As Elyon trudged down the dimly lit corridor toward his dormitory, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The day had stretched endlessly, each lesson dragging on like a slow river of monotony and mental strain.
His muscles ached from hours of standing, listening, and practicing, and his mind felt clouded and dull. It was only the first day back at the academy, yet it already felt as though weeks had passed.
The stone walls of the dormitory echoed with the faint footsteps of other students returning from their day's duties, but Elyon barely noticed. He longed only for rest.
Reaching his room, he pushed open the wooden door, its hinges creaking softly. Inside, the faint golden glow of a single candle flickered by the bedside, casting dancing shadows on the worn walls.
Alan, his roommate, lay sprawled across the top bunk of their modest two-level bed, engrossed in a leather-bound book that seemed ancient. The soft rustling of pages turning was the only sound breaking the quiet.
Elyon didn't speak. The weight of exhaustion pressed so heavily against him that even the simplest conversation felt like a burden. Without hesitation, he collapsed face-first onto the lower bunk, letting out a deep sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the whole day.
From above, Alan glanced down. His voice was low but carried genuine concern.
"You seem tired."
Elyon's eyes remained closed, but he managed to murmur, "Tell me about it... today felt way too long."
Alan shifted slightly, still half-reading, half-watching.
"It's only the first day, and you already feel like giving up?"
"Can't get executed already, right?" Elyon said with a weak chuckle, trying to mask his fatigue.
"Anyway, I'm heading to bed." Alan closed his book gently. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Elyon replied softly.
the room was left in a near silence except for the faint crackling of the candle wick.
Elyon lay still for a moment, breathing shallowly, but sleep refused to come. His mind was restless, cycling through the events of the day, the lessons, the faces, the endless expectations. The uniform he had worn all day—felt stiff and confining. With a weary sigh, he slipped out of it and changed into his regular clothes: a simple linen shirt and worn trousers.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open, thoughts spinning like a whirlwind. Sleep seemed a distant dream.
After what felt like an eternity of tossing and turning, Elyon sat up abruptly, frustration tightening his chest. The quiet room felt stifling. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet touching the cold wooden floor.
His gaze drifted to the single chair in the corner near the window. He moved over and sat down, pulling his knees close as he looked out into the night. The window was open slightly, letting in the cool night air tinged with the faint scent of pine and distant smoke.
Above, the sky was a deep indigo canvas sprinkled with stars that shimmered like scattered diamonds. The vastness of the cosmos, so distant and unreachable, made him feel small and insignificant, yet something inside him stirred—a strange, yearning desire.
He stared long and hard, wondering, Am I powerful enough to reach them? Could I ever touch those stars?
The silence was suddenly broken by a voice—a low, calm whisper that seemed to echo both within and beyond the room. Elyon froze.
"If your desire is to touch the stars... I'm afraid you're quite far from that right now."
His head snapped around, eyes wide. No one else was there. Alan was sound asleep in the bunk above, undisturbed.
"Who... who said that?" Elyon thought, heart pounding.
"It's me, Elyon. It's Elren."
The voice was familiar—calm yet tinged with a certain sharpness, like an old friend with a touch of impatience.
"Oh, Elren... you startled me," Elyon whispered aloud, feeling a mixture of relief and surprise.
"I haven't used you in quite some time."
"By 'quite some time,' do you mean six years?" Elren replied, with a hint of annoyance.
Elyon winced inwardly, remembering. "Ahhh... yeah. The last time you needed my help was when your ware trying to figure out how recipes worked for the soup your Mom was making."
"I never relied on an AI assistant for help," Elyon said defensively, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can learn things on my own."
Elren chuckled softly. "I'm not some dame AI. I am a meta-spell entity."
Elyon frowned, intrigued despite himself. "What's a meta-spell entity?"
"A being—consciousness created by powerful spells. We have no physical form, but our awareness exists independently."
Elren's voice carried an otherworldly calm, as if it was speaking from a place beyond normal reality.
"We can link ourselves to the caster's memories, allowing us to know what the caster knows. We can also operate on these memories—manipulate, analyze, and assist."
Elyon blinked, trying to process the concept. "You know everything I know?"
"Yes... and no," Elren replied cryptically. "We can see the caster's memories, but not the deep, hidden ones—unless the caster opens them to us."
"Is that why you can talk to me now, even though I didn't summon you?"
"Correct," Elren said. "We are connected through consciousness, and sometimes, when you are in need—even if you don't realize it—we appear."
