The sky was cloudless when the letter arrived.
Three days had passed since the Arcadium trial. Darian and Caelum had returned to Valmere in quiet anticipation, carrying the weight of unspoken hopes and heavier doubts.
The envelope bore the Arcadium's sigil—twin rings of spellrunes encircling a sword. Caelum held it in both hands, hesitating before breaking the seal.
Darian stood by the window, arms crossed.
"Well?" he asked.
Caelum's eyes scanned the parchment. His lips pressed into a line.
"You were accepted."
Darian blinked. "What?"
Caelum looked up. "You've been placed in the Bladeward Corps training track. It's... provisional."
Darian frowned. "Provisional?"
"They noted your swordsmanship exceeded expectations, but..." Caelum hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Your mana levels were... well, unmeasurable. They accepted you on physical merit alone."
Darian turned back to the window. "So I'm the exception."
"No," Caelum said. "You're the precedent."
They told their parents that night.
Lira smiled with proud tears. Alric simply nodded and handed Darian a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Inside was a newly forged shortblade.
"A warrior's blade," Alric said. "Not a student's."
Darian gripped the hilt and gave a small, grateful nod.
That night, he and Caelum sat beneath the stars on the old fence near the garden. They didn't speak much—just passed a jug of herbal cider between them and listened to the Bramble Hogs snorting in their pens.
The next morning, the village stirred with early chores and spellwork. Darian felt the tension building again. The acceptance hadn't changed how the villagers looked at him. It had only confirmed their fears.
A Makaras among spellcasters.
A manaless boy walking the halls of magic.
So when Caelum said, "Let's walk," Darian agreed.
They left Valmere by the north path and entered the forest beyond the outer fields. This wasn't a casual stroll. Caelum had packed food, water, and a spelllight orb. He had something in mind.
They followed a trail few used, winding through thick roots and whispering leaves, past stone markers forgotten by most.
Eventually, they came upon a hollow—a quiet basin in the earth, hidden beneath a canopy of thornwood trees.
Darian stopped. "This place… I've never been here."
"I found it while studying leyline distortions last year," Caelum said. "Didn't think much of it then. But lately…"
He trailed off.
At the heart of the clearing lay a massive, circular stone seal, half-sunken into the earth. Moss curled around its rim, but not a single vine or root touched the stone itself.
It looked untouched by time.
Unwilling to be touched.
Darian stepped closer. "What is it?"
"I think it's a seal," Caelum replied. "A magical one."
"You sure?"
Caelum crouched beside the edge, fingers gliding over the carved spirals and strange runes.
"No enchantment I've studied feels like this. And the way the trees grow around it, not over it… It's like the land remembers."
Darian knelt beside him. "What would something this old be sealing?"
Caelum hesitated.
"Do you remember the story of the warrior who came from the east?"
"Kind of. Something about demons, right?"
Caelum nodded. "It's more than a story."
He sat back and began to explain.
"Long ago, the world wasn't ruled by humans. It was ruled by demons. Vast, cruel, ancient things. They enslaved us—forced us to build, to fight, to bleed. They made us destroy each other for their amusement."
Caelum's voice was calm, but there was a reverence to it.
"Then one day, from where the sun rises, a stranger appeared. No name, no title. Just a sword of impossible power and magic no one had ever seen."
"He didn't come with armies. He came alone."
"He wielded two forces: Magic, the way we understand it today… and something else. Something raw, powerful, and instinctive. Might."
Darian listened quietly.
"With those, he drove the demons into hiding. But instead of killing them, he did something no one expected. He sealed them away."
Caelum gestured toward the stone.
"Some say he forged the seals with his own soul."
"Then what?" Darian asked.
"He found thirteen people—slaves, rebels, wanderers—and taught each one a different form of magic. They became the founders of the thirteen nations."
"And the warrior?"
"He vanished. Some say he died. Others say he watches. But legend says this: If the demons return, so too shall Might."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the seal.
Then Darian stood and stepped toward it.
"I want to try something," he said.
"Wait—" Caelum began.
"I'll be careful."
Darian reached out.
Caelum had touched it earlier. Nothing had happened. But the moment Darian's hand met the stone, the world shifted.
He was somewhere else.
The forest disappeared. He stood on a glowing circle of golden runes that floated in blackness. Light pulsed beneath his feet in time with his breath.
Flashes of memory that weren't his streaked through his mind.
A man alone on a battlefield.
Demons collapsing beneath a storm of light.
A blade held in one hand—burning bright.
Magic swirling in the other.
The voice came again—not heard, but felt.
"Flame lost is flame remembered. Might returns not with fury, but with need."
The runes beneath him shimmered once more.
Then the vision faded.
Darian stumbled back, panting.
"Darian?" Caelum caught him. "What did you see?"
"I… don't know," Darian muttered. "Something ancient. A sword. Fire. The warrior…"
He looked at the seal.
Still unbroken. Still unchanged.
He saw nothing unusual.
Caelum exhaled. "Maybe it responded to you."
Darian didn't answer.
Together, they walked away, their steps slow and thoughtful.
Neither of them saw the faint, near-invisible line that now ran across the center of the seal.
A crack.
Thin as a breath.
Silent as regret.
But very real.
Waiting.
Watching.