolf fleet the fastest on the seas. Sailors would sing your praises.” She grinned as she said it, but there was warmth in her tone that didn’t quite match the jest.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Kharg muttered, his voice low but edged with frustration. “I want more than that.” He could not yet name what “more” truly meant, only that it lived in the surge of mana through his veins and the fierce exhilaration of weaving powerful spells that bent the world to his will.

  Lysanne glanced sideways at him, a thoughtful look passing over her face—as if trying to decide whether to say something more personal.

  “More?” Arlan asked with an arched eyebrow. “What then? Do you want to become an adventurer? Roam the wilds, chasing treasure and slaying monsters?”

  Kharg hesitated briefly and then shrugged. “Maybe. At least adventurers don’t spend their lives chained to galleons or caravan routes.”

  “Chained?” Lysanne laughed. “It’s not exactly a dungeon, Kharg. A little luxury and fine wine wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Maybe not,” Kharg admitted, “but the thought of it makes me feel trapped. I don’t want to spend my life tied to sails or trade tallies.”

  Arlan smirked. “You know, you’d make a terrible farmer too. Imagine Kharg now, slaying weeds with a rake in hand.”

  Even Kharg had to chuckle at that. “You’re both impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “But mark my words, there’s more out there than wind magic and cargo holds.”

  Lysanne’s smile faded as she stopped and leaned against the low stone wall. She looked at Kharg before turning her gaze outward, as if needing his attention to steady herself before speaking. Her playful demeanor had been replaced by a shadow of seriousness. “Life as an adventurer isn’t as glamorous as you think,” she said softly, her voice weighed down by memories. “My cousin Yevert… he was part of the Adventurers’ Guild. He died nearly three years ago during an expedition to some ancient ruins.”

  Kharg frowned, glancing at her with concern. “Yevert? I thought he died two years ago.”

  Lysanne shook her head, her gaze distant. “No, it’s been longer—almost three now. But it still doesn’t feel real.” She hesitated before continuing, her voice dropping lower. “They released… something.”

  “What do you mean, something?” Arlan’s grin vanished as he leaned in closer. “What happened?”

  “Devils,” Lysanne said after a pause, her lips pressed to a thin line. “At least, that’s what my father and some of his former colleagues at the academy in Varakar suspect. Yevert’s group uncovered an ancient city buried somewhere far to the west. They thought it was empty… abandoned. But they woke something. Something that wasn’t meant to be disturbed.”

  Arlan’s eyes widened. “Devils? Are you certain?”

  “Not entirely,” Lysanne admitted with a sigh, crossing her arms tightly as though trying to ward off the memory. “But whatever it was, it wasn’t of this world. Some of the adventurers made it back. They spoke of shadows with glowing eyes, whispers that crawled into their minds and fire that seemed to burn their very souls. If those aren’t devils, then I don’t know what else could fit.”

  Kharg, now fully drawn into the tale, tilted his head. “Yevert mentioned devils to you before? What did he say?”

  Lysanne offered a brief nod. “Before he left for that expedition, he’d grown a bit edgy and leery. He’d overheard things at the Guild, rumors of devils trying to push their way into our world. He mentioned something about a devil prince or a gatekeeper, someone—or something—trying to breach the veil between the planes. To conquer this world or something. Yevert believed that ancient places, like the ruins he was going to explore, might hold the key to stopping them.”

  Arlan straightened, his expression tense. “A devil prince? What’s that?”

  Lysanne breathed out slowly. “From what I’ve learned, a devil prince is one step below an arch-devil. They’re beings of immense power, the kind of power that could warp reality or enslave entire cities if given the chance. And they have a way of turning people into pawns, whether through deception, promises, or outright possession. Even their names hold power.”

  Kharg’s brow furrowed. “Possession? I thought devils couldn’t enter our world freely.”

  “They can’t, not without a summoning or a portal,” Lysanne explained. “And that’s the problem. Some mages summon things they don’t understand, or they open gates they can’t close. My father once told me that the seals keeping devils at bay are ancient, tied to creation itself. But nothing lasts forever and every time someone pokes at those seals, they weaken.”