Elren shifted in his voice. "But... I feel like you've been neglecting me."
"Neglected?" Elyon asked with a tone of disbelief.
"I thought you didnt have a body."
"We may not have a body," Elren said, "but we can still feel emotions, albeit on different levels than humans do."
Elren shifting his tone again asked.
"If I may be curious, why do you ask about touching the stars?"
There was a pause, a quiet that seemed to stretch beyond the physical room. Then Elyon answered:
"Because the desire to reach beyond oneself... to touch the unreachable... it is the spark of true power. But it also reveals the distance you still must travel."
Elyon gazed out the window, the stars winking down like silent sentinels in the endless dark. The night air was cool against his skin, a balm to the weariness that clung to him like a heavy cloak. He lifted his hand slowly, reaching upward as if to grasp the glittering points of light scattered across the sky.
"When I say I want to touch the stars," Elyon said, his voice calm and steady, "I don't mean it literally." He kept his hand raised, fingers trembling slightly in the moonlight. "What I mean is… I want to get higher and higher—so high that nothing is beyond my reach. I want to be able to reach out and take anything I desire, just by extending my hand."
Elren was silent for a long moment, the quiet between them thick with unspoken thoughts. Then, finally, the voice returned, slow and measured. "So… is that your goal? To get higher and higher?"
Elyon lowered his hand and shook his head softly. "No. It's never been my goal exactly. It's just... something I want to do. Something I feel drawn to." His eyes reflected the distant stars, thoughtful and tinged with longing.
Elren's tone shifted, carrying a gentle challenge. "You could seek greater ambitions than that."
Elyon looked away for a moment, biting his lip. "Just because one goal is bigger than another doesn't always mean you'll reach it."
"In life, your goals are like targets, with the biggest one standing farthest away, and the smaller ones closer by. Just because a goal is large and grand does not mean you will hit it. The biggest goals are often the furthest from you, and the path you must travel to reach them will inevitably change their trajectory. But aiming for smaller goals gradually closes the gap between where you are and where you want to be. And only then, when you've reduced that distance step by step, will you be able to hit your target."
Elren stayed silent then he said.
"That's right." Elren's voice held a note of approval. "Start by practicing all the spells you know and have learned.Thos are your smaller targets."
Elyon straightened, a flicker of determination sparking in his eyes. "You're right. Okay, then—let's try the healing spell."
He lifted his hand and bit gently on the tip of his thumb, drawing a small bead of blood. He clenched his fingers around the wound, gritting his teeth against the sting. Concentrating, he summoned a swirl of green and red magic—the colors twisting and dancing like living flames around his palm. The wound slowly sealed, the skin knitting itself back together.
"I seem to have a hang of this," Elyon murmured with a small smile.
"Maybe," Elren replied thoughtfully, "but perhaps you could also try to increase your stage level with Arcana-type magic."
Elyon's brow furrowed in confusion. "Stage level? What do you mean?"
"All magic types are broken into seven stages," Elren explained, his tone patient and instructive. "They range from Awakened, to Novice, then Advanced, Adept, Master, Grand, and finally the final stage—Dominator. You are currently at the Awakened stage on your Vital Essence, and the Novice stage on your Arcana Essence. To become more powerful, you must progress your essences."
"Essences?" Elyon echoed, trying to grasp the concept.
"Yes," Elren replied. "Your Vital Essence is the core of your life force, while your Arcana Essence represents your magical ability and affinity. Both can be strengthened and evolved."
Elyon's curiosity deepened. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
"There are several ways," Elren answered. "You can advance your stage through rituals, potions, or by passing special trials and requirements."
"What would be the best route for me?" Elyon asked, considering his options.
"It depends on your priorities," Elren said. "If you want quicker progression, potions might be the fastest route. But if you prefer a safer, more measured approach, rituals or trials are better. They require more effort but provide deeper understanding and stability."
Elyon nodded thoughtfully. "I see... I guess I'll save those for another time. For now, I need to get some rest."
"Wise choice," Elren agreed. "Your body and mind must be ready to absorb the growth you seek."
Elyon stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. The quiet hum of magic lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the soft rustle of the night outside.
As sleep began to take hold, Elyon's mind replayed Elren's words—the idea of stages, essences, and the long journey ahead. He felt a stirring deep within himself, a promise of potential waiting to be unlocked.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the darkness, "I'll begin again."
