The gates of Mystara Academy towered like the jaws of an ancient dragon, carved from obsidian stone etched with glowing runes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic breath. A barrier shimmered faintly across the threshold—silent, unseen by most—but Vahn felt its thrum with each step as he crossed into the inner sanctum of the world's most revered academy of awakened arts.
Here, power was currency, and legacy was law.
The moment he stepped past the threshold, the weight of tens of thousands of Awakeners past and present pressed into him, as if the Academy itself were judging his worth. Students milled about in color-coded robes that marked their divisions—blurs of crimson, silver, teal, and gold weaving through the grand courtyard like streams converging into a single river of potential.
This was the crucible.
Where children of empires came to forge their identities.
Where revolutionaries were born… or buried.
The Seven Pillars of Purpose
Vahn's steps carried him toward the Hall of Sigils, a vast domed chamber that served as the spiritual and administrative heart of Mystara. Inside, towering statues lined the perimeter—each representing one of the Seven Great Divisions, or as they were known officially, The Pillars of Purpose.
Every first-year student stood here once in their life, awaiting the results of their evaluation: the moment when the Academy's ancient Source Matrix measured their affinity, potential, and soul resonance to assign them—or deny them—an insignia.
Vahn remembered his own ceremony with chilling clarity.
He had not been assigned.
Instead, the Source Matrix had paused, shimmered, and then gone dark. Professors whispered for weeks. Some claimed the system had failed. Others believed the Matrix had recognized something… forbidden. Or divine.
In the end, he was labeled "Unmarked."
But he remembered that flicker in the Source Matrix—a storm, violet and white, spiraling through fire.
A premonition?
A curse?
A Gathering of Fire and Steel
Today, the Hall was alive with tension. Senior students from the Spellblade Division gathered for their Triennial Trial—an event of monumental importance where division members could be promoted to Primarch status or challenge for internal leadership.
Lira Ventaris stood among them, her red-trimmed cloak rippling like a flame as she faced her opponent: a tall, pale boy with silver tattoos running down his left arm. The match was ceremonial—but the power was real.
"BEGIN!" called the Proctor, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
The clash that followed was a dance of death.
Swords wreathed in flame and lightning clashed midair. Lira's blade ignited, trailing crimson arcs as she moved, each swing powered by her tightly channeled Source. Her opponent used ice magic—cold and methodical—countering her fury with precision.
The duel lasted less than three minutes.
When the smoke cleared, Lira stood victorious, a gash bleeding across her collarbone but eyes burning with triumph.
The hall erupted in boisterous roars.
She had ascended to Second Sigil, one rank beneath Primarch. an advancement from first sigil to second sigil although not new for most of the audience watching. it is a significant improvement for her in strength.
And she had done it in front of the entire Academy council which became the subject of discussion.
Later that evening, Vahn sat in the Archives of Insight, poring through the restricted texts his sister once studied. The whisper of pages and the distant crackle of candlelight filled the chamber.
Beside him sat Master Aravyn Caelis, an aged scholar from the Arcanum Order, clad in midnight-blue robes that shimmered like liquid ink.
"You watched the trial," Aravyn stated rather than asked.
"I did."
"And what did you learn?"
"That the Spellblades revere power… but not recklessness."
Aravyn smiled. "A keen observation. Every division reflects a philosophy. And every philosophy has consequences."
Aravyn leaned in. "And beyond the divisions? There are sub-factions—hidden loyalties, secret orders. Some students wear two insignias. Others wear none… and report directly to powers beyond even the Academy."
"You speak of the Church?" Vahn asked.
"No," Aravyn whispered. "I speak of the Inheritors of Chaos."
Vahn's breath caught. He'd seen the name scrawled once in Leslie's private journal.
"They seek to reignite the Era of Awakeners," Aravyn said. "And they believe you are the key."
Later that night, in his dormitory, Vahn found a folded letter on his pillow. The seal bore a stylized feather and flame.
No name. Just a line.
"Meet me at the Mirror Courtyard. Midnight. Come alone. Bring the pendant."
The signature was a name written in a hand he hadn't seen in years.
Leslie.
But Leslie was dead.
Wasn't she?