The Council at Ardanhall
A low horn blew through the southern wing of Ardanhall.
Not an alarm — something colder. Formal. Final.
In the high chamber, four figures stood around a circular table of blackstone. A single crystal pulsed in its center — its light fractured and flickering, as if struggling to focus.
Scrolls lay opened. Mana maps hovered in ghostly projections. The warfront lines had been redrawn three times that morning alone.
The only woman present leaned over the edge of the table. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but steady.
"Third Legion of the Southern Front. Commanded by Alen Caelthorn. Last transmission marked them pushing through the Seryth Pass, east of Velgath Ridge."
"On the border of Eranor and Thaelbrin," muttered the old mage at her side. "Both sides claim it. Neither can hold it."
"They can't hold it now," she said. "It's gone."
The youngest mage looked pale. He tapped a rune floating in the air — a rough topographic rendering of the battlefield, overlaid with sigils from both armies.
"What do we call this?" he asked. "A failed ritual? A weapon?"
Velan — the High Scribe — only shook his head.
"We don't know what to call it. The land's turned to crystal. The air's still charged. Twenty square miles of obliteration. No bodies. No mana traces strong enough to track."
The Archmage stood at the head of the table.
Eight circles etched into the leather of his right glove.
Eight that the Tower knew of.
And one that whispered still.
"There is mana," he said. "What remains is… hollowed. Raw. Like something burned its way through the leylines."
"A ninth-tier spell?" asked the woman.
"Possible," he admitted. "But not sustainable. I could cast something similar — if I drained three nodewells and half my soul."
The old mage gave him a long look. "But you didn't."
"No."
The table fell silent.
"Then someone else did," said the youngest, voice low.
"Or several," the woman added. "A ritual? A convergence?"
The Archmage's gaze stayed fixed on the map.
"If someone outside Ardanhall can shape a ninth-tier effect... then we no longer command the highest spellcraft in this world."
Another silence.
Velan cleared his throat and unfurled a secondary scroll. "Commander Caelthorn's body wasn't recovered. But he's listed as presumed dead. No one could have survived that."
"Does he have kin?"
"A wife. Child. Living near the outer forests of Lirren Vale. Far from the capital."
The Archmage didn't hesitate.
"Send two mages. Discreet. Standard condolence rites."
"And if there's anything strange — I want it reported directly to me."
"What are we looking for?" the young mage asked.
The Archmage finally turned his gaze away from the map.
"Answers," he said.
"Or loose ends we can't afford to miss."
____
Chapter 1 — Ashes on the Wind
The knock came just after dawn.
Elira had already been awake, though she hadn't meant to be. The kettle had long since cooled. The fire was embers. Her son was still asleep, curled like a little cat in his cradle, his small hand twitching now and then in dream.
She wiped her palms on the edge of her apron and stood.
There it was again — three sharp raps, deliberate. Not the kind made by a neighbor or a wandering peddler.
She opened the door slowly.
Two figures stood outside.
They wore ash-grey cloaks, pinned with the black-stone crest of Ardanhall. Rain dripped steadily from their hoods, though the skies had cleared hours ago. One was tall, with a stiff jaw and sharper eyes. The other younger — eyes downcast, hands folded, not meeting her gaze.
Elira didn't say a word. She didn't have to.
"Elira Caelthorn?" the tall one asked, already knowing the answer.
She gave a single nod.
"We've come on behalf of the Tower of Ardanhall," he said, voice clipped, formal. "We regret to bring you news of your husband — Commander Alen Caelthorn."
Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't look away. She stood firm, one hand still on the doorframe.
"He was reported lost in the field during an operation near Seryth Pass, on the Velgath border," the mage continued. "His company—"
"Was wiped out," Elira finished for him.
She already knew. She had known the moment she saw them.
The younger mage shifted awkwardly, then stepped forward and extended a sealed letter. The wax bore the Tower's crest — neat, cold, impersonal.
"There were no recoverable remains," he said softly. "He is listed… presumed fallen in service."
Elira reached out and took the letter. Her hands were steady.
They didn't offer false comfort. Tower mages never did.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "That will be all."
The tall one hesitated, as if waiting for her to break. When she didn't, he nodded.
"If you require anything from the Tower," he said, "a request form is enclosed."
They turned without further word. Their cloaks swept over the damp grass as they made their way down the hill, horses tethered just beyond the low stone wall.
She closed the door gently.
Inside, the silence stretched. The kettle let out a tiny hiss as it cooled further. The baby stirred in his cradle and made a soft noise, like a breath caught in a dream.
Elira leaned against the door and slid slowly to the floor.
She did not cry. Not yet.
She unsealed the letter and read its stiff, stilted script — the kind used for all the dead.
No mention of how. No mention of why.
Just lost.
A word that could mean a thousand things.
But to her, it only meant one.
Her son whimpered. She rose slowly and went to him, lifting him into her arms. He nestled against her neck with a sleepy sigh.
She breathed in the smell of his hair, his warmth. Her arms wrapped around him tight — too tight.
"You'll never know him," she whispered.
"He never got to see you."
She stood there, holding her child in the pale morning light, listening to the wind outside brush across the shutters.
No fire burned. No birds sang.
And far to the east, over the blackened mountains and the shattered glass of Seryth Pass, the ashes of war still fell with the hush of falling snow.