  Arlan’s curiosity flared. “Why would anyone risk that? What could be worth summoning a devil?”

  “Power,” Lysanne said bitterly. “Magic, influence, forbidden knowledge… there’s always someone who thinks they can control what they summon. Yevert told me that he had heard rumors and stories at the Guild about sorcerers who made deals with devils to gain power only to end up as hollow husks when the deal was up for payment.”

  Kharg frowned. “And what about naming them? You mentioned something about not speaking their names.”

  “Yes,” Lysanne said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Names hold power, especially true names. If you speak a devil’s name, you risk drawing its attention. And trust me, you don’t want a devil’s attention. Some say it’s like a beacon—they hear it, and if they’re strong enough, they might even see you.”

  Arlan’s expression darkened. “That’s unsettling.”

  “It should be,” Lysanne said. “There’s more, of course. One of the tomes I found mentioned the Nine Hells, each ruled by an arch-devil served by princes, lords, and dukes who rule the lesser devils. But the lower you go… that’s where the true horrors lie. Entire planes of torment, with each layer worse than the last.”

  Kharg shivered at her words but tried to hide it. “You’ve learned a lot about this,” he said carefully. “Why?”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Lysanne’s face softened with a hint of sadness. “Because I needed to understand what happened to Yevert. I needed to know what took him from me.”

  Arlan leaned back and shook his head. “This is why I prefer firebolts over ruins and forgotten cities. At least fire doesn’t whisper your name from the shadows.”

  Lysanne chuckled softly but quickly grew serious again. “It’s not just ruins, though. Devils don’t need ancient cities to work their way into our world. All it takes is a fool with ambition and a summoning circle.”

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on them. Finally, Kharg broke the quiet. “It sounds like the adventuring life isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  “No, it’s not. But then again, neither is life. Just… be careful, Kharg. If you do become an adventurer, remember what I told you. The world’s darker than you might think,” Lysanne said softly. Her voice caught slightly on his name, and for a moment, she looked at him like she wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

  Kharg said his goodbyes to his friends and schooled his face to show none of what he felt as he headed home from the academy. As they parted, Lysanne offered a quiet smile, not the teasing one he was used to, but something softer, more uncertain. Kharg didn’t notice. With every step away from the academy, he felt as though he were leaving behind the life he had only just begun to glimpse.

  He rounded the last corner of the academy grounds and began along the smaller road that wound gently up a low bluff toward his father’s mansion. The city spread out below, its rooftops slanting toward the harbor where gulls wheeled above the masts. The breeze carried the faint tang of salt mixed with the scent of blossoms from the fields beyond. Three deep gongs rolled across the city, slow and resonant. Kharg glanced toward the sound, knowing it marked the second hour after noon. He was later than he had planned, already two past noon where he had hoped to have the whole afternoon with his siblings.

  As he approached the familiar gates of his father’s mansion, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, mingling with the faint scent of saltwater that drifted upward from the bay below. Their mansion was built on a cliff overlooking both the bay and the city and a neatly paved road wound its way up there. A wall blocked easy access for unwelcome visitors, though in reality, at less than three yards in height, it wouldn’t stop a determined intruder.

  At the gate, the two guards regarded him in silence, their wary eyes betraying the experience of men who had seen all kinds pass by. Their deep-blue tabards, with the silvery wolf-head embroidered sharply, evoked pride, a nod to his family’s heritage. He offered a respectful nod and they nodded back but did not lower their spears.

  “It’s nice to see you again, young master,” one of them said as he began to open the gate.

  “Drop the formality Beren, you have known me all my life and beaten me both black and blue in weapons practice since I was young enough to walk.” Kharg replied with a fond smile at the older of the guards who chuckled as he passed.

  He stepped into the heart of the estate as the gates creaked open and left the buzz of the city behind for something far more tranquil. The garden sprawled before him, a vibrant contrast to the chaos he had left behind. The soft grass cradled his feet and welcomed him home while the layout of the white-paved path beckoned him forward toward the mansion that glistened in the sunlight, its marble facade reflecting an ethereal beauty against the backdrop of the azure sky. The path was lined with marble statues of proud men and women, ending at a fountain in front of the mansion.

