Life at the Arcadium fell into rhythm, though no two days were ever the same.
Darian and Caelum adjusted to their separate routines, but they made time to reconnect—late-night walks near the bridges, early breakfasts before lectures. Though their paths diverged, their bond remained a thread neither was willing to let fray.
And around them, the world of the Arcadium slowly opened.
Darian's training in the Bladeward Corps began each morning before sunrise. They were drilled in physical discipline, tactical formation, weapon techniques, and environmental adaptability. The academy made no effort to soften the experience for non-mages.
"Magic isn't an excuse," Commander Trask barked on day one. "You want to survive out there, you don't rely on flashy spells. You rely on edge, instinct, and grit."
Darian quickly earned a place in the instructor's neutral regard—not favoritism, but respect. Trask never said so aloud, but his eyes no longer narrowed in doubt when Darian stepped onto the training grounds.
Bryn, his sparring partner, became a near-daily presence. She fought with a crude but effective axe style, pairing brute strength with an unexpected sharp wit.
"Half the kids here throw mana tantrums when their blades don't obey. You, at least, bleed to earn your strikes," she said after one particularly sweaty bout.
Another member of their small cohort, a lanky boy named Eilo, often lingered near Darian during mealtimes. He barely spoke at first, but after watching Darian dismantle three enchanted targets during precision drills, he started opening up.
"You, uh… you don't feel mana at all?" he asked one day.
"No."
"Kind of wish I didn't," Eilo muttered. "Feels like I've got a candle that won't stay lit."
Darian blinked. Then, surprisingly, offered a small grin. "Then strike with steel. Let the candle go out."
One day during Combat Theory, Instructor Verra, a hard-eyed woman with ash-gray hair, paced the training grounds with a glowing staff in hand.
"The battlefield doesn't care how much mana you have," she said. "It only cares who's left standing."
She tapped her staff, and illusions shimmered into existence—scenes of past Arcadium battles where Bladewards held the line while mages cast from behind.
"You're not cannon fodder," she said. "You're the spine of an army. The shield. And if you break—everyone else does too."
Darian sat straighter, absorbing every word.
Later, he was paired with Bryn and Eilo to take down a mock construct beast. Eilo laid traps with weak enchantments, Bryn distracted the beast, and Darian exploited its blind spot to strike it down with a crushing leap.
When the construct shattered, Eilo whooped. "That was actually... kinda fun!"
"Don't get used to winning," Bryn huffed, grinning.
Darian didn't say much.
But he didn't need to.
Meanwhile, Caelum's days were packed with spellcraft theory, mana channeling, magical ethics, and elemental harmonics.
His favorite class, Ritual Synergy, was taught by Master Thael, a blind man who saw through a crystal lens suspended by levitation above his left shoulder.
"The key to multidiscipline casting," Thael said, "is not domination—it is balance. Fire yields to water, but water dances with wind. Know the rhythm, and you know the spell."
Caelum absorbed it all eagerly.
One afternoon, he stayed behind after class, sketching runes into the air with a soft gold-glow stylus.
Teyla leaned against a nearby column. "You actually enjoy this stuff?"
"Is it that obvious?" he smiled.
She nodded. "You learn fast. Not just memorize—understand. That's rare."
Rowan chimed in from a nearby bench, parchment unrolled across his lap. "Cael's a theory builder. The kind who rewrites the rules instead of following them."
Caelum chuckled. "Maybe I just like asking why."
That evening, the twins met on the south bridge again.
"I watched Bryn smash a dummy today. It exploded into leaves," Darian said, smirking.
"Sounds like a good day."
"You?"
"I melted a pressure glyph and accidentally set Teyla's hair on fire."
Darian blinked.
"She didn't notice," Caelum added quickly. "Much."
They laughed, and for a while, the sky above them was quiet.
Then Caelum asked, "Do you still feel like you don't belong?"
Darian took a long breath. "Less every day."
Far from the Arcadium, deep in the forest near Valmere, the seal pulsed again.
The bat-like creature, now fully formed, flew low through the canopy. Its ember eyes flickered with eerie light as it flitted from tree to tree, silent as smoke.
Then it paused.
Below, a Verdant Stag grazed—a magical beast with emerald fur and crystalline antlers. It exuded calm, a creature of ambient mana and forest balance.
The bat circled once.
Then dove.
Its shadow passed over the stag. A moment later, it screeched—inaudible to the human ear, but enough to freeze the stag mid-step.
The bat's form unraveled mid-air—tendrils of black liquid latching onto the stag's back, burrowing deep.
The creature reared up and cried out, but the sound warped into something unnatural.
Its fur began to blacken. Its antlers twisted into jagged obsidian. Mana pulsed irregularly from its chest.
Its eyes dulled, then flickered with a red spark.
What stood in the clearing now was no longer a Verdant Stag.
It was something else.
Something wrong.
And it turned, slow and purposeful, before vanishing into the trees.
Something had been made.
Something had awakened.