Chapter 1 – Fiat Lux
January 12, 1872
Once, Lord Doe asked me:
If a man changes his fate, was he always meant to do so?
That question haunted me for years, and I never found an answer.
Everything in the universe follows the principle of cause and effect. But fate, was it a cause, the engine of all events? Or an effect, the result of infinite variables intertwined?
Perhaps not even Lord Doe knows the answer, despite being older than any country, a member of the Ancients.
He told me that on the day I could answer that question, I would finally remember who I was.
But I fear what I might discover. After all, what if a man who changes his fate was always destined to do so?
The sun was shining directly into Emryr's eyes when he woke up, as if on purpose.
—"Of course. Sun in my face. A great omen," he thought, before cursing the sun, the curtains, and whoever had picked them.
He got up drowsily, slipped on his shoes, and walked to the window. There, he could see the city of London from above. His journey was nearly over after three days aboard a dirigible.
He had been summoned back by his professor after a year of wandering the world… debating arcane theories with senile mages, gathering data in regions where hygiene was optional, and almost dying from experiments that "probably would work."
He splashed water on his face, rubbing beneath his eyes in a futile attempt to erase the dark circles.
Looking in the mirror, he saw himself: short brown hair, pale skin, and faded blue eyes that looked like their color had been diluted. The face of a perfectly average eighteen-year-old... except for his eyes, which sometimes shimmered in a different hue.
For a split second, his reflection didn't mimic him. The image in the glass blinked a moment later. A delay so subtle it could have been his imagination, if it hadn't happened before.
Something about his reflection always unsettled him, a strange familiarity in the features, as if he were looking at someone he'd met in another life… or in one no one ever told him about.
—"Lord Doe is going to kill me…" he muttered, his voice still heavy with sleep.
—"But I already told him, I just can't sleep."
He stared into the mirror and muttered again,
—"On top of everything, he's probably going to drown me in work."
With a sigh, he put on his usual outfit: a long black coat with subtle silver embroidery over a formal white shirt. He also slipped a small knife into his belt, alongside a vial of purple-lilac decoction.
And finally, he took his most essential tool, a mage's scepter.
It looked like an elegant ebony cane, covered with carved inscriptions from top to bottom, with a distinct handgrip made of deep blue vitreum.
The scepter channeled formulas and stabilized variables. But in truth, it acted more like a lens than a source. The magic came from the mage, the scepter only told it where to go.
Ready, he opened the cabin door and walked through the dirigible's corridors toward the central lounge.
The large hall was a testament to modernity. Massive panoramic windows offered a privileged view of the city below. Leather armchairs were arranged around polished wooden tables where passengers read newspapers or chatted. The metal of the external frame was nowhere in sight, marble walls covered the entire room.
Emryr sat and patiently waited for the airship to dock at London's skyport.
Minutes later, the vessel landed. He rose and descended with the others, blending into the crowd with the social grace of a diplomat… and the enthusiasm of someone headed to their own funeral.
Among the crowd, well-dressed men and women disembarked, while others prepared to board.
The suspended docks buzzed with activity. Cranes lifted heavy trunks, engineers adjusted the vitreum crystals in auxiliary engines, and officials inspected passenger documents.
The smell of steam and oil mixed with the perfume of travelers. Pneumatic lifts carried cargo and crew between levels of the aerial terminal.
—"They've expanded quite a bit since last year… Who would've thought the Crown would agree to put the Navy in second place," Emryr noted, eyeing the new military airship hangars.
Crossing the structure, he found himself once more on the streets of London.
The marvel of the world. The mistress of progress, grand and suffocating.
Carriages crossed in all directions. Victorian buildings loomed tall. Above them, airships powered by vitreum floated, filling the skyline.
Since the discovery of that bluish crystal in 1856, remarkable inventions had emerged: more powerful steam engines, aircraft that didn't need hot air to fly, even steam-powered automatons.
Some dirigibles were luxurious, bearing noble crests to indicate private ownership. Others, massive aerial dreadnoughts, patrolled the horizon with their metallic turrets, marked with the British Crown's sigil. The air vibrated with the hum of propellers and the blue glow of arcane discharges fueling the greatest wonders of modern engineering.
Emryr walked down the main street to the banks of the Thames, following its path until he saw his destination: the Palace of Westminster.
Renovated during the Tudor dynasty, the palace had been converted into the greatest magical institution in the known world, securing the British monopoly on arcane arts. No longer the seat of Parliament, it now housed the Imperial Academy of Arcane Arts of Albion, or simply, Albion.
He looked toward one of the palace's towers, the tallest and most famous: Victoria Tower.
For a proper mage, looking at "Big Ben" meant more than checking the time, it was to behold the focal point of the academy's magic. To Emryr's eyes, countless arcane formulas shimmered across the clock face.
—"Inertia negation, formula disruption… It's comforting to work somewhere with more defensive enchantments than Devonport," Emryr murmured, still tired.
The great clock read 8:20 a.m. He was already thirty minutes late, considering he was supposed to arrive before the ceremony to assist his professor.
Crossing the entrance gates, Emryr entered the academy courtyard: a wide, walled space adorned with statues, fountains, and benches. Watchful guards scanned everyone present.
There, students waited for the doors to open, noble heirs, merchant children, descendants of the greatest mages of the era, and a few from humbler origins all gathered in the courtyard.
He noticed a few young nobles pacing in irritation.
—"Fifteen minutes late! What the hell is taking the world's top arcane university so long?!" one pompous boy shouted at a servant carrying two suitcases.
Others didn't seem to care, using the time to explore the grounds or greet fellow students. But something bothered Emryr. He could only think of a few reasons for a ceremony delay.
He approached one of the guards.
—"Good morning, sir. I'm Emryr, assistant to Lord Doe. I need to go in," he said with a polite smile. "Here," he added, handing over Lord Doe's official seal, an owl's silhouette adorned with thorns.
—"No one enters. Direct orders from the Rector," the guard replied, unmoved.
—"But I'm not a student. I'm a registered collaborator, with the Lord's authorization…" Emryr said, growing slightly annoyed.
—"Orders from the Rector," the guard cut in, hand resting on his sword.
Emryr turned away, muttering, and found a bench to sit on. He made sure to use his free time well, by staring at the guard until he squirmed.
Sitting there, he traced equations in the air with his finger—not actual magic, just calculations. A pastime to keep him from stabbing the guard.
At 9 a.m., the great clock rang out.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
The academy doors opened.
At first, a blinding light forced the students to shield their eyes, drawing muffled curses.
When the light faded, they entered.
That was the most protected place in the world.
And, at the same time, the most dangerous.