The academy

Elian traced the familiar lines in the damp earth with a practiced finger. The Elder Futhark, a language whispered by the wind and etched in the bones of the world, flowed from his mind onto the forest floor. He muttered the incantation, a low hum that resonated with the ancient oaks surrounding him. The runes flared with a soft, emerald light, drawing energy from the very roots of the Wildwood.

He was fifteen, a boy woven from the very fabric of this untamed place. His skin was tanned by sun filtering through leaves, his hair the color of rich soil, and his eyes, a startling green, held the secrets of the forest depths. For years, Master Silas , under the ever watchful eye of Lord Theron, had been his tutor, guiding him through the ever growing paths of runecraft. He'd learned to bind wounds with enchanted herbs, to call rain with the rhythm of the forest, and to ward off creatures that prowled in the shadows.

He mastered it all. He understood the flow of power, the subtle dances of energy that pulsed beneath the surface of the world. He could read the stories etched into the bark of trees and hear the whispers of the earth itself. He was, in all ways that mattered, a son of the Wildwood.

As the light faded from the runes, Elian felt a surge of satisfaction. He was ready. He had mastered everything The Wildwood could teach him. He was a guardian, a protector, a part of this wild, vibrant tapestry.

Or so he thought.

The snap of a twig broke his concentration. He turned, expecting Master Silas, but instead, he saw the stern figure of his father, Lord Theron himself, standing at the edge of the clearing. Lord Claudius Theron was a man carved from granite, his face etched with the hardships of a life spent in one unforgiving war and tilling the unforgiving land. He was a man of few words and even fewer smiles.

"Elian," Theron said, his voice rough as bark. "Come home. We need to talk."

Elian felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. His father rarely ventured into the Wildwood, and when he did, it was never for pleasantries. He silently followed the Lord back to their small mansion, nestled on the edge of the village.

The building was a simple structure, built from logs and concrete, but it was home. The scent of woodsmoke and simmering stew usually filled the air, but tonight, a heavy silence seemed to have infected the room. His mother, Lyra, a woman with eyes as blue as the summer sky, sat by the hearth, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her face was twisted with worry.

Theron gestured for Elian to sit. "Son," he began, his voice unusually hesitant. "We…uh, we have received a summons."

A summons? Elian's heart pounded. What summons? Summons from whom? wait isn't the royal family the only ones allowed to send summons? The King? That could only mean trouble, am I in trouble? And so his mind went on thinking.

" From the Royal Academy," Lyra interjected, her voice trembling slightly. "In Silverhaven, the capital. As the King recommended."

Elian frowned. The Royal Academy? It was a legendary place, a beacon of knowledge and power, where the most gifted mages and scholars in the kingdom were trained. But what did they want with him?

"They have heard of your… zeal for knowledge," Theron continued. "Master Silas sent word, praising your aptitude with the runes."

Elian felt a cold dread wash over him. He looked at his parents, their faces etched with a mixture of pride and fear. He understood then. This wasn't a request; it was an order.

"You are to enroll in the Academy, Elian," Theron said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "You leave at dawn."

The words hit Elian like a physical blow. He stared at his father, unable to comprehend. "But… but I belong here," he stammered. "I have my work with Master Silas here, my connection to the Wildwood is here. I can't leave so suddenly father."

"You have no choice," Theron said, his voice hardening. "It is the law. All those with magical gifts are required to serve the kingdom. This is your duty."

"Duty?" Elian cried out, his voice rising in anger. "My duty is to protect this forest, to safeguard the balance of nature. Not to sit in some dusty classroom, reciting ancient texts!"

"Elian, please," Lyra pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. "This is a great opportunity. Think of the power you could wield, the good you could do."

He looked at his mother, her face pleading, and the anger slowly drained away, replaced by a hollow ache. He knew he couldn't argue. He knew his parents were right. He had no choice.

