A breeze had risen from the east, born in the uncharted territories of the Old World. Soft and light, it began its journey from the crown of a tree in what would one day be known as the Teotiqcan Jungle. It slipped through the leaves, weaving among vines and branches, stirring faint rustlings in its wake.

  Unburdened, it raced toward the western coast, where it plunged into the ocean. Waves rose and crashed with fury, but the breeze pressed on, dancing joyfully. Amid the swells, it swirled around a curious little vessel.

  A man, his skin bronzed by countless hours under the searing sun of Naaman, his hair streaked with gray, fed coal into a furnace, turning small propellers that drove the ship forward. Beside him, a younger man, focused intently, deciphered an old map.

  The breeze tugged at the sails, nudging the vessel a little farther before continuing its path. Sweeping through the Valmara Strait, it zigzagged among vineyards, then rose to crest the Gilded Peaks. It passed over a balcony, gently brushing the backs of two lovers lost in passion, sending shivers across their skin.

  Without a backward glance, it pressed on through the North Coast, climbing toward the Celestial Mountains. There, it found its way to the city of Celshore, wandering the cobbled streets with curiosity. Slipping through an open window into the grand dining hall of the Celshore Academy, it heard laughter and song echoing beneath the high, vaulted ceilings, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. Rhys, surrounded by friends and fellow graduates, raised his glass once more, celebrating the end of his studies as an Adept and his ascension to the rank of Sage Scholar.

  The faint breeze slipped through the open window, grazing the nape of Rhys’s neck. He shivered, his thoughts clearing for a moment. Rising from the table, he gripped the edge of his empty tankard for support, feeling a sudden urge to step outside and clear his head.

  “I need some air,” he said to his companions.

  “Fine, but when you get back, you’re telling me about your thesis,” called a broad-shouldered blond. “Theorizing the possible disappearance of the Primordials and the Ancients? That took guts!”

  “You’re insufferable, Ozwell,” grumbled another, shaking his head. “We’re here to celebrate, not get buried under half-baked theories. Sage Avonn’s lectures are bad enough for that.”

  Rhys gave a faint smile, appreciating his friend’s curiosity despite the protests from the others at the table.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, I promise,” he replied, stepping away. “That way, we won’t disturb Metra’s drinking spree.”

  He staggered toward the dining hall’s balcony. Leaning carefully against the railing, he took a deep breath. The balcony offered a breathtaking view of Celshore. The ancient city nestled at the foot of the Celestial Mountains, its stone walls, weathered by centuries, standing with almost defiant pride.

  Narrow alleys and steep stairways wove through the heart of the city, while old buildings, their beams warped by the climate of New Echo, seemed to lean toward one another. A cold wind from the mountains swept over the time-worn rooftops of the stone structures.

  At this late hour, the streets, faintly lit by the pale glow of Astrate lanterns, were deserted.

  Rhys turned toward the mountains, searching for the glimmers of blue light piercing the darkness. Astrate stones, he thought, were a fascinating subject. He had devoured entire volumes on their formation, their use in magic, and their economic and cultural significance, not only for Celshore but for all of New Echo. Yet, Astrate would have been too easy a topic for his thesis. Too much was already known, and the purpose of an Adept’s thesis was to pose questions whose answers might come later, in the hands of Sage Scholars.

  After one last gulp of fresh air, he returned to the dining hall. Rhys, his mind still slightly fogged by ale, watched his companions laugh and bicker.

  He stumbled forward, using a wall for support.

  “Whoa, Rhys, what’s wrong? Feeling sick?” called a tall, pale man with a square jaw, seated with another young man whose flat face and almond-shaped eyes gave him a distinctive look.

  “You’d better watch out, Svein,” said the flat-faced man, giving his friend a friendly slap on the back. “Our old pal’s a Scholar now. If he feels like it, you could be scrubbing floors for the next three weeks.”

  “That’d do him some good!” shouted a stocky young man from a nearby table, sparking laughter from his group.

  “I’d like to see him try, Alf,” Svein shot back at his almond-eyed friend before bursting into laughter. “You wouldn’t punish an old friend over something so trivial, would you, Sage Rhys?”

  Rhys, still leaning against the wall, met his friend’s gaze. Svein’s eyes sparkled with mischief, daring him. With some effort, Rhys pushed off the wall, approached unsteadily, and fixed Svein with a mock-stern look.

  “That depends on you, Adept Svein. How long will I have to wait before you refill my tankard?”

  The two stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter together.

  “So, what’s your plan now that you’re a Sage?” Svein asked, filling Rhys’s tankard. “If I were you, I’d take a holiday far from this blasted city.”

  Rhys paused, staring into the foam of his drink.

  “Hmm, I haven’t thought about it yet,” he said, taking a sip before sitting beside his friend. “If I want to become a Master, I’ll need to keep studying, but a break wouldn’t hurt.”

  “A Master?!” Svein nearly spilled his tankard, laughing. “You’ve barely tasted freedom, and you’re already thinking about locking yourself in those dusty towers for another ten years. You’ve had too much to drink, my friend.”

  “What about visiting your family?” Alf interjected, his eyes fixed on his own tankard.

  Rhys nearly choked on his drink, then laughed.

  “Visit my family? The ones who shipped me here when I was five? Not a chance.”

  He caught a flicker of sadness in Alf’s eyes and realized his tactlessness. Rhys’s mother visited once a year, and his father had sent two meager letters. It wasn’t much, but Alf hadn’t seen his family since arriving in Celshore at the same age. They were humble farmers from the Mugen Isles, too poor to read or write, and the journey to Celshore would have cost a fortune.