  Just off the path stood an analemmatic sundial made of bronze, a gift his father had received from Farad, the head of the Silver Wolf branch in Varakar, the year before Kharg entered the academy. Farad had spoken highly of the great sundial at the Diurnal Spire, and this one had replaced the family’s old timepiece, a slab of white marble commissioned by Kharg’s grandfather decades earlier. The new sundial had an elegant oval layout with hour marks carved into the stone and a movable gnomon, a metal rod set into a slot along a date scale. By shifting the gnomon to match the time of year, it cast a more accurate shadow than the old design ever could.

  As he walked past the vibrant flowers, he couldn’t help but wonder how the tranquility of this garden had continued to thrive while the city below choked on its own decay. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of damp earth and blooming jasmine, and suddenly he felt a sense of resolve coiling around him. He straightened his back. He was ready to face his father. He was no longer just a third son destined to serve on endless galleons. He was a battle-mage. And now, as he crossed the threshold of the mansion, he decided he would not simply be part of this world—he would alter it.

  It was not entirely bad to be home again, the hard beds at the academy and the bland poor excuses for food they served in the common dining hall made him cringe. He had no doubt that there would be a pleasant feast tonight. Food was a passion for his father, a trait that he and his brothers had also picked up on. He passed the stables and the servants’ house on the way to the main house and paused to enjoy the sight. Even though he had little interest in tallies and trading, luxury was certainly something he appreciated. The main house had three stories and a small tower on the side with a balcony that encircled it fully. Artful carvings decorated the white marble fa?ade, and stained-glass windows were works of art in themselves.

  A few hours later, he found himself seated at the long table for a family dinner. The table was set in the ballroom, under the arched ceiling that had been painted by one of the most famous artisans of Sitch Nar. It depicted a sea with storm-crested waves and their main galleon, the Wolf-Song, a two-masted ship flying the family's deep-blue banner with a silvery wolf head. The table was dressed in a white tablecloth and set with dinner plates from the far south. The thin, white-glazed plates were made of fired clay or something similar. Kharg had never fully understood why it was so special. Ever since he had learned to shape air into plates, cups, and other objects, he had begun to disdain ordinary materials. They were perpetually greasy and dirty in any case, and lacked the elegance that he could shape things into. He had even seen some of the mages manage to weave different shades of smoke into their creations, a feat he had not yet replicated.

  His two older brothers were away. Darfur was in Slan Myr with their uncle, where they were trying to establish a branch office. Aaren, who was the oldest, was on a ship bound for the south, where he would trade the furs they had acquired from the Northern Tribes in exchange for spices and silk. His younger brother and three sisters were all there, along with his father, mother, uncle’s wife, and cousin. They were all dressed in fine silks, fitting given that silk was one of their main sources of income from the mysterious southlands. Akgun was regal as ever, with scented oils in his hair and beard, though Kharg noticed significantly more streaks of gray in the previously dark strands. His mother had a timeless quality that was slightly ethereal at times though her beauty was renowned in Sitch Nar. Kharg had mainly been raised by the servants and had never gotten close to her. More than once, he had heard gossip in town that claimed she had elven heritage.

  As the family took their seats at the long table, the gentle clinking of silverware and quiet murmur of servants setting the final dishes filled the grand dining hall. The golden glow of the chandeliers gleamed on polished dinner plates, while the enticing aroma of roasted capon, spiced vegetables, and rich gravy filled the air. Akgun sat at the head of the table, his usual stern presence softened by the warmth of family. He surveyed his children, his gaze briefly settling on Kharg before he spoke. “Please, enjoy the meal.”

