Volhcard slowly pushed open the grand oak doors of the church, his breath still ragged from training. As he stepped inside, the cool, incense-scented air greeted him. Within the hall, a handful of young dwarves were already gathered, practicing basic healing spells and offering soft prayers to the Almighty Glorious Life.
At the center of it all, standing atop the stone podium, was a dwarf cloaked in a white robe that draped heavily over his shoulders. In his left hand, he held a silver wand—once a simple stick, now sharpened and weathered by time and use.
His face was a canvas of age and hardship: deeply etched wrinkles, a scar that ran from his forehead down to the right side of his lips, and two sunken, beast-like eyes that seemed to see through everything.
Father Forthun.
The moment he noticed Volhcard enter, he stepped down from the podium and briskly walked toward him. Without a word, he raised his wand and smacked the boy on the left cheek with a sharp crack.
"You've been quite tardy lately, young Volhcard," he said, his voice stern and unforgiving.
Volhcard winced, instinctively bringing a hand to his cheek. He lowered his eyes in guilt, readying an apology.
"Sor—"
"Save it," Father Forthun cut him off with a sigh. "What's your excuse this time?"
Volhcard stumbled over his words before mustering the courage to speak.
"I… I went to the training grounds behind the inn," he admitted. "To train. I was practicing all the elemental forms of magic…"
Silence fell. Father Forthun stared at him, stunned. Of all the excuses he had prepared to hear—oversleeping, getting lost in a book, distractions—this wasn't one of them.
"You what?" His voice boomed through the chapel, startling the other young dwarves.
They froze in place, eyes wide with worry.
"What made you think of doing something so reckless? And why in Relisquae's name are you not injured?!"
"I… uhm… well…"
Volhcard fumbled for words, struggling to explain himself.
"Out with it!" the old priest barked.
"Because I wanted to learn more," Volhcard blurted out. "Because I want to be prepared for the future!"
Father Forthun recoiled slightly at the intensity of the boy's words, but his expression quickly darkened. He stepped forward again—and struck Volhcard on the opposite cheek.
"Prepared? Prepared for what? To serve as a priest of the Almighty Glorious Life?" he snapped.
"You don't need to learn all the other concepts. Healing and Theology are more than enough! How many times must I repeat myself?"
Volhcard clenched his fists, his head bowed, jaw tight with frustration.
The priest turned back toward the altar, his robes fluttering with the sharpness of his movement.
"All of you—except Volhcard—are dismissed. Leave."
The other students hurried out in silence, casting worried glances behind them. Once the heavy doors shut, only the two remained.
Father Forthun stood still, clicking his tongue as he deliberated, his back to Volhcard.
He had no idea what to do with the boy anymore.
"I believe it's best if you allow him to continue learning magic… Darune."
The sudden voice echoed through the quiet chapel. Father Forthun's eyes widened in disbelief. He turned, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the skeletal figure of Archmage Dareth step out from the shadows near the rear of the sanctuary.
With slow, deliberate steps, Dareth approached. His hollow sockets, glowing faintly with eerie blue light, locked onto Father Forthun. Volhcard stood frozen, watching as the tall figure stopped beside him and gently rested a cold, bony hand on his head.
"Archmage Dareth," Father Forthun managed, his voice cracking. "Why are you here?"
A chill ran down his spine.
Dareth tilted his head slightly as if contemplating the question. Then, without turning his gaze, he slowly walked toward the old priest.
"Tell me," he said calmly, "isn't one of the first tenets in the Oath of the Almighty Glorious Life… to ensure peace, safety, and happiness for all—including your fellow followers?"
The words hung in the air like judgment itself.
Father Forthun's mouth opened, but no words came. He looked away, the anger in his expression fading into something more troubled—something closer to shame.
Volhcard, emboldened by Dareth's presence, stepped forward.
"Father Forthun," he began, his tone respectful yet resolute, "I understand the importance of Healing and Theology. I know that our vows to the Almighty are sacred, and our duty is to mend and uplift."
