Kael found himself watching the way light moved through the academy halls.
It caught in the curves of stone gargoyles, flickered off polished glass, and shimmered in the air like invisible threads waiting to be tugged. Everything at Eldros Academy felt like it had secrets stitched into its bones.
He walked quietly beside Marcus and Annie on their way to Magical Ethics & History, their next class. Annie was animated, recounting a story about a fire elemental that had broken loose during her cousin's wedding, nearly setting the wedding tent ablaze.
"By the time the mages got control, the food was gone, the cake was ash, and my uncle was still chasing it with a broom," Annie said, grinning.
Marcus gave a small chuckle. "Sounds like your family knows how to throw a party."
Kael smiled, but his mind was elsewhere.
The dream from the night before hadn't faded. If anything, it had burned itself deeper into his thoughts.
"You forgot me. But I did not forget you."
The voice, the shadowy figure, the lightning in the sky—it had felt more than a dream. A memory, maybe. Or a warning.
Professor Vellin stood at the front of the classroom when they arrived. She was older than most, her silver hair tied in a single braid, and wore simple robes lined with green thread. Her eyes, however, were the most striking—sharp and still, like they'd seen too much and remembered every bit of it.
The classroom was quiet—rows of benches, enchanted chalkboards, and shelves filled with old scrolls and thick tomes. The air was dry and smelled faintly of dust and ink.
"You're not here to learn what magic can do," Vellin began, her voice calm but heavy. "You're here to learn what it shouldn't."
A ripple of discomfort moved through the room.
"Power," she continued, walking slowly between rows, "always has a price. Every spell you cast leaves a mark. Not just on the world—but on you. Use too much, too fast, without thought, and magic will consume you."
She stopped beside Kael's row and turned to face the class.
"Some call it burn-out. Others call it corruption. I call it arrogance."
An awkward silence followed. A few students scribbled nervously in their notebooks.
Professor Vellin raised a hand. A glowing image appeared in the air—an old illustration of a mage surrounded by burning towers.
"This," she said, "was Lord Kalren of the Ivory Flame. A prodigy. Said to be able to bend fire and light into weapons no one could block."
She waved her hand. The image shifted. The same man, older now, sat in a broken throne, eyes black with smoke.
"He tried to create a living sun. Burned half a kingdom and turned himself into a shell. They found him whispering to flames, thinking they were gods."
A girl behind Kael gasped softly.
"The point is," Vellin said, "power without restraint destroys everything—including the wielder."
Kael's fingers tightened around his pen. The words rang too close to something he didn't fully remember.
After class, Kael lingered.
He waited until most of the students had left, then approached Professor Vellin's desk. She was organizing scrolls, humming softly under her breath.
"Professor," Kael said, trying to sound casual, "you mentioned mages who went too far. Ones who wore the… mark of the storm?"
She looked up, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I did."
"What was it? The mark?"
Vellin studied him for a long moment. "Why do you ask?"
Kael hesitated. "Just curious. It sounded… familiar."
Vellin nodded slowly, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small book wrapped in leather. She placed it on the desk and tapped the cover.
"Most records of stormmages were destroyed after the Reckoning," she said. "This is a copy of what little remains. Don't take it out of this room."
Kael opened the book. Faded sketches lined the first pages—ancient symbols, spiraling storms, and a rough drawing of a man cloaked in lightning.
Beneath the illustration were words etched in trembling script:
The sky bows to him. The wind sings his name. The storm is not tamed—only chained.
Kael felt his pulse quicken.
"Did any survive?" he asked.
Vellin shook her head. "No one knows. But legends say one vanished before the great collapse. Some believe he's dead. Others… think he left behind a legacy."
Kael closed the book gently.
"Thank you, Professor."
That evening, Kael found himself in the eastern wing of the Grand Athenaeum, a place few first-years ventured. The halls here were quieter, older. The stone darker, lined with black runes that absorbed light rather than reflected it.
He sat alone, thumbing through a worn history tome, trying to make sense of what he'd read earlier.
He didn't notice Marcus until the boy sat beside him.
"You look like someone just told you you're royalty," Marcus said, voice light.
Kael chuckled softly. "Worse, actually."
"Wanna talk about it?"
Kael shook his head. "Not yet."
Marcus nodded, understanding. "Fair enough."
A few moments of silence passed before Marcus leaned closer.
"You know, there are rumors already. Some of the other students say you knew spells before they were taught. That you draw glyphs from memory."
Kael didn't answer.
"I don't care," Marcus added quickly. "But others will."
Kael looked over at him. "You think I'm dangerous?"
Marcus shrugged. "I think you're different. And in this place? That's enough."
Later that night, as Kael returned to his dorm, he caught a flicker of movement near the upper tower windows. A shadow shifted—too fast, too smooth.
He stopped.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw someone watching him from the rooftop above—cloak billowing, eyes glowing faintly.
But when he blinked, the figure was gone.
Far below the academy, in the sealed lower chambers beneath the old archives, Lady Sylas stood in front of an ancient stone door. She pressed her hand against the seal and whispered a name.
"Aric Vaelith."
The lock glowed.
"The storm wakes," she murmured. "And the world will tremble again."
Chapter End