At first, Altharion resisted.
Every time he felt the pull — that eerie sensation just beneath the skin, as though his breath stirred the Weave itself — he pushed it down. Suppressed it. Distracted himself with studies and sparring drills. Mastering spells the conventional way, like everyone else.
But it was never quite the same.
Where others needed incantations and complex diagrams, Altharion simply felt the shape of the spell and let it happen.
His conjurations formed faster than he could speak them. Shields flickered to life before blades reached his skin. Projectiles of force launched before he consciously thought to fire. It wasn’t just skill — it was instinct. A terrifying, effortless instinct.
One afternoon during practical training, he conjured three spectral blades mid-air with a single breath, spinning them in a tight formation before snapping them into a target board across the yard. The silence that followed wasn’t admiration — it was unease.
“You didn’t even gesture,” Kaela said, watching him cautiously.
“I didn’t mean to,” Altharion answered, honestly. “It just… happened.”
Nurelion, quiet as always, narrowed his eyes. He didn’t speak — but he noticed.
Later that night, in the warmth of the library’s upper levels, the three of them gathered again. Kaela had grown quieter since the incident with Evan. Nurelion, by contrast, had grown more curious. Obsessed.
“You feel it differently,” Nurelion finally said. “You hear it, don’t you? The magic.”
Altharion hesitated, then nodded.
“It’s not just words or rituals. It’s like… it’s already there. I just guide it.”
Kaela looked between them, worried.
“Isn’t that what corrupted Evan? Feeling too much? Drawing too deep?”
“No,” Nurelion said with calm certainty. “Evan feared it. He fought the current. Altharion rides it.”
“That’s not comforting,” Kaela muttered.
Altharion said nothing. Guilt gnawed at him. What if this gift made him a danger? What if the Paladins were right? He couldn’t speak of it openly — not with the guards patrolling the halls, not with the threat of interrogation and seclusion looming behind every mistake.
Days later, while sneaking to retrieve alchemy supplies late at night, Nurelion came to him with a whisper:
“The restricted wing. It’s open. They’re rotating wards tonight. No paladins.”
Kaela tried to talk them out of it. But curiosity was a fire Altharion could no longer ignore. And when they finally slipped past the cracked wall behind the archives, they found themselves in a chamber silent as a tomb.
It was darker here — not from lack of light, but from intent. The shelves were covered in dust, the books chained or sealed with copper sigils. No flames. No whispers. Only tension and time.
And then he felt it.
A book, half-buried behind others, called to him.
He didn’t see its title. Only the sigil on the spine — a circle surrounded by arcane glyphs, each curling like thorns.
“Don’t,” Kaela said, her voice shaky.
“You feel it too,” Altharion whispered.
“That’s why we shouldn’t.”
He touched it.
The chain around the book shivered, then snapped open with a hiss of smoke. The pages flipped open on their own, and black ink danced across the parchment — rearranging, breathing, recognizing him.
In that moment, something deep in the world stirred. And in the space behind his thoughts, a voice emerged — low, calm, patient.
“I see you.”
Altharion’s hand trembled, but he closed the book and tucked it under his cloak.
“What are you doing?” Kaela asked, frightened.
“I need to know what I am,” he replied. “And this… this book knows.”
The book had no title. No author. No official sigil of the Academy or seal of any known order.
It pulsed softly in Altharion’s satchel as he walked through the halls by day, like a second heartbeat. And by night, when he returned to his dormitory — locking the door, shuttering the windows, whispering wards to mask his presence — he opened it again.
The ink shifted, flowing and reforming into shapes and glyphs that changed each time he looked at them. Sometimes it wrote in his language. Other times, he simply understood.
At first, it was just theory. Philosophy of the arcane. But this was unlike any grimoire he had ever seen.
“Magic,” the book whispered through its pages, “is not cast. It is remembered.”
It spoke of the Shadow, not as darkness or absence of light — but as the space between things. A boundary, a breath, a veil. Where ordinary magic was structured, rigid, reduced to symbols and syllables, this was something primal. Ancient.
It was not taught. It was heard.
Not summoned. Invited.
Not controlled. But merged with.
The language it used was both poetic and unsettling:
“Your blood remembers what your tongue forgets.”
“The shadows know you.”
“Speak not to the Weave — listen to its silence.”
Altharion began practicing small experiments: letting a shadow fall unnaturally across his desk, feeling it respond to his thoughts; watching as candlelight bent subtly away from his fingertips; hearing whispers of wind when no breeze stirred.
He wasn’t just using magic. He was becoming part of it.
The book’s most alarming revelation came late one night, when he stumbled across a chapter simply titled:
The Lie of Control
In elegant, curling script, it said:
“Modern magic is a translation of a language never meant for mortal lips. Its meaning is diluted, and with it, its truth. That is why it corrupts: not because it is evil, but because it is misunderstood.”
