Spring and Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  During the spring, Kharg began to catch the subtle hints that there was more to the inner workings of the Academy than he had first thought. These hints and other fragments began to make sense. The purpose of the Academy was not to train mages, it was to promote the very understanding of magic and evolve the knowledge of elemental magic and principles. Two main paths were open to mages. Some stayed within the Academy as scholars, while others became professionals who ventured beyond its walls, earning large sums of gold—but they had to pay steep fees to the Academy for the right to profit from their magic. For Kharg, none of these paths sang to him. Becoming an Initiate was never an option, primarily because of his promise to his father to further the merchant house through magic—beyond the path of a mere windmage. As time went by, he came to realize that there was a third path, joining the Adventurers’ Guild. The members there were also allowed to use magic and were exempt from the mage guild fees, instead they had to pay one third of all income to the Adventurers’ Guild. Life as an adventurer was freer, but also far more dangerous. Adventurers were expected to deal with threats to the villages such as monsters and other threats as well as explore ruins and prevent those from becoming haunting grounds where the undead thrive.

  The Initiates formed the backbone of the Academy’s research efforts, dedicating their lives to advancing the understanding of magic. These mages lived humbly within the Academy, their modest salaries supplemented by free lodging and access to the institution’s vast resources. Kharg noted their quiet dedication, their lives focused on unraveling the mysteries of the arcane and crafting new spells that could take decades to perfect.

  In stark contrast stood the professional mages, whose talents were sought after in every corner of society. These mages served everywhere from the battlefield to noble courts, applying their skills for practical results and generous pay. Battle-Mages and War-Mages commanded the highest respect for their ability to protect and destroy with devastating precision. Navigators and Sea Mages, vital to commerce, guided ships through treacherous waters, while Constructors could raise walls from the very ground and even create houses of stone from the very bedrock below with magical efficiency. Necromancers and Banishers, though less visible, were indispensable for dealing with the supernatural threats that plagued both countryside and city.

  Kharg also learned of the prestigious roles of Court Mages and Grand Teachers, positions that combined magical expertise with wisdom and diplomacy. These mages, though few in number, wielded immense influence, their counsel sought by rulers and the elite.

  Spring brought with it a palpable energy to the Academy, and Kharg’s days were filled with rigorous study, practice, and contemplation. Yet as his knowledge grew, so did his awareness of the Academy’s political undercurrents, a realization that emerged slowly, like the thawing of frost.

  He also began to take note of another peculiarity. It started with whispers, fragments of conversations overheard in hallways and courtyards. Students spoke of powerful department heads subtly guiding promising apprentices, of sponsorships being offered to those deemed worthy, and of the quiet rivalry between the professional and academic pathways. Kharg had paid little attention to these dynamics before, but as his own progress caught the attention of his peers, and perhaps the faculty, he began to sense their presence.

  One morning, while practicing his illusions in the courtyard, Kharg noticed a figure observing him from the shadows of a colonnade. It was Indra Kithin, the Mistress of Circles, Symbols, and Rituals. Her reputation as a charismatic and sharp-witted figure preceded her, and her attention lingered on Fafne as the faerie dragon flitted about Kharg’s illusions. Indra approached with an easy grace, her dark eyes sharp with curiosity.

  “Impressive work,” she remarked, her tone warm yet calculating. “Lesser illusions, but you’ve given them life. Not many apprentices manage that so early.”

  Kharg straightened, uncertain how to respond. “Thank you, Mistress Kithin. I’ve been practicing.”

  Indra tilted her head, her lips curving into a smile. “And your familiar... extraordinary. Fafne, isn’t it? A rare companion for one so young. Tell me, Kharg—what is it you seek to achieve here?”

  The question caught him off guard, but he answered honestly. “I want to master magic—not just for its own sake, but to strengthen my family’s legacy. My father’s trade empire could benefit greatly from magic.”

  Indra studied him for a moment before nodding. “A noble ambition. But be cautious. This Academy thrives on ambition, and not all paths are as straightforward as they seem.” With that, she turned and strode away, leaving Kharg to ponder her words.

  * * *

  With the coming of spring, Kharg began to feel that time was running out. The letter of credit from his father was nearing its limit, so he immersed himself fully in his studies, determined to make every moment count.