He paused, clenching his fists gently by his sides.
"But isn't protecting life also part of that duty? Isn't understanding the Elements just as crucial, if not more so, in defending others when healing is no longer enough?"
The old priest remained still at the base of the altar stairs, his eyes hidden under the shadows of his brow. After a long, heavy silence, he exhaled deeply and turned.
Without another word, Father Forthun descended the steps, his footsteps echoing through the marble halls. He passed the pews and disappeared through the chapel doors, leaving Volhcard alone with the archmage.
Volhcard let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing. He turned toward Dareth, who offered a faint wave with his skeletal left hand, the creaking of bone quiet yet noticeable.
"Well," Dareth said, voice laced with dry amusement, "it's a bit awkward when you just stand there. I know you have a question."
Volhcard hesitated, then nodded.
"Are you… are you really an archmage?" he asked softly. "And… why are you helping me?"
Dareth chuckled, the sound echoing unnaturally through his exposed ribcage.
"Two questions. You're getting bolder," he said. "Good. You'll need that."
He stepped closer, his long robes dragging against the polished stone floor.
"I'm helping you, Volhcard, because the world you think you know… is changing. You're part of something much greater than priesthood. Much deeper than worship."
He knelt slightly, his glowing eyes now level with the boy's.
"And when that time comes, you'll need more than prayers."
"Well, it was nice meeting with you," Dareth said, a faint grin on his skeletal face. "Here. Take this."
From within his robes, he pulled out a thick, weathered brown tome. The leather cover was cracked with age, its corners reinforced with dull silver, and strange glowing runes shimmered faintly along its spine. He handed it to Volhcard, who took it with a mix of awe and hesitation.
"This book holds everything I've learned about elemental magic. Every element. Every spell I've studied, tested, or theorized."
Volhcard blinked, the weight of the book surprisingly heavy in his hands—physically and metaphorically.
"Are you… are you sure?" he asked, his voice uncertain. "I mean, this is—this holds years—decades of knowledge. It must have taken you a lifetime to compile this."
Dareth simply nodded, the blue glow in his sockets unwavering.
"I won't be needing it where I'm going," he said cryptically, before turning and walking down the aisle, his long robes dragging behind him like whispers in the wind.
The great doors of the chapel creaked open, letting in a stream of late afternoon light. Then, with a quiet thud, they shut, leaving Volhcard alone in the vast silence.
The boy stared at the tome for a long moment before walking slowly to one of the wooden pews near the altar. He sat down and placed the book on his lap, the scent of old parchment and ink filling the air as he carefully opened the cover.
Immediately, his eyes lit up.
The first few pages alone contained diagrams of elemental flow, theories of mana crystallization, and illustrated sequences of casting forms. Even low-tier spells were accompanied by detailed annotations—some crossed out, rewritten, or modified into entirely new techniques.
"This is amazing…" he whispered, flipping to another page. "It's like something out of the Grand Mage Archives…"
His heart pounded with excitement as he ran his fingers along the script. Some spells were obscure—abandoned by modern magic scholars. Others were deemed dangerous, or too inefficient, cast aside by archivists and forgotten by time. Yet here they were, preserved in Dareth's personal hand.
The Grand Mage Archives—located deep in the southern reaches of Kroma—was said to be the greatest magical repository in all of the Relisquaeian Continent. Guarded by elite magi and protected by ancient seals, the Archives held the collective magical history of over a thousand years. Access to its inner shelves was limited even to royal court mages.
And yet, Volhcard now held in his lap a book that rivaled its depth—perhaps even surpassed it in some areas.
A gift. A responsibility.
He sat there, the sun casting golden light through the stained glass above, painting the boy and the book in hues of red, blue, and gold. Slowly, reverently, he turned another page, absorbing every word, every diagram, every secret.
He wasn't just reading. He was studying. Preparing.
For what, he wasn't entirely sure yet.
But deep inside, he felt the shifting of something vast. A thread pulled taut between his soul and destiny itself.
