Elian Vey's earliest memories were not of grand halls or soaring towers, but of earth beneath his fingers and wind singing through wildflowers.
He grew up in a small fishing village tucked between steep cliffs and the endless sea—a place where the sky met the waves in a stretch of silver light at dawn. The village was little more than a handful of stone cottages, their roofs scarred by salt and storm, clustered around a harbor filled with worn boats and tangled nets. The air always carried a mix of salt and woodsmoke, sharp and clean.
Magic, the villagers said, was for kings and dragons. The old stories spoke of blazing fireballs and sweeping storms, fierce power wielded by heroes who could command the elements. But for Elian, magic had always been quieter—like the warmth that spread from his mother's hands as she tended her garden or the soft pulse in the soil beneath his feet.
His mother's garden was a miracle in itself. Where others saw only jagged stones and poor dirt, she coaxed green shoots and bright flowers. Elian spent hours beside her, watching as leaves unfurled and buds bloomed under her careful touch. The scent of thyme and lavender, rosemary and mint filled the small yard, mixing with the salty breeze.
Elian's father was a fisherman, broad-shouldered and steady, his skin weathered by sun and sea. He never understood Elian's quiet fascination with growing things or healing. "The sea is what feeds us," he'd say, "not flowers or magic." Still, he loved his son fiercely, proud of the kindness in his eyes.
Magic came to Elian slowly, like the dawn creeping over the horizon.
One autumn evening, after a violent storm had shaken the village, he was helping the village healer, Maren, tend to the wounded. A little girl had fallen, scraping her knee deep on the sharp rocks. She whimpered, clutching her leg, tears mingling with rain.
Without thinking, Elian knelt beside her and laid his hands over the raw skin. A warmth bloomed beneath his palms, soft and golden, like sunlight slipping through clouds. The girl's sobs quieted, her breathing steadied, and the wound began to close, knitting itself back together as though touched by an unseen hand.
Maren watched with wide eyes. "You carry the old magic," she said softly. "Not the loud magic of fire or storms, but the gentle magic of life itself. It listens, it mends."
From that night on, the villagers began to come quietly to Elian for small healing touches—a bruise soothed, a fever eased, a weary heart calmed. It was never spoken aloud, but the villagers called it the gift of the quiet hands.
But the village was small, and knowledge was scarce.
Books on magic and healing were rare treasures. The village's stories spoke of a place called the Academy—but it was never a school in the way Elian imagined. It was a word, a promise, a way of living that stretched across the land like roots beneath the earth.
The Academy was the name given to the idea that magic and learning belonged to everyone, not just the mighty or noble. It was said to be found anywhere magic lived—in the whispered lessons of the forest, in the careful tending of gardens, in the stories passed from elder to child.
Elian dreamed of finding it, of joining the great web of learners, healers, and magicians who lived by its quiet rules: to observe, to respect, to heal, and to share.
At sixteen, with a small bag of belongings and a heart full of hope, Elian left the village behind.
His journey brought him to Verdant Spire—not a towering fortress or ancient academy building, but a sanctuary carved from mountain and forest. Here, dragons soared overhead in human form, their golden scales gleaming like living flame. Trees whispered old secrets, and flowers bloomed with colors no painter could capture.
Verdant Spire was a gathering place, a living knot in the great web of the Academy. Those who came here were seekers, teachers, and keepers of knowledge. Some traveled far to be part of it. Others were born here, raised among the stories and magic woven through every stone and leaf.
As Elian crossed a wooden bridge entwined with blooming vines, he felt the pulse of the place—alive and breathing, much like the garden at his mother's side, but vast and wild.
Among the flowerbeds sat a girl with wild curls and dirt-smudged hands, murmuring softly to the plants around her.
"You must be new," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "I'm Liora. Come, I'll show you how we learn here."
Elian followed her along twisting paths where sunlight dappled through emerald leaves, where quiet laughter and murmured magic filled the air.
Here, there were no classrooms, no schedules or tests. Lessons came from stories told beneath stars, from healing hands joined in kindness, from watching dragons teach their fire to the wind.
Each day was a lesson in patience and presence. Healing was more than magic; it was listening to the world, feeling its rhythms, and caring for the life that pulsed beneath skin and soil alike.
That night, under a tapestry of stars, Elian sat beside a gently flowing stream and opened the small journal he carried.
He sketched a dragon curled in a bed of wildflowers, its eyes soft and wise.
The world was vast, and magic was patient.
The Academy was not a place he had to find—it was a journey he had only just begun.
Among fire and flowers, I will find my place, he wrote, his heart steady in the quiet night.