“True magic is the voice of the universe — and when you speak it in its own tongue, it speaks back. Not as a tool. As a mirror.”
It was a truth that rattled Altharion to his core.
The church wasn’t wrong to fear magic. But they feared the wrong thing. They feared power when they should have feared truth. The truth that magic wasn’t simply dangerous because it was powerful — but because it exposed.
Exposed who you truly were.
And if you didn’t like what stared back at you… you unraveled.
As he ventured deeper into these forbidden studies, only one person seemed to notice — and understand.
Nurelion.
One evening in the gardens near the edge of the academy walls, Nurelion found him shaping a shadow into a flickering pattern across the surface of a pond.
He said nothing at first. Then:
“You’ve touched the deep current.”
Altharion turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
“It’s in your eyes now. The shadows don’t fear you anymore. They recognize you.”
A silence hung between them. Altharion finally asked, “Have you felt it too?”
Nurelion nodded. “My kin call it the Whisper Below Silence. Elven high magic once tapped into that current before your human empires branded it heresy.”
He knelt beside Altharion, letting his fingers hover above the water. The reflection rippled — but not from touch.
“The Church fears the elves not because of arrogance,” Nurelion said. “But because we remember what they’ve tried to erase.”
From that night onward, the two began studying together in secret. Comparing fragments. Matching the language of the book with the oral traditions passed down in elven clans.
They were careful — methodical. But their bond deepened, not out of friendship alone, but shared secrecy, shared truth.
Kaela, though still close to Altharion, began to notice the change. His eyes were sharper, always scanning the corners of rooms. His magic — more silent now, more instinctive. His laugh came less often. And when she asked where he disappeared to, he deflected.
“Just extra studies,” he would say. “Nothing you’d want to lose sleep over.”
She didn’t press — not yet — but a wall was forming. Thin as breath. But growing.
And Altharion felt it.
Every night as he opened the grimoire, now resting beneath a false panel under his bed, he hesitated just a moment longer before reading.
“You are becoming what you always were,” the book whispered. “Let them fear it. Let them watch the stars tremble.”
The classroom was a wide, circular space carved in black obsidian and quartz, suspended within one of the higher towers of the Academy. Runes pulsed dimly along the floor, marking the perimeter of the conjuration circle — a barrier that, in theory, kept magical backlash contained.
They were practicing elemental transmutation today — one of the most volatile exercises for young magi.
Kaela stood at the center of the circle. Her hands trembled slightly as she prepared to weave the complex chain of gestures and incantations needed to channel raw arcane flame into a stable form.
Altharion watched from the side of the classroom, arms crossed, barely present.
“You’ll do fine,” he’d told her flatly before class, already half-focused on the glyphs he’d been deciphering from the grimoire.
She had stared at him then, a flicker of disappointment behind her anxious eyes. But she said nothing.
Now, as her spell began to form — orange tendrils flickering between her palms — the energy started to wobble.
Her breathing quickened.
The flame twisted unnaturally.
“Focus,” the instructor warned. “Do not let it spiral.”
But it was too late.
The circle flared violently. The flame exploded outward like a living beast, rushing toward the walls — toward the students.
Gasps erupted.
Screams followed.
Altharion’s eyes snapped wide, instinct taking over.
He raised his hand — and the shadows surged.
Like liquid ink, the darkness pooled upward from beneath his feet and wrapped around the unstable energy, muffling the explosion. He twisted his hand sharply, redirecting the fire outward and upward, where it erupted harmlessly against the ceiling.
Smoke clouded the air. The room fell silent.
Everyone turned toward him.
A split second later — steel clashed against stone. Four paladins burst through the chamber doors, shields glowing with the sigil of Elyonel. They spread out immediately, encircling Altharion without question, their blades half-drawn.
“Step back,” one growled. “Now.”
Altharion raised both hands, his breathing ragged. “It wasn’t—”
“I said step back!”
The others began chanting the Containment Rite, and their shields formed a radiant prism around him — not unlike the one he’d seen used to kill a student weeks prior.
He flinched. The shadows inside him twisted in agitation.
“No,” he whispered. “Not again—”
But then:
“It was me!”
Kaela’s voice rang out.
The paladins turned.
Kaela, soot-covered and shivering, stumbled forward. “It was my spell. I lost control. Altharion… he saved everyone.”
There was a pause. The paladins exchanged glances. One of them approached her.
“You cast unstable flame. That alone is a violation of tier-three protocol.”
“I know. I accept it.”
Her voice cracked — but did not break.
The spell around Altharion dissipated. Without a word, the paladins surrounded her instead. She didn’t resist.