And it only had begun.
And so, day after day, Volhcard studied and trained, working through each spell with focused precision. He practiced tirelessly—chanting carefully, molding mana with purpose, adjusting his posture and circulation until the casting felt seamless. Aldir would observe him closely in the back field behind the inn, sharp eyes never missing a beat.
Every gesture, every misstep, every breakthrough was noted.
At times, Aldir would clap in admiration, offering measured praise for the boy's progress. But high above in the branches, nestled in the leaves, Sly remained hidden in his smaller lizard form, silently watching. Unseen and unnoticed, the creature would memorize each movement, each incantation, each surge of energy—and later, scribble them all into a small, worn notebook.
On one such evening, after a particularly advanced fire spell scorched the training dummy in a perfect arc, Aldir clapped loudly.
"It's only been five months since we met, Volhcard," he said, voice full of warmth and pride. "And already, you've come so far. Your progress... it truly amazes me."
Volhcard, panting from exhaustion, wiped sweat from his brow. His cheeks flushed—not from the spellwork, but from the compliment.
"No, no, teacher," he said, shaking his head, his voice modest. "You praise me too much. I still have so much more to learn. I mess up the chants sometimes, and I don't even fully understand half the runes in Dareth's book yet."
Aldir chuckled, folding his arms. "Perhaps. But unlike most mages, you don't stop at what's comfortable. You push. You reach. That hunger for knowledge—combined with your natural talent—it makes you different."
He stepped forward and patted Volhcard's back, his palm firm and cold.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, almost wistfully, "will be our final day together."
Volhcard froze.
The words hit him harder than any blast of magic. His heart sank, and for a brief moment, the world around him dulled. He couldn't breathe. His thoughts scrambled, grasping at meaning—grasping for a way to stop this sudden end.
"W-Why?" he finally blurted, his voice cracking.
Aldir continued walking, slowly vanishing into the edge of the woods, as though the shadows themselves beckoned him.
"Are you leaving the city? Or—another continent? Or is it… is it because of our arrangement?" Volhcard stepped forward. "We can extend it! I—I still need to learn so much! Please, teacher!"
The forest remained quiet, save for the rustling leaves.
Aldir didn't stop walking. He merely raised his hand and waved—an oddly gentle gesture.
Then he disappeared into the trees.
Volhcard stood there, his feet rooted to the earth, his chest tight.
The air felt heavier now. Cold, even under the warmth of the setting sun.
He didn't understand.
He didn't know why.
But something about the way Aldir left… the finality in his voice… it unsettled him in a way he couldn't explain.
And deep in his gut, a quiet dread began to take root.
Volhcard walked silently down the worn cobblestone street that led to his home, the evening air cool against his skin. The lamps lining the road flickered dimly, casting long shadows behind him. Despite the praise he had received—both from Aldir and even the elusive Archmage Dareth—a hollow feeling nestled deep in his chest.
He should have felt proud.
But instead, he felt… unready. Dissatisfied. Like there was still a mountain ahead he had yet to see, let alone climb.
As he reached the small, weathered gate that marked the front of his home, his hand hovered over the latch. He glanced over his shoulder, sensing something, though the street behind him remained empty.
Unseen above him, a small lizard sat still on the thick branch of an old tree. Its beady eyes watched him with a silent intelligence.
As Volhcard stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the lizard scurried down the trunk, landing soundlessly on the dirt below. Its form shimmered for a brief second, body expanding and warping until it stood at full humanoid height. Without hesitation, the creature stepped forward and vanished—merging seamlessly into the bark of the tree.
On the other side, it reappeared inside a hidden chamber behind a grand bookshelf, deep within Aldir's private study.
The office, tucked away in an unknown corner of Vyolmir, was dimly lit by arcane lanterns. Stacks of scrolls and ancient tomes lined the stone walls, some still glowing faintly with residual magic. At the center of it all sat Aldir, reclined in a high-backed chair. A pair of slim reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and his left hand idly rubbed his chin as he studied a weathered file titled Fae Rifts: Theories & Gateweaving.