  He had fallen in love with the art of illusion and spent a lot of time and effort mastering this field with the limited spells available to him. He would not be allowed to learn the strong illusion spells until he reached the rank of journeyman but the versatility of the spells he had learned could achieve incredible effects. The spells allowed him to conjure roughly man-sized images and Kharg’s creativity turned this restriction into an opportunity. He practiced crafting illusory knights clad in gleaming plate, walls of flame that flickered with surprising realism and even false wooden doors, their texture and flaws in the wood shown in painstaking detail. These illusions were rough at first, lacking the finer details that lent them believability. But Kharg’s diligence and hours of practice transformed them into convincing creations. He learned to make his illusions move fluidly, adding subtle shifts in light and shadow to mimic reality. By the end of spring, his ability to craft these illusions was sophisticated enough to confuse even his closest friends in practice duels.

  Kharg’s passion for Elemental Air also deepened, and he eagerly attended the lectures normally hosted by senior students and initiates from the department. But on one notable occasion, the lecture was led by none other than Lithram Ablair, the Master of Air. Lithram’s entrance was as striking as his reputation. His tall, wiry frame was clad in loose silks and flowing cloaks that seemed almost weightless, billowing out by themselves as he moved. His long, fair hair and flowing beard, paired with his enigmatic gray eyes, gave him the air of a man who truly embodied the reputation of an arcane master.

  The amphitheater was filled with anticipation as Lithram began his lecture on advanced aerokinesis. His voice carried a commanding yet melodic tone, and he used poetic metaphors to describe the subtleties of air manipulation. In the lecture, Lithram demonstrated the beauty and precision of Elemental Air, shaping weaves of air and into intricate patterns visible only through their interaction with dust motes and light. He delved into the finer points of aerokinesis, managing to make the complex subject simple and obvious to the students and the poetic metaphors made it all the easier to memorize. For Kharg, the lecture was among the most inspiring he had attended, it was a true reminder of the passion that first drew him toward the study of magic.

  After having explained a particularly difficult concept, he strove to imprint the importance of discipline and focus to fully master the more difficult aspects of magic and caught sight of a student near the back who stifled a yawn. Lithram frowned and got a mischievous glint in his eye. Without breaking his flow, he gestured subtly, and the yawning student was swiftly encapsulated in a swirling vortex of air. The student swung around so he hung upside down, hovering above the class with eyes a mixture of wide-eyed surprise and burgeoning panic while the rest of the student body strove to stifle their laughter. Lithram continued the lecture as if nothing unusual had happened, expounding on the importance of attentiveness in magic. The student remained suspended for several minutes before being gently lowered back to his seat, thoroughly chastened but unharmed.

  After the lecture, Lithram called Kharg aside. “You have a gift,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “Your control over air is remarkable for your stage. And Fafne... such a companion is rare and valuable. You would do well to cultivate this bond, it may lead you to avenues you haven’t yet considered.”

  Kharg thanked him, his mind abuzz. He had no idea that the Department of Air had even noticed him before, yet here was the Master himself offering praise. The attention was both encouraging and unsettling. Some of the Academy’s leaders were clearly taking an interest in him—but why?

  Later, he brought it up with Caspian and Ivar over dinner.

  “It’s not just me, is it?” Kharg asked. “Some of them are… watching. Not just my work, but me.”

  Caspian frowned. “Now that you mention it, I’ve noticed a few of them looking our way more often. Could be nothing.”

  Ivar shook his head. “Or it could be something. They seem to size you up every time you cross their path.”

  A few nights later, while celebrating in the revelry district, the topic came up again. Dagny stared at them as if they were hopelessly naive.

  “You truly didn’t know?” she asked, incredulous. “The departments maneuver for influence all the time. They’re always evaluating prospects—figuring out who’s worth grooming for their specialty. Any talented member brings influence through new landstrides in their field of magic. I thought that was common knowledge.”

  Sometime in mid-spring, Kharg received an unexpected summons to the Enchanter’s Workshop. Like the other departments, the enchanters held a floor in the main tower, and this broad, high-ceilinged room served as their primary training space for apprentices and journeymen. The stone walls were lined with sturdy workbenches, each scattered with tools, unfinished projects, and scraps of metal or crystal. Light from tall, mullioned windows mingled with the soft gleam of steady enchantments built into the sconces. The air smelled faintly of hot metal and charred wood, undercut by the sharper tang of alchemical fumes. Kharg, unsure why he had been called, stepped inside cautiously, Fafne perched alertly on his shoulder.

  Inside, he was greeted by Lord Hareth of Than, the diminutive Master Enchanter whose reputation for brilliance was matched only by his eccentricities. Draped in layers of fine silk and adorned with rings that glittered with enchantments, Lord Hareth exuded an aura of wealth and power. Despite his frail appearance, his piercing eyes betrayed a sharp intellect.