He spent the rest of the evening in a daze, packing a small bag with the few belongings he possessed: a worn leather-bound book of runes, a handful of dried herbs, and a small carving of a stag, a gift from Elijah. He barely slept, his mind racing with conflicting emotions: resentment, fear, and a flicker of reluctant curiosity.

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, he stood before his parents, his face pale and drawn. He offered them a stiff hug, unable to meet their eyes. He knew they were proud of him, but he also saw the sadness in their faces, the unspoken fear that they might never see him again.

He turned and walked away, leaving behind the only home he had ever known. He walked towards the road that led to Silverhaven, his heart heavy with the weight of his unwanted destiny. The familiar scent of pine and damp earth filled his nostrils, a bittersweet reminder of what he was leaving behind.

The journey to Silverhaven was long and arduous. He traveled by foot and by cart, passing through bustling market towns and desolate stretches of countryside. He saw sights he had only ever dreamed of: towering castles, glittering cities, and faces from every corner of the kingdom.

But none of it eased the ache in his heart. He felt like a caged bird, longing for the freedom of the open sky. He clung to his runes, finding solace in their familiar power. He practiced his craft in secret, whispering incantations under his breath, drawing strength from the earth beneath his feet.

Finally, after weeks of travel, he arrived at Silverhaven. The city was a sprawling metropolis of stone and steel, a stark contrast to the rustic simplicity of his village. He stood at the gates, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all.

The Royal Academy loomed in the distance, a majestic structure of white marble, its spires reaching towards the heavens. It was a symbol of power, of knowledge, of everything he distrusted.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the gates, leaving behind the Wildwood and entering a world he didn't understand, a world he wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of. He carried with him the weight of his duty, the memory of his home, and the burning ember of hope that one day, he might find his way back to the forest he loved.

His first days at the Academy were a blur of lectures, examinations, and introductions. He was surrounded by students from all walks of life: nobles with silver spoons in their mouths, commoners with calloused hands, and everything in between. Some were eager to learn, others were driven by ambition, and a few, like Elian, seemed simply lost.

He excelled in his runecraft classes, surpassing even the instructors with his intuitive understanding of the ancient language. But he struggled with the other subjects: history, mathematics, and the intricacies of courtly etiquette. He felt like an outsider, a wild creature trapped in a gilded cage.

He longed for the familiar feel of the earth beneath his feet, the scent of pine needles and damp soil, the comforting silence of the Wildwood. He missed Master Silas wise counsel, his parents' loving gaze, and the simple rhythm of village life.

One evening, as he sat alone in his dorm room, staring out at the sprawling cityscape, he felt a familiar tug at his senses. It was a faint whisper, a call from the Wildwood, carried on the wind.

He closed his eyes and focused, reaching out with his mind, trying to connect with the familiar energy of the forest. He felt a surge of power, a connection that transcended distance and time.

And then, he heard a voice, a voice he hadn't heard in months, a voice that filled him with hope.

"Elian," the voice whispered. "We need you."

The voice was Maeve's. And it was filled with urgency.

"The Wildwood is in danger," she said. "A darkness is spreading, threatening to consume everything we hold dear. You are the only one who can stop it."

Elian's heart pounded. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't ignore the call of the Wildwood. It was his home, his responsibility, his destiny.

He rose from his bed, his eyes filled with determination. He gathered his belongings, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and excitement. He was no longer a reluctant student, a pawn in the kingdom's game. He was a son of the Wildwood, and he was going home.

He slipped out of the Academy, unnoticed in the darkness, and headed towards the gates of Silverhaven. He knew he was risking everything: his education, his future, even his life.

But he didn't care. He had a duty to the Wildwood, a duty that transcended all others.

As he stepped through the gates, leaving the city behind, he felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. He was home, in a sense. He was following his true path.

He turned his face towards the horizon, towards the distant trees and the promise of the Wildwood. And he ran. He ran as fast as he could, driven by the desperate call of his home, knowing that the fate of the forest, and perhaps the entire kingdom, rested on his shoulders.