Fae Rifts—portals forged by the mysterious Fae—allowed instantaneous travel across the vast lands of Relisquae. To possess such magic would have immense impact for his plans. But only the Fae could create and use them... at least for now.
The room was silent save for the crackle of candlelight until Aldir spoke, his voice calm and calculated.
"What news do you bring me, Sly?"
Still facing the parchment, he didn't lift his gaze.
"The boy has returned home," Sly reported, stepping forward. "I believe it's time we proceed to the next phase, master."
Aldir slowly lifted his eyes from the file, meeting Sly's gaze with sharp intensity. The lizard-like servant faltered slightly before lowering his head and, in a shimmer of green light, shrunk back into his smaller form.
"Not yet," Aldir said, setting the file aside.
"Investigate his home. Search for any valuable tomes—especially anything related to old dwarven rites, enchantment circles, or forgotten divine contracts. If his parents have something useful, I want it."
He stood up, his expression unreadable.
"When you're done, send the signal and wait. On my word, you'll burn the place to the ground."
His voice dipped into a chilling softness.
"But leave the boy alive."
Sly hissed in acknowledgment, then once again transformed into his humanoid form. Without a word, he stepped into the enchanted bookshelf and vanished through it—returning to the surface world with his silent task.
And Aldir?
He turned back to the open file, lips curling into a faint smile.
"Soon," he murmured, eyes gleaming behind his lenses, "very soon."
The man known as Vholk Ironflame had once been a warrior of Thylmar, a nation built on war and honor. He was not only a legend in the battlefield, but a rare wielder of magic—a trait almost unheard of among Thylmarians.
Volhcard slowed his steps. He looked at his father's broad back, the muscles still moving with unrelenting force despite age. He was the embodiment of strength, just as his mother was of wisdom and resilience.
Their legacy weighed on him like stone.
Genius. Talent. History. Power.
And him? Just Volhcard. Even with the praise from Aldir and Dareth, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was falling short.
He swallowed the thought and continued walking until he reached the house library.
It was quiet inside, the kind of silence that invited thought. Dozens of shelves stood tall, filled with books old and new, magical and mundane. Some were leather-bound tomes with gold-stamped titles, others were tattered from age and handling. He passed by volumes on enchantments, celestial maps, and dwarven engineering—until he reached a smaller shelf marked with a faded plaque: Fiction.
His fingers stopped at a thick, worn blue book. It leaned slightly away from the others, as if calling to him. He pulled it out, the spine creaking softly in his hands.
The title, still etched in golden ink despite its age, read: The Handsomest Genius of Volantis.
A fantasy novel about Jerard Volantis—a disgraced noble, turned revolutionary, who defied his family and became Volantis's most controversial ruler. A man too clever, too charming, and far too unpredictable.
Volhcard stared at the cover. This was the book that had sparked everything—the first ember of his fascination with magic, mystery, and the world beyond his doorstep.
Cradling it in his hands like something sacred, he made his way to a corner chair and sat. With a deep breath, he opened it.
For the fiftieth time.
And yet, the pages still felt as new and magical as the first.
Unseen, high along the molding of the library wall, a green lizard crept along silently. Its tiny eyes scanned the titles along each shelf with sharp awareness, seeking something—anything—that might be of value to its master.
And outside, the final threads of sunlight dipped beyond the mountains, cloaking the village in twilight.
The lizard's beady eyes darted across the rows of books, scanning with purpose. Its body remained perfectly still—only its head moved as it sifted through spines and titles. Finally, its gaze locked onto four thick volumes nestled within a shelf marked History.
Each bore the same name on the spine, etched in silver ink: Edwin Bladehand Sr.
The lizard let out a low, almost inaudible hiss. Its tail twitched with subtle excitement before it slithered down the side of the shelf and disappeared into a small, nearly invisible crack near the corner of the room. Once hidden from sight, it shifted and stretched, morphing back into its humanoid form.
