When Power Speaks

Siro jolted upright, breath caught in his chest.

He had been falling—one of those dreams where the world drops out from beneath you—and now he was awake, heart racing.

For a moment, he couldn't tell if everything that happened had been part of the dream too. The Sylenthmist. The council. The Arcclave Ring now faintly glowing on his finger.

But the velvet canopy above his bed, the gold-leaf trim on the ceiling—those details were too real, too precise to be imagined.

Aeon Spire was real.

Siro heard a knock at the door.

"Coming!" he called, voice still thick with sleep.

He sprang out of bed, nearly tripping on the sheets as he rushed to the door.

Pausing just a step away, he raised his hand.

The Arcclave Ring shimmered in response—soft blue light flaring to life as arcane symbols spun out from it like whispers in motion. They danced in the air for a brief moment, then surged forward, striking the door with a gentle hum.

It opened.

And there stood Renan, already smiling.

"Have you read the guide they gave us? This place is astonishing, Siro!" Renan said, eyes bright with excitement.

"You know I'm not exactly a fan of books," Siro muttered with a shrug as Renan stepped inside.

Renan made himself comfortable on the edge of Siro's bed, his gaze wandering across the room's intricate details—arched molding, subtle sigil-etched trims, the faint hum of enchantment in the walls.

But Siro's attention had shifted.

"Renan… that fabric. It looks—otherworldly," he said, stepping closer.

He reached out, fingers brushing the smooth, silken weave of Renan's sleeve. The cloth shimmered faintly beneath his touch.

Renan laughed softly. "You really didn't read the guide, did you?"

Siro gave a sheepish grin.

"It's called Aetherveil," Renan explained. "It's the official uniform of the academy. Enchanted, tailored to your essence. There's a set in your wardrobe, probably humming your name by now."

"You do realize how creepy that sounds, right?" Siro said, eyeing Renan with a smirk.

Renan shot back without missing a beat. "Weren't you the one mumbling about winds humming before we even knew this place existed?"

Siro raised a brow. "That's earthly. This is a talking wardrobe. There's a difference."

They both laughed, the tension of unfamiliar territory briefly melting into something familiar.

Siro made his way toward the wardrobe. When he opened it, a soft, shimmering glow spilled out—rows of folded garments, each piece woven with magic that seemed to breathe with the room.

He reached for the Aetherveil, the fabric cool and weightless in his hands.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a teasing grin as he began to change.

Renan didn't even look up. "Not in the slightest."

Soon enough, Siro finished changing. He tugged at the collar of his robe. "Alright. Not bad."

Renan gave him a nod, then motioned to the door. "Come on. Let's see what this place looks like when it's not wrapped in fog and mystery."

They stepped into the corridor—and paused.

Morning light spilled through the tall windows, bathing the stone halls in gold. The castle-like walls, which had felt shadowed and secret the night before, now stretched wide and proud. Ivy clung to the arches, and the distant hum of students filled the air.

It felt less like stepping into a legend and more like walking into a world that had always been waiting.

Siro blinked, taking it in. "This place really doesn't try to be subtle."

"Subtle's overrated," Renan replied with a grin. "Come on. Banquet hall's this way."

They followed a slow-moving group of students through the western wing and towards the southern part of the Academy. The scent of baked bread and something sweet was already drifting down the hall.

When they entered the hall, Siro stopped short. Long tables lined the space, sunlight catching the glint of crystal dishes and silver trays.

"This... is breakfast?" Siro said.

Siro reached for a pastry that looked suspiciously like a cloud had been baked and dusted with starlight.

"Do we even know what half of this is?" he asked, inspecting a fruit that shimmered faintly in the light.

"Nope," Renan replied, already piling his plate. "But I'm risking it."

Just as Siro grabbed a slice of honeyed bread, a voice interrupted the ease between them—smooth, clear, and laced with venom.

"Careful with that. Might be a bit rich for your kind."

The two boys turned.

A student stood across the table—tall, well-kept, with perfectly parted silver-blonde hair and robes tailored so sharply they might've been cut by blade rather than thread. His Arcclave Ring gleamed gold, and the sigil etched onto the front of his robe marked his family crest—an unmistakable sign of noble lineage.

His eyes flicked to Renan, then landed squarely on Siro. "Didn't realize they were offering scholarships to street strays now."

Siro stared back, shoulders tensing. "Didn't realize arrogance was a prerequisite for breakfast."

A few students nearby paused mid-bite, heads slowly turning toward the unfolding tension.

Renan stepped between them, calm but firm. "Let's keep our prejudices off the table, shall we?"

The nobleborn smirked. "Oh, how noble. Defending your little pet project?"

Renan's expression darkened, the mirth draining from his voice. "Say that again."

The student raised a brow. "No need. I imagine everyone here can already smell where he's from."

Siro didn't flinch—but he didn't step back either. His voice was steady. "You say that like you've ever worked a day in your life."

The nobleborn laughed—light and sharp, like glass ready to break. "You think this academy was meant for people like you? Aeon Spire is sacred ground, not some charity institution for village trash."

It was quick—too quick.

A flick of the noble's wrist, a gleam of light, and a spell launched across the air toward Siro, unspoken but searing.

And in that split second— Renan moved.

He didn't think. Didn't speak.

He simply raised his arm—and the air shimmered.

The spell struck something invisible mid-flight, shattering like it had hit an unseen wall. A wave of force rippled outward, knocking silverware from nearby tables and drawing startled gasps.

Between Siro and the attack now stood Renan, his eyes glowing faintly—not with fire, but with clarity. The Arcclave Ring on his hand pulsed silver, threads of magic unfurling from his fingertips like spectral silk.

Callen Drexmont took a step back. "What in the—?"

"I won't let you touch him," Renan said, voice low, controlled. "Not here. Not ever."

Callen sneered. "So the heir to Vyrellis has fangs after all."

He drew his hand upward in a twisting arc—magic answering his call. Sharp, crystalline shards formed mid-air and launched toward Renan like flying daggers.

But Renan was already moving.

He extended his hand, and in a burst of silent command, a curved blade of translucent light formed in his grasp—sleek, elegant, humming with enchantment. A Forceweaver's conjured weapon.

He spun once—precise as a dance—and cleaved through the shards mid-air. Each one dissolved into motes of light upon contact with the blade.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Siro could only stare—heart pounding. Renan's robe flared with the movement, threads of silver runelight awakening across his sleeves. He wasn't just defending.

He was dueling.

Callen's eyes narrowed, and he launched another strike—a torrent of kinetic force rippling outward like a crashing wave.

Renan braced, grounded himself—but Callen was faster this time.

Another spell came from the side. Sharper. Unseen.

Renan didn't see it coming.

Siro did.

He moved on instinct.

In the blink of a heartbeat, Siro stepped forward, throwing himself between Renan and the incoming magic.

His Arcclave Ring flared—not blue this time, but a fierce, gusting silver-green.

The air around him surged, and a shockwave of wind burst outward from his body, slamming against the spell and scattering it into harmless trails of light.

A hush followed.

Even Callen hesitated.

Siro stood there—eyes wide, breath shallow, strands of his hair lifting in the air like caught in an invisible breeze. Around him, the floor shimmered faintly, as though the wind itself was circling him.

Then it all shifted.

A weight. Sudden. Crushing.

All three of them dropped to their knees—pinned by a pressure so absolute it felt like the very walls of Aeon Spire pressed down on their backs.

No one had touched them.

No one had shouted.

But a voice rang clear.

Spoken like a whisper—but heard by every corner of the academy.

"Enough."

They turned their heads—barely able to move.

There she was. High Seeress Mavira.