  At first, Kharg wasn’t particularly in the mood for a grand dinner. He had barely been home long enough to get settled, and yet the weight of expectations already lingered over him. But as the meal progressed, the familiar energy of his siblings chipped away at his reluctance. Little by little, he eased back into his old role, the warmth of family and the richness of the food working its magic. His first bite of capon, tender and seasoned to perfection, nearly made him sigh aloud. The Academy’s food had been nothing short of dreadful, more suited for soldiers rationing supplies than students expected to wield magic. He tore into a piece of still-warm bread, savoring the crisp crust and soft interior, washing it down with his first taste of wine. By all the blessed ones, it was divine.

  “Kharg,” Jendal piped up, pulling him from his moment of culinary bliss. “You’ve barely told us anything yet. What’s it like at the Academy? Are you already some kind of powerful battle-mage?”

  Anneth grinned. “Are you going to show up at the next festival wearing enchanted armor, flinging fireballs into the air?”

  Anton smirked, leaning forward. “Or better yet, can you make Darfur float over the docks next time he visits?”

  Kharg chuckled between bites, shaking his head. “No floating Darfur. And no fireballs either.”

  “Then what did you learn?” Jendal arched a questioning eyebrow at him.

  Kharg swallowed a piece of roast before answering. “I trained mainly in elemental air, fire, and water—combat magic, mostly. Shields, small weapons formed from raw magic, basic elemental magic. Nothing flashy, but useful.”

  Anneth’s eyes lit up. “Elemental magic? Like what?”

  Kharg hesitated for a moment, glancing at their father. Akgun showed no disapproval, his attention focused more on his plate than on their conversation. Their mother, ever quiet, merely watched with an unreadable expression. Encouraged, he decided to humor them. He lifted his hand and whispered a simple spell, calling upon the air itself. A soft gust of wind rolled through the table, barely enough to ruffle their hair and shift the edges of the tablecloth. The candles flickered but did not go out.

  Anneth gasped, pressing a hand to her hair. “That’s incredible! Do it again!”

  Anton scoffed. “A bit of wind? That’s not very battle-mage-like.”

  Kharg called on his fire magic, voice almost sounding like a growl as he pointed at a candle which flared up, the flame growing to twice its original size.

  Jendal tilted her head. “Why do you sound like that? It’s… whisper-like as the wind, almost like hissing, but the fire sounded like you were growling.”

  “That’s the nature of the spells. Air magic has a voice of its own, soft and full of whispers to anyone who isn’t trained in it. And water,” he smiled and looked at them before continuing, “has its own tone as well. When spoken, the voice takes on a faint quiver, like the ripples on a pond. People who hear it often think of rings spreading across still water.”

  “Each element has its own language?” Anton asked incredulously.

  Almost stunned by his little brother’s insight, Kharg nodded sagely in a weak imitation of his teachers. “Not a bad way to put it. Not fully correct, but still… Now, fire is more passionate—sometimes it comes out like a roar or growl and sometimes it’s relentless, pressing forward until everything else falls away.” He extended his hand toward the table. “Like this.”

  His voice deepened and seemed to fill the room with its power and all five candle flames surged upward at once, bright and fierce, throwing long shadows across the table. The sudden flare drew a collective murmur from his siblings.

  Jendal leaned in, intrigued. “That’s more like it.”

  One of the servants, passing behind Anneth with a tray of wine, let out a startled gasp and stumbled, the goblets rattled together. Samira’s voice cut through the chatter, calm yet firm. “Careful, Kharg. You’ll set the table alight.” Her gaze lingered on the dancing flames until they shrank back to their original size. Kharg leaned back, letting the satisfied murmurs run their course.

  Anton leaned back with arms crossed, unwilling to let Kharg have the last word. “Impressive, but can you do something practical?”

  Kharg’s grin turned sly. “Practical? Like this.” His gaze flicked to a small apple near Jendal’s plate, and with a soft hiss, the fruit rose from the table and drifted toward him. He caught it with ease and took a bite, grinning as his siblings erupted into cheers and laughter.

  “Now that’s a trick I could use,” Jendal said, smirking. “Imagine stealing fruit off the market stalls without even touching them.”

  Kharg rolled his eyes. “If that’s all you’d use magic for, you’d fail out of the Academy in a week.”