Sly stepped out from the wall and into the hallway, quiet as a shadow. Without drawing attention, he slipped out of the house, then walked straight toward the old tree behind it—his temporary gateway. Placing a hand against the bark, it rippled like water, and he vanished through.
A moment later, he emerged from the bookshelf inside Aldir's hidden study.
The air smelled of parchment, dried herbs, and ink. Candles burned low on the walls, casting flickering shadows across the stone room. At the center, Aldir sat behind his desk, scribbling swiftly on a slip of parchment with a long black quill. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp—focused.
Sly stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
"Master, I have returned with news," he said, his voice low and respectful. "The boy's private library contains four books authored by Edwin Bladehand Sr. They appear to be originals."
Aldir paused. He slowly placed the quill down and leaned back in his chair. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he rose, walking over to a wardrobe near the corner of the room. From within, he pulled out a long black cloak and wrapped it over his shoulders. Next, he reached for a white porcelain mask adorned with faint silver etchings and placed it over his face, hiding his expression behind a cold, inhuman facade.
"Edwin Bladehand," he murmured thoughtfully. "The hawkman swindler of the skies. Conman, thief, master of deception—and yet, his writings on cosmology and planar travel were leagues ahead of his time. To think that old pirate's words have survived this long..."
He turned toward Sly, his tone shifting to something firmer.
"Take the orb," he ordered, opening a drawer and pulling out a small black sphere pulsating with faint violet light. He handed it to Sly. "Slip it into a book the boy treasures. Not one of Bladehand's. Something he reads often—something personal."
Sly's clawed hand closed gently around the crimson orb.
"Understood, master. And what of the family?" he asked.
Aldir's eyes narrowed behind the mask, his voice dropping into a dangerous calm.
"You are not to harm the boy or his kin. Not yet. We still need him... untethered."
Sly bowed once more, then turned toward the bookshelf. With a flick of his hand, the passage shimmered open again. He stepped through, vanishing into the darkness with the orb secure.
Left alone, Aldir returned to his desk, picking up the parchment.
When the sun dipped beneath the mountains and dinner was finally served, the Volhcard household gathered at the table, laughter and the clinking of utensils echoing softly through their modest home.
Meanwhile, within the library, Sly moved like a shadow. With no one watching, he slithered across the shelves and retrieved the chosen book—the same thick, dog-eared novel Volhcard always reached for: The Handsomest Genius of Volantis.
With a hiss of satisfaction, Sly shrank the black orb, compressing it down to a sliver no larger than a bookmark. He carefully slipped it between the pages, tucking it deep inside the spine.
Then, retreating into the darkness above, he reverted into his smaller lizard form and crept along the walls until he found a corner near the ceiling—watching, waiting for the moment of revelation.
Not long after, Volhcard stepped quietly into the library. His face was calm, thoughtful, unaware of what awaited him. As he moved toward the shelves, Sly let out a low, amused hiss, eager for the chaos to unfold.
Volhcard pulled out the familiar book and opened it.
In an instant, a blinding white light burst from its pages, hurling him across the room. He hit the floor hard, the force knocking the breath from his lungs, and the book fell open in midair. Its spine cracked loudly, and from the center, flames erupted—cascading like liquid fire onto the floor.
Smoke rose in thick black waves as the fire spread rapidly, licking at the bookshelves and carpet.
Volhcard's father stormed into the room moments later, eyes wide with panic. He rushed to his son's side and dropped to one knee, checking his pulse.
Despite taking the brunt of the explosion, Volhcard bore no wounds—his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. He was unconscious, but alive.
His mother entered right after, clutching a heavy bucket of water. Without hesitation, she hurled it at the flames—but to her horror, the fire responded violently. The water hissed as it struck the blaze, causing it to surge and intensify. It wasn't natural fire.
Black smoke filled the room, thick and choking, curling toward the ceiling like writhing snakes.
Then, from the heart of the inferno—just above the ruined book—a rift tore open in midair. Space cracked like glass, warping and swirling as a dark figure emerged.