  “Ah, Kharg of Sitch Nar,” Lord Hareth began, his voice soft yet commanding. “I’ve heard much about you. Your mana recuperation, in particular, is... intriguing.”

  Kharg hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Thank you, my lord. I’ve trained diligently, though I didn’t think it was exceptional.”

  Hareth waved a hand dismissively, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Exceptional doesn’t begin to cover it. Your test results have piqued my interest, young man. Enchanting requires a mage willing to bind a portion of their own mana into the item, permanently. Most take months, even years, to recover enough to attempt another work of significance. You, however, could replenish your capacity swiftly and craft again within perhaps weeks. With such an aptitude, you could become one of the most prolific and accomplished enchanters this Academy has ever seen.”

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  Kharg felt a flicker of pride, but also hesitation. “I’m honored by your words, my lord. But I’ve focused my studies on illusions and elemental magic. Enchantments... they’re unfamiliar territory for me.”

  Lord Hareth tilted his head, studying Kharg as if weighing his very essence. “Unfamiliar, yes, but not unattainable. With your potential, you could master the art of enchantment far faster than most. Imagine crafting objects of power, artifacts that endure for centuries. It is a path few can tread, but one that offers immense rewards.”

  The conversation left Kharg conflicted. While he respected Lord Hareth’s insight, the idea of dedicating himself entirely to enchantments felt at odds with his broader aspirations. Yet the encounter reinforced a growing awareness of the Academy’s internal politics. His abilities were being noticed, and with recognition came expectation and pressure. He also began to suspect that Ernold had sensed more of his capabilities than the test itself revealed, perhaps even discerning the full extent of his mana pool.

  Ignoring the politicking of the Academy, Kharg instead focused on making the most of the time that remained. He even went as far as using his meditation techniques to extend his waking hours, something that was not sustainable in the long run as he needed sleep as well. But he dedicated one night every week for sleeping instead and pressed on. The late-night solitude of the library became his refuge, the faint glow of his conjured light orb illuminating the pages of tomes as he delved into subjects far beyond his current rank. With so little time remaining, he abandoned his efforts to master any practical aspects and only focused on cramming as much magical spell forms as possible into his head. He sought out all lectures he could find on aerial spells and the Sphere of Essence, and even managed to learn a few cold-based spells. One in particular proved unexpectedly welcome, a minor enchantment that allowed him to chill liquids at will. He found it especially useful for the white wines from Kvatch Nar, and after a brief moment of teasing his friends by enjoying his own glass first, he would inevitably chill theirs as well.

  * * *

  The common sitting room was warm and comfortably lit by the gentle glow of several oil lamps, their flames flickering softly against the polished wooden walls. A half-played set of Runes of Ascension lay on the table between Kharg and Dagny, the polished game-pieces glinting faintly beneath the light. The lacquered three-tiered game board—representing Netherworld, Surface and Air—had quite a few pieces placed. The black pieces, Dagny’s, were in vast majority on the surface and the air while Kharg held a tenuous advantage on the lowest tier. And Dagny had not even placed her dragon yet.

  Kharg leaned back in his armchair, stretching out the legs with a heavy sigh. A dark-haired apprentice girl seated on a nearby divan glanced over from her book when he spoke, then quickly looked away as he leaned back in his chair. Kharg, lost in the game and the weight of the week, noticed none of it. “I was this close to claiming that planar anchor,” he muttered, eyeing the board with mild regret. Caspian grinned at him but kept his mouth shut.

  He rubbed his temples and offered his friends a weary grin. “By Thoth, this has been one frustrating week,” he groaned. “How about we go out tomorrow evening for a bit of fun? I've had enough of magic theory and runic inscriptions to last a lifetime. I think we've earned it.”

  Rather than the enthusiastic agreement he expected, an uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Caspian raised an eyebrow in stunned disbelief, and Dagny stared as though Kharg had just suggested something deeply taboo. Ivar glanced nervously toward the windows, as if suddenly wary of what might lie beyond.

  Kharg looked around, thoroughly confounded by their reaction. “What? Did I say something strange?”

  “Kharg,” Caspian finally said, his voice low and deliberate, “are you serious? Tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, tomorrow,” Kharg replied, frowning. “Is there something I’m missing?”

  Dagny leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet with disbelief. “Tomorrow is the Nocturne of the Nine, Kharg.”