  A rare chuckle came from their mother. It was a quiet, almost hidden sound, but it caught Kharg’s attention immediately. She gave him a small, approving nod. “You have always been different, my son.” Her voice was quiet, but it carried through the room. “I am glad to see that you have found your path.”

  Kharg hesitated, momentarily caught off guard. It was a simple statement, but coming from her, it carried weight. He met her eyes and inclined his head slightly. “It’s good to be home.”

  The conversation continued with renewed energy as the servants moved in and out, replenishing dishes and filling goblets. Anton and Jendal bombarded him with more questions about his training, while Anneth tried to get him to show her another trick. Even Veleria, the eldest of his sisters, engaged with quiet amusement, sipping her wine as she observed the lively discussion.

  By the time the last plates were cleared and fresh fruits and cheeses were set out, Kharg found himself smiling genuinely. His family had a way of drawing him back in, grounding him even when he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed it. It wasn’t until they were near the end of the feast that his father finally addressed what had been on everyone’s mind.

  “Son, from what I’ve heard, you are exceptionally talented in magic.” Akgun’s voice was measured, his piercing scrutiny resting on Kharg. “You even managed to master magic far beyond what I had ever hoped and expected in a rather short time, didn’t you?”

  Kharg hesitated, setting his goblet down carefully. “How can I answer that?” he asked cautiously.

  Akgun's expression remained unreadable, but his tone softened slightly. “In any way you wish, my son. Know that I am proud of you. Your mother and I both are.”

  Kharg blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected praise. He had spent days preparing for this conversation, expecting resistance, skepticism, or perhaps even disappointment that he had lingered so long at the Academy. Instead, his father was proud?

  “I am not sure what your expectations were. You never told me,” Kharg admitted. “But you know that my passion is magic. And…” He hesitated before pressing on, “… there was still a lot I could have learned at the Academy.”

  His father merely inclined his head, a gesture for him to continue.

  “There were strict limits on what spells were allowed to be taught,” Kharg explained, “The Academy of Battle Magic in Sitch Nar is… well, under the control of the Mage’s Guild in Varakar. Many of the more powerful spells are restricted.”

  Akgun leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “I have made some inquiries, son. What I heard is that the guilds jealously control magical knowledge. The Academy here bends its knee to them.”

  Kharg’s lips pressed into a firm line. “I only learned spells for conjuring blades and projectiles of air, a weak water whip, and the basics of elemental fire.”

  His father gave him a long, assessing look. “Did you ever pause to think about the others who studied with you? In those two short years, you managed to cover three elements, where most only learn one, or perhaps two.”

  Kharg released a slow breath, rubbing his fingers together absently. “There’s still so much more I want to learn. Lightning is one of the greatest elemental forces, and I know next to nothing of elemental cold.”

  “Listen to yourself, son.” Akgun beamed suddenly, shaking his head with something almost like amusement.

  Kharg frowned, uncertain of what had just happened. Normally, his father brooked no arguments, and yet here he was—smiling?

  “How many battle-mages ever bother to learn more than one singular attack spell, let alone multiple forms of elemental magic?” Akgun let the question hang for a moment before continuing. “Let me tell you, there were almost none. As I told you, I made some inquiries.”

  He raised his goblet then, smiling proudly. “Let us toast to one of the youngest battle-mages ever, my son. I could not be more proud of you.”

  Dumbstruck, Kharg lifted his goblet and inclined his head. “Thank you, Father.” None of this had unfolded the way he had expected, and as he glanced around the table, he saw his siblings smiling, their expressions ranging from admiration to amusement.

  Akgun cleared his throat, drawing their attention back. “As you know, my son, we are preparing a caravan to head north to the Tribe of the Wolf. It is a family tradition to travel to the Northern Wastes when a man reaches his maturity. And in any case, I always try to ensure that one from the family travels there each year to show our respect for their customs. They are one of our main sources of prosperity after all.”

  There was no shift in Kharg’s face. The story was familiar, worn smooth by repetition. He had heard it enough times to feel nothing at all. “Ever since Grandfather saved their tribal chief from the Remorhaz, we have had a special relationship with them.”