Altharion tried to speak — but her gaze stopped him. Just for a moment, their eyes locked.
A silent please. A silent not now.
And then she was gone.
Kaela had vanished.
No one spoke her name.
The Academy whispered of reassignment, suspension, heresy. Some students claimed they saw her being escorted to the Vaults. Others believed she had been expelled. Or worse.
Altharion couldn’t sleep.
The guilt gnawed at him like frost on bare skin.
He sought out the only person he could trust.
The room was quiet, filled with scrolls and relics, the air thick with the scent of ink and herbs.
Meridan sat across from him, not saying anything at first.
Then he spoke, softly:
“I warned you, Altharion.”
The words were not cruel. Not even angry. Just… tired.
Altharion lowered his head. “It was my fault. I knew she wasn’t ready. I should’ve helped. Instead, I—”
“You chose ambition over awareness,” Meridan interrupted gently. “It happens. To all of us. Especially to those with… unusual affinity.”
He took a long breath.
“But if you truly want to make this right… then listen now.”
Altharion looked up.
“No more experiments. No more shadow spells. No more secrets. Not until you graduate. Not until your will is strong enough to control what’s inside you.”
A pause.
“You can’t fight the system if you burn out before you leave the walls.”
Altharion closed his eyes.
“I promise.”
Meridan nodded, leaning back.
“Good. I will do what I can for Kaela. I still have influence. But she protected you at great risk. Don’t make her sacrifice meaningless.”
Altharion said nothing — but inside, the shadows stirred. Not violently. Not with hunger.
But with guilt. With pain.
And with resolve.
Kaela returned to the academy nearly a month after her disappearance. Her figure was gaunt, her frame frail beneath the once-bright robes that now seemed to hang from her shoulders. Her once unruly chestnut hair had been shaved clean, revealing pale skin beneath, marked faintly by runes—some holy, some foreign.
Her eyes, once alight with mischief and confidence, now seemed distant, hollow. They darted anxiously with every footstep that echoed too sharply in the halls. Whenever a paladin passed by, her entire body tensed, and she would lower her gaze as if by reflex. The Kaela who had once laughed easily and defied the academy’s hierarchy was gone. In her place remained a ghost of a girl reciting her lessons, attending her classes without absorbing them, smiling only when expected.
Altharion noticed it all.
At first, he tried to coax her out of the fog, suggesting walks through the garden or time in the observatory tower, where the stars had once made her wax poetic about the “fires of the gods.” But her responses were tepid, automatic. It was as though something had cracked inside her—and someone had filled the space with silence and fear.
She flinched at any mention of fire magic. During a practical class on elemental control, Kaela froze entirely at the sight of conjured flame, her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide and brimming. She didn’t scream. She simply shut down. The professor excused her after her hands began to shake uncontrollably.
One afternoon, during one of their few quiet walks through the academy’s lower gardens, Kaela stopped by a moss-covered fountain. She sat at its edge and stared into the water, her reflection rippling away from her as if it too couldn’t bear to look back.
Altharion sat beside her, his concern too heavy to hide. “You haven’t spoken to anyone. Not even Nurelion. You barely eat. You won’t use magic. And I—” he stopped, watching her stare. “What happened to you, Kaela?”
She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was flat. “I needed to be cleansed. I was impure. Reckless. Dangerous.”
Altharion’s brow furrowed. “That’s not you talking.”
“They said… I brought it on myself,” she murmured. “It’s not their fault. They were right. I needed to be… realigned. I failed the Flame. I’m better now.”
Her sleeve slipped as she shifted. Beneath the fraying fabric, Altharion saw thin, pale scars crisscrossing her forearm—some still healing. His breath caught in his throat.
“You didn’t deserve this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You didn’t.”
Kaela looked at him then, not in defiance or disagreement—but with tired, distant eyes that didn’t quite seem to register who he was. “We don’t deserve anything. We serve. We obey. We stay alive.”
From that moment on, something hardened within Altharion. He had tolerated the paladins’ presence, endured their stares and veiled threats, and accepted their authority as necessary… even righteous. But now he saw what lay behind their sanctity. Behind the polished armor and divine rhetoric was a system built on fear and control.
He began to watch them more closely: the way students were pulled aside after minor missteps, the way questions about magical theory were met with quiet visits to the disciplinary halls, the way some students simply never returned.
They called it protection. They called it order. But Altharion saw it now for what it truly was.
Oppression.
And as he watched Kaela—his friend, broken and hollowed out—he realized that no matter how much power he gained, no matter how skilled he became, it would mean nothing unless he could challenge the world that did this to her.
The shadows that whispered to him in the night no longer frightened him. They began to feel like clarity. Like truth.
Chronicles of Astravara 