  Kharg blinked. “Nocturne of the Nine?” he echoed without comprehension.

  Ivar cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat. “It’s the night when all of Varakar shudders behind locked doors,” he said, voice taut. “When darkness falls we stay indoors.”

  “And we pray,” Dagny added softly, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

  “But why?” Kharg began and trailed off, recalling something Farad had mentioned when he arrived — a tale of how those who ventured onto the streets became offerings. He had paid it little mind then, thinking it one of those embellished local legends meant to intrigue visitors.

  Caspian sighed, leaning in slightly, his voice a near whisper. “Because tomorrow night, Kharg, the Gods themselves walk the streets of Varakar. It is their night, a night not meant for mortals.”

  A chill crept up Kharg’s spine. The weight in his friends’ expressions erased any notion of jest. Whatever this tradition was, it was taken seriously, deeply, somberly, and far from a mere anecdote.

  Ivar tilted his head, curiosity edging past his unease. “How did you miss this last year? You were already an apprentice by then.”

  Kharg shrugged, still unsettled. “I don’t know. Maybe I was too buried in my studies.”

  That earned a faint chuckle from the others, tension easing just enough for them to exchange knowing glances before the room slipped into a hush of uneasy reverence.

  The door to the common room creaked open, letting in a small group of apprentices with the air of people who owned whatever space they stepped into. At their center was Lucareth, clad in a gray silk tunic heavy with silver embroidery that caught the lamplight with every movement. The cut was so fine it seemed more suited to a royal audience than a place of study. He took his seat in a corner, leaning back with easy entitlement, and said something low that drew a ripple of laughter from his companions.

  Kharg glanced over his shoulder. “Subtle as ever,” he said dryly. “By the looks of him, he must have taken a wrong turn on the way to a noble’s ball,” he muttered. “All that silk and embroidery, does he think the dorm require a dress code?”

  Caspian covered a chortle with a clearing of his throat, and Dagny’s and Ivar’s eyes met briefly in a shared grin before sliding back to Kharg. His own brown hair, worn a touch long, fell in smooth, even strands that caught the lamplight with a healthy sheen. His custom-made gray school tunic was spotless, looking as if newly tailored. His diligent use of cleansing magic left no trace of oil in his hair and not a speck of dirt on his clothes. It was a quiet luxury, one the others had never mastered before their chance to learn it was gone.

  “Yeah, you’d think a man would know what’s a bit much,” Caspian murmured, eyes glinting over the rim of his cup.

  * * *

  With the approach of the summer, Kharg had to give his options serious thought. To clear his mind, he went out to the courtyard to practice. These sessions quickly drew a small crowd of apprentices and onlookers, intrigued by his progress in illusion magic. The illusory knight wore a suit of well-polished plate-armor, armed with sword and shield. Kharg worked on making its movements as lifelike as possible while it marched back and forth while swinging the sword. Fafne balanced on his shoulder, chirping approvingly as the illusory knight saluted its creator before dissolving into ethereal mist.

  Fafne suddenly nuzzled his cheek, making him turn around so he noticed a figure leaning casually against a nearby column. Indra Kithin, Mistress of Circles, Symbols, and Rituals, appeared to watch him with a keen interest. When their eyes met, Indra came over to him, her posture and steps projecting calm confidence and purpose. “You’ve come a long way since I last saw your work,” she said, her voice smooth yet carrying an undertone of calculated scrutiny. “Your control is more refined, the transitions cleaner. Illusions are notoriously difficult to master, yet you seem to be shaping them with growing confidence.”

  Kharg bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Mistress Kithin. The weave itself is not that difficult but the artistry and application of it is anything but.”

  Her lips curved into a subtle smile. “That is why few mages ever progress down this path, finding the animation of the illusions too difficult. A simple boulder or door, that’s fine. But to shape a humanoid or other being that can move without being seen through as a fake… Very few master that,” she paused briefly, “though you have come far. Perhaps you are subtly assisted by your familiar, creatures of the fey are reputed to be masters of illusions.”

  Fafne preened and bobbed his head, earning an amused smile from Indra before she continued, “He truly adds an intriguing element to your magic. A faerie dragon is a unique companion, powerful in ways virtually none here fully understand.”

  Kharg straightened, unsure how to interpret her tone. “Fafne’s been invaluable to my studies,” he said, glancing at the small dragon who continued to preen under praise.

