Chapter 23 - Valthavn

Hidden between the folds of reality, beyond what ordinary eyes can see.

There lies a place that pulses with a power older than the gods themselves.

A place that existed before the Æsir stripped Mana from human life.

A place where The First Flame still burns, the first manifestation of raw Mana in physical form, a flame that burns not with heat, but with memory, power, and purpose.

It appeared during the First Era when humans first awakened to Mana. Some believe it was a gift from the Forgotten One, others believe it is a fragment of the world's soul.

Velthavn, the Sanctuary of the First Flame.

It is not marked on any map, nor remembered by common history. Yet it endures, veiled by ancient illusions and protected by the ocean's deepest currents, somewhere within the Norwegian Sea.

Here, legends don't just sleep... They walk.

The ground hums with echoes of spells cast in forgotten tongues. The air shimmers faintly, not from heat, but from memory.

Every stone has borne witness. Every whisper of wind carries truths that history has tried to bury.

Velthavn is not found by chance.

It calls.

It summons those who remember Mana, not as a tool, but as a birthright. Not as science, but as inheritance.

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Velthavn was more than a sanctuary. It was the origin.

Before the great sundering of magic from mortal blood.

Before the Æsir severed humanity's connection to Mana, Velthavn stood as the first and truest Sanctum of Arcana.

A place of learning.

A place of discipline.

A place of awakening.

Though often referred to as a "school," it was never a place of rote instruction. Velthavn didn't teach Mana.

It unlocked it.

Over the centuries, it became the heart of a hidden global network.

Its branches, disguised as temples, ruins, and myths, spread across the world, each tracing its lineage back to the Sanctum.

Though they bore different names and adopted local legends, all shared a single purpose:

To preserve the knowledge of Mana and guide those attuned to its pulse.

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The Three Sacred Disciplines

At the core of Velthavn's teachings were three sacred disciplines, preserved since the First Era of Mana:

The Art of Magic.

The direct shaping of raw Mana into elemental forces, illusions, healing, barriers, or arcane phenomena.

Students were taught to perceive the world's leylines and to mold them through clarity of mind, strength of will, and harmony of spirit.

True Magic wasn't about incantations.

It was about aligning oneself with the rhythm of unseen creation.

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Imbuing

The embedding of Mana into objects, tools, and artifacts.

A sword that could sever spirit.

A cloak that hides from even divine sight.

A coin that whispers forgotten truths.

Imbuing requires deep knowledge of material, symbol, and essence. It demanded patience, precision, and respect for Mana's permanence.

When done right, it creates wonders.

When done wrong, catastrophes.

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Enhancement

The most inward of the disciplines channel Mana to reinforce body, mind, and spirit.

Enhancers trained to heighten senses, resist toxins, strengthen muscles, or surpass human limitations. It was demanding physically, mentally, and spiritually.

Many legendary warriors were once failed mages who found their truth in this discipline.

Velthavn rejected the concept of modern "classes."

Each student was entrusted to a Mentor, a master whose soul resonated with the student's potential.

Some students specialized in one path. Others, rare and gifted, walked all three.

Each discipline was more than a technique; it was a philosophy, shaping not just how one used Mana but how one understood the world.

Velthavn endures, silent and unseen.

It waits for the worthy.

For those who remember.

For those who still hear the call of Mana.

The First Flame still burns.

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Now.

Deep within Velthavn's central sanctum, beneath stone arches carved with runes no longer spoken aloud, a meeting was underway.

All the Mentors had gathered. Instructors from every path, from every branch, those who once walked with legends, and those shaping the legends yet to come.

Even the flame at the center of the hall burned brighter, sensing the weight of what was to be discussed.

And... Grandpa was there, too.

Seated quietly at the edge of the circular chamber.

To the untrained eye, he was just an old man with kind eyes and a slow gait.

But every Mentor in that room knew better.

He didn't speak often, but when he did, even the First Flame seemed to lean in.

The Headmaster, seated on the highest chair, gazed down and asked calmly:

"…After all this time... Vanishing without a word, gone for years… And now, you show up and request an audience so suddenly. What happened... Mahesa?"

