Dawn had barely broken over Aeloria, yet the young mages were already gathered in the Academy's monumental amphitheater. Carved directly into the rock of a plateau suspended over the void, the place seemed to float between sky and earth, held aloft by ancient enchantments.
Menma, surrounded by students whose powers had just been revealed, watched in silence. All eyes were fixed on the central platform, awaiting the arrival of the one whose name was spoken with reverence: the Archmage Althir, founder and protector of the Academy.
A shiver ran through the crowd as the sky above them split with a white light.
A figure appeared, floating with majesty.
His cloak shimmered with prismatic hues, as if woven from mana itself. A pristine white beard framed a face marked by wisdom, and his golden eyes shone with an intensity that was almost divine. He slowly raised his hand, and silence fell like a miracle.
— “Welcome to the Academy of Aeloria.”
His voice rang through the amphitheater — powerful, clear, almost comforting.
— “Today marks the beginning of your destiny. You are the heirs of magic, the seeds of a future we will build together. My name is Althir. I founded this school to uncover the hidden potential within each of you, so that our realm may remain strong against the darkness of the world.”
Whispers of awe spread through the rows. He seemed to radiate the very Flow itself. Menma, despite his usual wariness, felt a budding respect he couldn’t explain.
— “Some of you will become heroes. Others, masters of knowledge. But all of you, without exception, will be called to understand your power… and to pay the price for it.”
Then, in a soft burst of light, the Archmage vanished just as he had appeared.
After a moment of silence, another man stepped onto the platform. Younger, but with a powerful aura. He wore perfectly tailored black trousers, a pristine white shirt, and a long black coat that fell to his knees, its hem gently rippling with every step. His white-gloved hands adjusted his rimless rectangular glasses with surgical precision on the bridge of his nose.
His mid-length black hair, slightly tousled, framed a pale, impassive face, where two dark eyes scanned the assembly with chilling clarity. Around his neck, an oval pendant hanging from a fine silver chain glimmered faintly under the lights.
He had nothing physically imposing about him, yet something in his posture, in the sharp precision of every movement, commanded silent respect — a calm, cold authority that needed no raised voice to be heard.
— “I am Master Calem, responsible for class coordination.”
His voice was calm, assured, sharp as a blade of wind.
— “You will be divided into two main classes. The first, the Nova Class, includes those whose potential has been deemed exceptional. Bearers of rare, powerful, or promising gifts. The second, the Orion Class, is not a failure — but a starting point.”
A murmur spread among the students. Some tensed up; others withdrew into themselves. Calem continued without raising his voice.
— “No one’s fate is sealed. Evaluation tests will take place in the coming days. The results may change your assignment.”
He swept the crowd with his gaze.
— “Here, only actions matter. Not your background. Not your titles. Not your reputation.”
A thunder of applause erupted at the end of his speech.
Menma clenched his fists. He didn’t yet know what this Academy held for him, but he felt that here, his power would finally find its meaning.
A student beside him whispered, as if in prayer:
— “The Archmage is watching us. We can’t fail.”
Menma didn’t respond.
He looked up at the sky, where the light had faded.
His gaze was calm, but intense.
Determined.
Not the gaze of a prodigy...
But of a boy who, no matter the cost, would see this through to the end.
As the students straightened up, some already imagining their place in Nova or Orion, Calem raised his hand once more.
— “Before letting you explore the Academy grounds, allow me to introduce those who will guide you. Each one is a pillar of this school. Masters in their field.”
With a gesture, he summoned seven magical arches behind him. One by one, figures emerged from them, as if passing through a veil.
— “These are the Seven Mentors.”
Maestra Velya, draped in a sapphire-blue robe, walked barefoot, each step causing small plants to bloom. She smiled gently.
— Specialist in Elemental Arches – Water, Earth, Nature.
Master Kaelorn, a towering man with fire-weathered skin, carried a dragon-bone spear on his back.
— Master of Elemental Arches – Fire and Lightning. He oversees duelist training.
Sérën, a woman with an ethereal gaze and an almost inaudible voice, seemed to float rather than walk.
— Expert in Abstract Arches – Illusion, Time, Spirit.
Nox Leir, cloaked in a mantle of black covered with shifting runes, never revealed his face.
— Master of Enchantment Arches – Alteration, Curses, Artifacts.
Master Calem took his place among them, hands clasped behind his back.
— Head of evaluations and specialist in Physical Arches and martial discipline.
Professor Sylvain, a jovial old man with thick glasses, manipulated floating magical gears.
— Teacher of Scientific and Experimental Arches — alchemy, runic arts, and combined magic.
Éthera, a silent young woman dressed in white, with a vacant gaze. Her presence sent chills down the spine.
— Specialist in Unclassifiable Arches. No one knows the true extent of her power.
Calem concluded:
— “They are your future. Respect them. Listen to them. Some of you may even become their successors…”
The arches faded. The students were invited to head to their quarters.
But in the shadows, high atop the Archmage’s tower, Althir watched in silence.
His gaze swept across every face. He smiled faintly.
— “They are promising. Especially that one…”
He was staring at Menma.