Aldir stepped through, cloaked in black with a white, expressionless mask over his face. Flames parted around him as though bowing in reverence. His boots made no sound as they touched the scorched floor.
From the shadows above, Sly leapt gracefully onto his master's shoulder, letting out a pleased snicker as he perched there.
"Who are you?!" Volhcard's mother shouted, her voice trembling but resolute. "What do you want with my son?!"
Her eyes darted between the burning walls and the stranger cloaked in shadow, but she stood her ground. Despite the panic in her voice, she refused to show fear.
Volhcard's father moved to her side, fists clenched. Though the fear in his eyes was real, he kept his face stern. Silent. Ready.
Aldir tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the scene before him. The masked face gave nothing away, but his presence alone was suffocating.
The flames flickered in unnatural rhythm, as though they too were waiting for what he would say next.
"I want an awakening," Aldir said, his voice muffled by the mask—calm, but all the more eerie because of it.
He raised his left hand, and the flames around him roared upward, twisting into towering pillars of fire. In a single motion, they converged into a massive beam that shot directly toward the family.
But just before it could land, the flames were cleaved apart—split down the middle, vanishing into a shower of sparks and ash.
Vholk stood with his great axe raised, the blade still glowing faintly from the heat. His face was twisted with rage as he pointed the weapon at Aldir and charged.
"Die, bastard!"
Bang!
Sly intercepted him mid-stride. His tail slammed into Vholk's chest with crushing force, sending him flying backward. He crashed into the bookshelves with a loud crack, scattering wood and parchment.
Terra rose next, desperation in her eyes. Bolts of lightning burst from her hands and shot toward Aldir.
He didn't flinch.
With a casual motion, Aldir lifted his right hand—shrouded in a writhing black shadow like a demonic glove—and absorbed the electricity as if it were nothing more than water poured onto sand.
"I apologize," Aldir said, bowing his head slightly toward Terra. "But all of this... is for your son."
Then he turned away from her without a second glance and moved toward the smoldering shelves.
With precision, he pulled out the collection of Jerard's books—the very ones Sly had identified. He handed them off to the lizard, who nodded silently and darted outside, disappearing into the tree beyond.
The fire crackled and spread, consuming the room piece by piece as the house groaned under the heat and strain.
Weakened but not broken, Vholk forced himself up once more. Gritting his teeth, he lunged at Aldir again, his axe swinging wide in a final, desperate arc.
But Aldir moved first.
He caught Vholk by the face with his left hand and slammed him to the ground.
"Your time has long passed," Aldir said coolly, "but some strength still lingers. Impressive."
His gaze drifted toward Terra—and the still-unconscious Volhcard. Then he chuckled.
Raising both hands, thin blue ethereal lines of mana streamed from his fingertips and coiled tightly around Terra's neck. They shimmered like silk, yet pulsed with ominous energy.
The swirling mana traveled through the lines, and Aldir let out a soft groan of pleasure at the sensation.
"Your memories and mana will aid in my goal. For that," he said, "I thank you... for both your son and your power."
Vholk stirred again.
Blood stained his beard, and pain shot through every limb, but the sight of his wife—pale and withering, her mana being drained from her—ignited something deeper than agony.
With a final roar, he surged to his feet and brought his axe down one last time.
The blade sliced clean through Aldir's left shoulder... or so it seemed.
A moment later, the figure dissolved into multicolored motes of mana, an illusion fading into the smoky air.
The real Aldir now stood beside Volhcard, his gaze cold and unreadable behind the mask.
Without hesitation, he kicked the boy in the stomach.
Volhcard's unconscious body flew through the air, crashing through the walls of the house and landing outside in the dirt, motionless.
"Now," Aldir muttered, "for the finale."
The glowing lines of mana around Terra faded. She collapsed backward, unmoving—her skin pale, her eyes glassy.
With a snap of his fingers, the flames surged one final time, swallowing the rest of the house in a pillar of fire as Aldir calmly walked out through the front door.