In a giant, dimly lit room, hooded figures moved with purpose. In the center, a boy, no older than seven or eight, lay unmoving on the bare ground. His small body trembled every few seconds as a cold draft snaked past him.
"Are we ready?" a voice boomed, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The hooded figures stilled, turning towards the sound. A middle-aged man with pitch-dark hair and a prominent handlebar mustache held the hand of another boy. This second boy shared the man's pitch-black hair and eyes. On his neck, the faint mark of a sword pulsed with a soft blue light. A smirk played on his lips as he gazed down at the boy on the ground.
"Yes, Sire," replied a hooded figure to the man's right, his voice raspy. He remained hunched, his eyes carefully avoiding the nobleman's gaze. "We must be swift. The Greymarks have alerted the City Lord."
The man chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. "Haha, once this is done, what can they do? A fate can only be removed once. And Eldermoor only has two Rooks. His hands will be tied."
Meanwhile, the boy on the ground stirred, his eyelids fluttering. As he blinked his eyes open, the middle-aged man loomed over him.
"A pity," the man said, his voice devoid of warmth. He nodded to the figure on his right. "But let his fate serve someone more worthy."
The boy's eyes widened in terror. "Stay aw-away! Wh-who ar-are you?!" he shrieked, scrambling backward on the cold stone.
"It'll all be over soon, Arthur…" The man's voice began to fade, yet it echoed, twisting.
"Arthur…"
"Arthur…"
"ARTHUR!"
Arthur jolted awake. Blinding light assaulted his eyes, forcing him to squint and turn away.
He pushed himself up, trying to get his bearings.
The dark, ritualistic room was gone. Instead, he was in a classroom. Around him, other fourteen-year-olds were staring. Some snickered; others just shook their heads.
"Yes, Madam Thorne," he mumbled, digging his nails into his palm, the sharp sting a welcome anchor to reality.
"Dozing off again, Arthur?" Madam Thorne's voice was deceptively calm, yet it sent a chill down his spine. "Since you are so well-rested, perhaps you could grace us with the primary difference between how Augmenters and Conjurers channel mana."
Arthur blinked, his heart still hammering against his ribs. The sound of 'Arthur… Arthur…' still echoed in his ears.
But his body moved on instinct. The words were halfway to his lips before he consciously registered the question.
"Augmenters internalize mana. It runs through their bodies, reinforcing muscles, nerves, and senses. Their magic enhances their physical capabilities—speed, strength, durability."
"And Conjurers?" she prompted, one eyebrow arched.
"They externalize it. Mana exits the body through a conduit—like their voice, eyes, or hands—and reshapes the environment. Think fireballs, shields, or summons."
Madame Thorne nodded slowly. "Very good. I'll have to assume next time you are sleeping in my class, Arthur, you are merely dreaming about mana flow mechanics. Yes?"
A few subdued chuckles rippled through the room. Arthur barely heard them, his fists clenching under the worn wooden desk.
"Well then, that concludes today's lesson," Madame Thorne announced sharply, her gaze sweeping across the students. "Remember to bring your weapons and enough supplies for a week. Poor preparation has landed more than one promising student in the infirmary." With that, she turned and strode out of the classroom.
The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the room erupted.
"Is your party set? I heard Rosalyn dropped out!"
"Yeah! We're down an Augmenter now. You looking for a team?"
Students quickly broke into chattering groups, the excitement for the upcoming survival training palpable as they headed out.
"So, sleeping beauty, what horrors plagued your dreams this time?" A cheerful voice piped up beside Arthur.
"What's up, Orion?" Arthur managed a faint smile, glancing at the boy next to him. Orion was slightly shorter, with stylishly cut blue hair and dark blue eyes to match.
Orion grinned. "Nothing much. Just wondering if I could persuade you to join my team for the training."
Arthur shook his head. "You know that's only inviting trouble. Blackstone is part of the survival exercise. Alaric and his goons will be there."
"Right…" Orion's cheerfulness dimmed a fraction.
"Don't worry about me," Arthur said. "I can take care of myself. I might not be a Rook anymore, but I still pack a mean punch. Unless Alaric himself decides to make a personal project out of me, I should be fine."
"Honestly, I'm more worried about them if they mess with you," Orion shrugged, his grin returning. "Anyway, gotta run! See you in the forest!" He shot out the door.
Arthur slowly gathered his worn satchel and headed out. As he walked down the long hallway, muted sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting shifting patterns on the stone floor.
His fingers instinctively reached for the pendant beneath his shirt – a small, iron cross. Its cool metal against his skin was a familiar comfort, something to focus on when his thoughts threatened to spiral.
His pace quickened as he left the academy grounds, making his way towards the city limits. He soon exited the bustling city proper, heading towards the western cliffs that loomed over Eldermoor.
As he walked, a tall, dilapidated structure came into view. One could tell it had once been a grand mansion, but now, deep cracks spiderwebbed its façade, and sections of the roof looked precariously close to collapse. It screamed abandonment.
He paused at the imposing, creaking front door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
A faded, dark red carpet covered parts of the dusty floor, and a grand, though grimy, white marble staircase greeted him.
"Home so early?" a rough voice rumbled from behind him. A large hand, calloused and strong, clamped onto his shoulder and playfully ruffled his hair. "Don't you usually take the scenic route, kiddo?"
It was his father, Garron, a man in his early forties, broad-shouldered and weathered. He had a brown beard, and dark brown eyes.
"Hey, Dad! Had to rush home. Survival training prep, you know how it is," Arthur said, trying to squirm out from under the affectionate headlock.
"Hold on." Suddenly, his father's voice turned serious. He released Arthur and stepped in front of him, his gaze sharp and searching. "It happened again, didn't it? The dream. This is becoming more frequent than usual."
Arthur winced. His parents always knew. Every time he had that dream, they could see it on him the moment he walked through the door.
"Where's Mom?" Arthur asked, looking around, trying to deflect. The vast house felt even emptier than its usual state of disrepair, which was quite an achievement.
"Don't change the subject, Arthur," Garron said, his voice low and concerned. "Maybe you shouldn't go on this training exercise. We're not sure why these… nightmares… are getting worse."
"I wouldn't go that far, Garron," a sweet, melodic voice cut through the tension like a warm knife through butter. A beautiful woman with radiant skin and silky amber hair that cascaded gracefully over her simple dress appeared at the top of the staircase.
Arthur sighed with relief. "Thanks, Mom! I'll go get ready and be right down!" He practically bolted up the stairs.
Garron watched him go, then turned to his wife, his worry evident. "It's getting way too frequent, Maela. What could it mean?"
Maela descended the stairs, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know dear. I've sent word to Aeron. Hopefully, we'll have some answers by the time he returns."