  Indra studied him for a moment before speaking again. “I suspect you’ve heard whispers of what lies beyond your current reach—texts, tomes, knowledge that could accelerate your progress if wielded wisely.” Her eyes gleamed. “Come. There’s something I wish to show you.”

  Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked toward the tower, her robes flowing elegantly behind her. Kharg hesitated before following, his curiosity piqued. As they crossed the echoing expanse of the main floor, Indra inclined her head toward a grand staircase in the center. “The Large Library is on the second floor. Once you reach journeyman rank, you’ll be granted access. It holds a wealth of texts on magic and lore,” she said, her tone even, “but compared to the Grand Library on the sixth floor, it is little more than a stepping stone. The higher shelves hold secrets few are permitted to touch, and not even all initiates of the tower are granted entry. Still…” She gave him a faint, knowing look. “…those with prestigious backers often find such doors open sooner than expected.”

  They approached the far corner of the hall, where a wide stairway curled upward. Two men in full suits of silvery full-plate-armor stood to either side, their blank visors fixed forward. Rather than ascending, Indra led him around to the side, where a narrow shaft shimmered into view as though emerging from the air itself. The interior glowed with an eerie, shifting light, vanishing into darkness far above.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Another perk of the upper faculty,” she remarked dryly. “Otherwise, no one would have agreed to have their departments on the upper floors—imagine trudging up all twenty flights every day.”

  The moment her palm pressed against him, the floor dropped away. They rose swiftly, the walls of the shaft blurring past. Below there was nothing to stand on, only the disorienting rush of ascent. Several openings flickered by until they slowed, gliding to a halt at one. Indra stepped off, pulling him with her.

  They emerged into a corridor lined with small study rooms. She did not pause, guiding him around a corner and into a hall that stole his breath. The library ahead was paneled in dark, oil-darkened wood, the shelves laden with tomes and scrolls of every size. Enchanted crystals set in wrought silver sconces lined the stacks, casting a steady white glow that brought out the curling gold of book titles and the pale gleam of polished reading tables.

  “This is the Grand Library, where the Academy keeps its most precious knowledge. Every tome here is a piece of the puzzle that is magic, waiting to be solved.” Indra’s melodious voice carried in the stillness. “But not what I wished to show you.” She led him deeper, into an inner chamber where a clerk rose from his desk and bowed deeply. “Mistress Kithin.”

  Inside, the air was warmer, tinged with the faint scent of parchment and ink. Another ring of shelves enclosed the space, each lined with tomes and scrolls whose spines were faded with age. Several were locked behind tall glass doors, their frames inlaid with thin silver lines that hinted at wards more subtle than any physical lock. Between these shelves stood low display cases holding ancient books and scrolls carefully mounted for viewing, their covers worked in strange leathers, etched metals, or fabrics that shimmered faintly under the light.

  A few wide pedestals broke the floor space, each supporting a single relic beneath a bell-shaped glass dome. Some were rolls of brittle parchment tied with silk, others great tomes bound in cracked hide or chased with gold. The nearest dome gave off a soft blue glimmer, as though the air within were faintly enchanted. Kharg felt certain that opening any of them without permission would be a task far beyond even a skilled mage’s reach.

  At the far end of the chamber, on its own pedestal, rested a single volume beneath a flawless dome of glass. Its leather cover was worn smooth with age, the gilded script upon it flowing in curling, unbroken lines Kharg could not decipher.

  “This is a codex,” Indra said, her hand hovering just above the dome. “A magical tome that, when one becomes attuned to it, can grant understanding in days that might otherwise take months or years. This one concerns fey illusion magic.” Her gaze sharpened. “Few in this Academy are ever permitted to use such a treasure. Access often depends on… having the right patrons. And even then, not all who try can truly master it.”

  Kharg’s gaze stayed fixed on the swirling, alien letters. “I see…”

  Her expression did not change. “As with all things worth having, access is earned. The Grand Library offers wonders, but not without a price. Rank alone will not open every door. Allegiance, Kharg. The departments watch closely. Your talent has not gone unnoticed, but neither will your choices. Think carefully about where your loyalties lie, and what you are willing to give in exchange for what you seek.”

  Her words lingered as she turned away, guiding him back to the shaft. The descent was silent save for the whisper of robes.

  Kharg stepped out onto the main floor, his thoughts a tangle of fascination and unease. Indra’s words hinted at a deeper game within the Academy, one where talent was both a blessing and a burden. There were higher stakes here, ones in which skill was both currency and leverage. For now, he told himself, he would focus on his training, but the image of the codex beneath its glass prison would not leave him.