The stars outside shone quietly, their cold light a beacon for dreams and ambition.
Meanwhile somewhere in the noble distract a room was quiet save for the gentle ticking of an old wall clock and the occasional faint rustle of fabric when one of them moved. A soft golden glow spilled across the room from an ornate hanging lantern, its light flickering as if stirred by unseen winds.
A chessboard lay between them — carved from polished obsidian and ivory — its pieces tall, sharp, and elegant. Charles sat on one side, his expression unreadable but posture relaxed, one leg crossed casually over the other. Serenya, poised and upright, mirrored none of that calm. Her eyes were sharp, steady, the quiet intensity of a mind fully engaged.
They hadn't spoken in several minutes. The board had done the talking. Still, it wasn't the kind of silence that felt empty — it was dense, like mist before a storm.
Charles moved a piece. Smooth, precise.
Serenya's gaze narrowed slightly. A knight taken. But not recklessly.
She exhaled slowly, then reached for her queen.
Serenya thinks ''He's not playing to control. Not yet. He's playing to observe. Letting the board speak before he does. That's not overconfidence… it's restraint.''
Charles thinks ''She's responding with logic… elegance. No sudden strikes. No careless aggression. But she hasn't seen the space I've been opening since move five.''
He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly as if getting closer to the truth hidden within the game.
"You're not usually this quiet," Serenya murmured, not looking up as she moved her bishop into a defensive line.
Charles smiled faintly. "Thinking. About you. About me. About... what we do with the things inside us that don't make sense."
She finally met his gaze. "You've never been short on words. What's weighing on you?"
He hesitated, his fingers brushing lightly across a pawn before withdrawing. "There's something in me that wants to burn everything down," he said at last. "A part that sees beauty in destruction. In endings."
Serenya tilted her head. "And the other part?"
"The other part wants to protect everything," he said, voice low. "Wants to preserve the world... even the parts that are already cracked. I don't understand them. They're both me. And I'm caught in between."
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she moved her rook, slowly, her eyes not on the board anymore, but on the candlelight, dancing in the window's glass reflection.
"My philosophy," she said after a long moment, "is different."
Charles listened, curious.
"I don't believe in destruction or preservation," she continued, her tone thoughtful. "I believe in balance. Cycles. What decays today will nourish tomorrow. What is born must someday fade. But in between... we have the chance to shape what grows."
She glanced back at him, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "Not by burning or preserving. By cultivating."
He studied her for a while, the board between them temporarily forgotten. "You're like a gardener."
Serenya smiled faintly. "I am. And I prune when I must."
The match pressed on. Every move now felt heavier, more deliberate. The board had thinned. Only a handful of pieces remained. The candle burned lower, casting longer shadows on their faces.
Charles stared at the board. Then made a move Serenya hadn't anticipated.
A pawn. Diagonal. Quiet.
Serenya thinks ''He sacrificed position. Why? Unless…''
She scanned the board.
Charles thinks ''The queen's trapped. She just doesn't know it yet. One more move, and her bishop will shift forward. She'll think I'm creating a hole. But it's a net.''
Serenya made her next move — her rook defending the edge. Confident.
Charles waited only a second.
Then reached forward, moved his bishop along a clean diagonal, slicing between two of her guards. The queen — her last strong piece — now cornered. Her king exposed.
"Check," he said quietly.
Her brows furrowed. The realization came slow. No more escape paths. No defense in time.
Checkmate was inevitable. Two moves at most.
She looked at the board, then back up at him.
"Well played," she said softly.
Charles leaned back, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I don't win to destroy. I win to understand what could have been done better."
There was silence again. A long one. The candle flickered lower.
"You see a war inside yourself," she said quietly. "Two voices. Destruction and preservation. But perhaps... they're not enemies. Maybe they're gardeners too."
Charles blinked.
"Maybe," she continued, "what you burn isn't always ruin. Sometimes, fire clears the weeds. And what you preserve isn't always strength — sometimes, it's just fear of change."
Charles didn't respond. Not immediately. He looked down at the board.
Then, for the first time in the evening, he carefully reset every piece.
"I wonder," he said at last, his tone almost gentle, "if the fire in me… could be used to grow something."
Serenya placed her hand atop the black queen.
"If you're willing to learn how," she said, "I'll teach you."
The candle finally burned out.
And in the darkness, the last pieces of the board stood still — silent witnesses to minds sharper than blades and hearts still finding their shape.