  Akgun smiled approvingly. “You remember well. And now, it’s time for you to see the North for yourself.”

  For the first time that evening, Kharg felt trapped. He knew there was no avoiding it. Striving for the grace his tutors had tried to imprint on him, he forced a smile and inclined his head.

  “Of course, Father.”

  As the conversation shifted and servants began clearing the table, Akgun placed a hand on Kharg’s shoulder. “Walk with me a moment,” he said quietly, his tone softer than usual. He led Kharg out of the hall toward a quieter alcove near the study doors, away from the bustle of the household.

  “You’ve grown, son,” Akgun said after a pause. “More than I expected. And today, you turn seventeen. You are no longer the boy who left for the academy. You will represent our house in the North, and it is time you carry a mark of that duty.”

  From within his sleeve, Akgun produced a small velvet pouch and placed it in Kharg’s hand. Inside was a heavy silver ring engraved with the wolf’s head crest.

  “This is yours now,” Akgun said. “The golden ring is mine, as head of our House. But silver rings are worn by those entrusted with its affairs. Your uncle bears one, as do your older brothers. Wear it proudly. It tells all whom you meet that you speak with our name.”

  Kharg studied the ring for a moment before slipping it onto his finger. The weight of it felt heavier than its size suggested, as if it carried more than just silver. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Father.”

  Akgun’s expression softened briefly. “Stand tall, Kharg. The North will embrace you, as it embraced me.”

  That night, Kharg lay awake staring at the rafters, the ring cold against his finger. His father’s words echoed in his mind, both comforting and heavy with expectation. Tomorrow he would leave, not for a brief excursion or another trip under his family’s watchful care, but on his first true journey into the world.

  His thoughts drifted back to Kvatch Nar, to the journey he had taken aboard the Howling Wolf with his uncle. He remembered the rolling blue waves and the salty wind in his hair, the strange sense of freedom he had felt on deck. Kvatch Nar itself had been vibrant and warm, a city of bright plazas, sunlit canals, and fruits sweeter than any he had ever tasted. They had rented a carriage to visit a string of mansions, though the trade meetings had yielded little of worth. Even so, he had loved the trip, the novelty of travel and the thrill of seeing places unlike Sitch Nar. By contrast, he remembered Or?l, where he had accompanied his father years later. That journey had been colder, grayer, and more businesslike, yet the results had been far better. Akgun had secured shipments of salt in exchange for a modest volume of northern furs, striking deals that merchants still spoke of as shrewd even now. Kharg had felt proud then, watching his father work—confident, commanding, utterly at home in that world of bargaining and handshakes.

  But this time there would be no father or uncle. No carriage waiting, no familiar hand to guide him. Tomorrow he would ride out with strangers, representing the family name without anyone to catch him if he stumbled. For the first time in his life, the safety nets were gone.

  The ring felt heavier still.

  After breakfast the next morning, he found a set of sturdy clothing in subdued tan colors on the bench next to his bed. The doublet was made of cotton and the pants were bleached brown leather that was exquisitely soft. A heavy fur-lined hooded cloak and fur-lined high boots completed the outfit. His rapier of master-forged Sarheede steel had a new scabbard of bleached leather with silver trim, neatly laid out next to a matching backpack and weaponsbelt on a table. A silvery felt-flask embossed with the wolf-head house crest and a small herb pouch lay beside it. He slipped the flask into his belt and opened the herb pouch to check its contents. Inside were dried spearmint leaves, enough to last him months. Inside the backpack he found a heavy blue coat, two spare sets of linen shirts and breeches, some underwear, a pair of gloves and some other trinkets. He stood there for a moment, staring at the carefully prepared gear. It struck him how easily a life could be chosen for someone, folded and arranged as neatly as the cloak on the bench, while the one he longed for slipped further away.

  He sighed, thinking he might soon long for the hard cots of the academy once he was sleeping on the ground. He had at least expected to get a few more nights in a proper soft bed at home, but this? One single night only. He sighed again and began dressing.