The bell in the main hall tolled softly, announcing the arrival of early dawn. The rain had begun to ease, leaving behind only the gentle sigh of the wind—a whisper that carried a chill deep into the bones of anyone still awake.
That night, Nelvan did not sleep.
He sat before the old wooden table in the main room, the letter from Eclothera spread open before him. The candles were nearly spent, their wicks blackened, their melted wax perfuming the air with the faint scent of heat and endings. His heart still beat fast—not out of fear, but from a growing sense of certainty, as if tiny roots were burrowing into the dry soil of his soul.
He cast a glance toward his parents' room. The door had been firmly shut since he had left his own, a sign that his mother and father were already deep in slumber, embraced by strange dreams and the rhythm of the storm outside.
Outside, the night wind moaned gently. The village of Nliyff slept soundly, wrapped in mist. But for Nelvan, the world was only just beginning to stir. He exhaled slowly. His mind whirled with the contents of the letter.
He was beginning to understand himself—slowly, but surely. Just an Emiyerlf, nearly cast aside by the world. Some villagers in Nliyff—and even more in Furmist—still avoided him. Sometimes cruelly. He had no magical talents, none that he knew of. His only connection to magic came from the books he read, hidden under blankets, late at night.
But there was one thing—one trait he had almost forgotten. A buried gift inherited from his father, Ezrell. A gift of heightened senses and instinct. Nothing flashy. Nothing 'magical.' Just perception. Sharp, quiet, always present.
His father had once been a great Machina Magis—an artisan who could forge wonders from metal, stone, and infused auras of magic. That was long ago, before Ezrell left it all behind to become a banker in Eisternd. Before he gave up the identity that once made him respected among the Elfair.
As silence and uncertainty settled around him, a creaking sound broke the air. The doorknob twisted. A figure stepped out—not from the master bedroom, but from another door deeper in the house. Nelvan had assumed the man was already asleep, wrapped in soft kapok pillows and lulled by the rain.
"Nelvan… you're still up?" Came the voice—low and heavy. Nelvan turned his head toward it.
"Nelvan… you're still up?" Came the voice—low and heavy. Nelvan turned his head toward it.
"I don't know… I'm just not sleepy," He answered, letting out a weary sigh.
Ezrell approached. Tall and firm, with the same white hair and striking green eyes now gleaming in the flickering lamplight. His gaze, warm and gentle, made him seem like a diamond buried in soil. Nelvan knew not all elves could live peacefully in Cadleon—or anywhere in Magire Kivanal. The scars of the old war between Hamoursh and Elfair still lingered, especially for unwanted children like him.
Nelvan didn't bother explaining further. He merely gestured toward the letter on the table. Ezrell followed his son's hand, then reached out, picking up the parchment.
He read it in silence. His eyes narrowed, moving slowly from word to word, then turned to Nelvan.
"Eclothera…" He murmured. "I never thought they'd send this to you." A furrow appeared on his brow as he reread the name.
"You know of that place?" Nelvan asked quickly.
Ezrell stared into the half-melted candle flame before sitting beside his son.
"Long ago, before you were born, there were rumors—about a place beyond the reach of normal lands. An academy for those who were 'different,' those who couldn't find a home anywhere in Aechtery. But no one ever knew if it truly existed."
He paused, then added, "Eldred Carlton. A great Elfair leader once spoke of his vision—an academy to balance peace between the magical world and Aechtery, to prevent another ruin like the one that came before."
Ezrell's eyes drifted toward a dark corner of the room, where the lamplight could not reach.
"And now, they've invited you." He placed a hand on Nelvan's shoulder, looking him in the eye.
"But, Father… how?" Nelvan's voice wavered.
"I don't have any gifts. Nothing at all."
But Ezrell responded firmly. "Nothing is impossible in Aechtery. Even Magire Kivanal is filled with legends no sane mind could grasp. And a great sword isn't born with strength—it starts as mere metal. It must endure fire, pressure, trials… only then does it become a blade."
Nelvan bit his lip. "Should I… go?"
His father was silent for a long time. Then he reached out and took Nelvan's hand.
"You've always felt like you weren't enough, haven't you?" His voice was soft. "Not strong enough. Not gifted enough. This world has never been kind to those who are different. But maybe… it's time for you to find where you truly belong."
Nelvan didn't respond at first. He stared at the window, its glass still streaked from the storm. The darkness beyond hadn't lifted.
"My place is here. With you and mother. That's all I've ever wanted," he said quietly.
Ezrell nodded, though his expression darkened.
"I know, son. But Magire Kivanal is no longer the haven it once was. Not since the humans plundered these lands."
"Then why did you marry Mother?" Nelvan asked suddenly.
Ezrell took a long breath. Then gave a bitter smile.
"That's… a long story."
He looked back at his son. "So. What will you choose?"
"I don't know," Nelvan said.
"I can't leave you both."
His eyes were filled with hesitation, but Ezrell had expected this.
"Imagine this is your only chance. Would you trade it for a lifetime of herding sheep in this forgotten village?" Ezrell's words were not cruel, just honest. "All I've ever wanted is for you to live in peace, Nelvan Aetherion—even as an Emiyerlf."
With that, Ezrell stood and left for the same room he had emerged from, disappearing once more behind a door that clicked softly shut.
***
Nelvan returned to his own room. He stood silently, torn between everything he had heard and everything he had known. Every sentence from earlier—every word, every letter—flashed through his mind like fragments of lightning.
His eyes turned toward the shelf where his books were lined in perfect order, untouched by dust.
He had read them countless times, but never practiced what they preached. Magic had always been fascinating, yet his world had forbidden it. No one studied the arcane in Nliyff—or in Furmist.
And yet, the books said otherwise. There are no limits to those who dare to learn.
Nelvan ran his fingers through his albino hair, frustration rising.
This narrow room—his refuge—would soon lose its occupant. And he knew this decision wouldn't be easy.
But the hardest part?
Saying goodbye.
None of this was forced. It was a choice. A path only he could take.
***