The room fell silent.

Even the flickering of the First Flame seemed to pause.

All eyes turned toward the old man.

Toward Grandpa.

Mahesa didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of his presence settle like mist across the chamber.

His eyes, dark and steady, scanned the familiar faces.

Mentors, instructors, warriors, scholars, many of whom had once been his students... Or his rivals.

Then he stood, slowly, without a word. His robe, simple and earth-toned, brushed the stone floor as he stepped forward.

There was no theatrics. No show of power. But the air around him shifted like the leyline beneath the sanctum had recognized him again.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, but something in it made the temperature drop.

"I disappeared," he said, "...because it was my choice, Master"

His gaze lifted, meeting the Principal's.

"... And now I have returned because I have found it... I found the final piece of the puzzle... I found the Last Harbinger... The Harbinger of Light"

At first, there was only silence.

Then, a rustle of robes shifted as one of the younger Mentors leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

"The Harbinger of Light?" She echoed, skeptical. "That's a myth. A parable we teach to students too eager to touch divinity"

An older Mentor, silver-haired and blind in one eye muttered, "He wouldn't speak the name lightly." His fingers trembled slightly as they clutched the edge of his staff.

Another, a scholar robed in sea-blue silks, scoffed. "The Harbinger is a prophecy, Mahesa. A poetic metaphor for balance. Not a person"

But then the First Flame flared.

Not violently but with purpose. As if stirred. As if listening.

The Headmaster did not look away from Mahesa. His expression remained unreadable, but his fingers curled tighter around the carved arms of his chair.

"You've returned to us," He said quietly, "Claiming you've found it... The one we've only spoken of in theory, in shadows"

His voice deepened.

"...Where?"

Mahesa looked down, for a long time.

Then he said a single word:

"I did not find it, Master... It came to me on its own"

At those final words, "He came to me." A chill swept through the chamber.

Not from the cold.

But from the weight of understanding.

The First Flame pulsed once, slow and steady, its light deepening to a golden hue that hadn't been seen in generations.

The sea-robed scholar's expression faltered. His lips parted as if to scoff again, but no sound came. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, eyes wide with something dangerously close to awe.

The younger Mentor who had spoken out first sat back, eyes narrowing, the skepticism still there, but now tempered with caution. Doubt had not left her but it no longer stood tall. It crept, uncertain.

The one-eyed elder bowed his head. "...Then the Veil is thinning" He whispered. "Just as the old scrolls warned"

A tall warrior-Mentor, clad in cracked armor that still bore the burn marks of past battles, clenched his jaw.

"You brought him here?" He asked gruffly. "To Velthavn?"

Mahesa didn't answer immediately.

That silence hung heavier than any spoken word.

He did not nod. He did not shake his head. He merely looked up, eyes reflecting the flicker of the First Flame, a mirror of ancient knowledge and painful certainty.

Then, finally, his voice came, quiet, but impossible to ignore.

"No, I did not"

His gaze swept across the chamber again, softer now.

"He is... Young. Untrained. But the power in him is not new. It is remembered... As if it's only waiting to awaken"

A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered Mentors. Some leaned in. Others drew back.

The Headmaster's knuckles were white around his chair's arms.

Mahesa stepped forward again.

"I saw it," He said. "With my own eyes. On that night... Not just Mana… But something deeper. He walks with light that is not blinding, but revealing. A light that remembers. And more than that... It seems he hears the Flame"

A hush fell again.

For all their training… All their decades... Centuries, for some, none among them had ever heard the First Flame.

Not truly.

Only the Forgotten One was said to have once listened and spoken with it, long before the Flame's language was lost to silence.

The First Flame pulsed again, brighter this time, slow and resounding, like a heartbeat echoing through the stone.

And in that light, Mahesa's final words struck harder than prophecy:

"He doesn't come seeking answers… He is the answer"

The chamber trembled slightly as the ancient runes in the walls began to glow, one by one.

The Sanctum had heard.

Velthavn was awakening.

The Harbinger has already stepped onto the chessboard.

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