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  “You’ll be the next to rise to Scholar, I’m sure of it,” Rhys said, patting Alf’s back.

  “Yeah, right,” Svein scoffed. “Both of you lording over me? I’d rather serve in the court of that fool Alzam.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” Alf said, offended. “Alzam’s the only thing stopping the Emperor from conquering New Echo.”

  “He’s a god, so of course he can stop another god from invading,” Svein sneered. “Doesn’t make him any less a fool who can’t manage his own court.”

  The two friends launched into a heated debate. Rhys, pensive, stared into his tankard. He hadn’t meant to hurt Alf. His own parents had abandoned him, and he felt only contempt for them. But Alf’s family had no choice; they’d sent him here for a better future.

  Looking up, Rhys noticed the debate growing tense. Fueled by ale, tempers were flaring. He downed the last of his drink and stood, clapping his hands.

  “Gentlemen, let’s call it a night. I may be free to sleep in now, but you lot have a class with Sage Avonn in less than six hours. If you want to be even remotely awake—or avoid a week of chores for oversleeping—I suggest you head to bed.”

  “And there he goes, giving orders already,” Svein said, grinning. “But you’re right, it’s late, and it’s been a long day.”

  “You’re just scared of getting stuck with chores,” Metra teased, draining her tankard in one long gulp.

  “That old man always finds new and creative ways to punish me,” Svein admitted. “I’d rather not give him the chance.”

  “You’ve got a talent for getting on Sage Avonn’s bad side,” Rhys said, amused. “Anyway, thanks to both of you for putting this together.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Svein said with a shrug. “It’s not every day we celebrate an ascension.”

  Svein, Metra, and the rest of the dining hall headed toward the Adepts’ dormitories. Rhys, meanwhile, made his way to his new quarters. Stumbling through the stone corridors to the Scholars’ quarters in the North Tower, he tripped several times on uneven cobblestones.

  Reaching the fifth floor, he entered a dimly lit hallway illuminated by a few lanterns. Leaning from wall to wall, he fell twice, stifling laughter, before arriving at a door bearing a small copper plaque inscribed with “Sage Scholar Rhys.” Fumbling with a keyring that took ages to untangle—and even longer to fit into the lock—he finally entered his new home.

  The room was far grander than he’d imagined. A massive desk, carved from dark, aged wood, dominated the center. Shelves lined every wall, empty for now. Behind a screen at the back, he found a large bed flanked by a hefty chest and a bedside table. At the sight of a proper bed—far from the straw mattresses that had tortured his back—his eyes welled up. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. Without bothering to change, he collapsed onto the soft mattress, every muscle relaxing. In moments, he was asleep.

  BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

  Rhys jolted awake, the echoes of last night’s revelry pounding in his head. He sat up sluggishly, each movement worsening the heavy fog of his hangover. In a corner, an antique porcelain basin rested on a dark wooden stand, topped by an ornate mirror. He approached and splashed his face with icy water, hoping the cold would ease his nausea. The chill revived him, grounding him in reality. Catching his reflection, he took stock of his appearance. His brown hair, a chaotic mess of competing strands, framed a face marked by exhaustion. Dark circles underscored his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights, and a neglected beard had sprouted. I let myself go during those final months before the exams, he thought ruefully.

  BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

  The knocking that had woken him persisted. Opening the door, he was surprised to find Alf, accompanied by a group of young Adepts.

  “Good morning, Sage Rhys,” Alf said solemnly. “The Assembly of Masters wishes to speak with you.”

  “If you’re teaching the young Adepts these kinds of pranks, Alf, they’ll end up in as much trouble as Svein,” Rhys replied with a grin.

  Some of the younger Adepts looked scandalized by his casual tone.

  “No, no, Sage Rhys, the Masters truly wish to see you,” Alf insisted. “They’re expecting you as soon as possible. Honestly, you’re probably already late.”

  “Uh, very well, thank you, Adept Alf,” Rhys said, striving to follow protocol. “I’ll head there now. You may go.”

  He had to accept that, despite their friendship, protocol mattered in front of other Adepts. Alf was a Senior Adept, and failing to show respect before lower-ranking Adepts could undermine his authority.

  “One last thing, Sage Rhys,” Alf said, turning back as if he’d forgotten something. With a mischievous grin, he whispered, “You might want to change before meeting the Masters. A Scholar showing up to the Assembly dressed like an Adept is, at best, a sign of carelessness—and at worst, fodder for a decade of mockery.”

  As Alf rejoined the group of young Adepts, Rhys, leaving the door open, rushed to the chest at the foot of his bed. He pulled out a Sage’s robe, threw it on hastily, and dashed down the hallway. A summons from the Master Scholars the day after my ascension… this can’t be good, he thought, hurrying through the North Tower’s corridors. He crossed the Cloister of the Ancients and entered the Holy Palace. At the Celestial Gates, he smoothed his hair, straightened his robe, and knocked three times. The doors swung open.

  Rhys stepped slowly into the Celestial Chamber. The vast, circular hall, ringed by towering opal columns supporting a glass dome, felt as though it bore the weight of the entire Academy. Through the dome, the highest peak of the Celestial Mountains—Mount Oreade—was visible. Stained-glass windows filtered sunlight, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the space. Unlike the Academy’s stone floors, the Celestial Chamber’s white marble tiles reflected the vibrant hues, amplifying the chaotic interplay of light.

  At the center, on a grand stone dais, stood the Sage Masters. Their robes, far more elaborate than the plain white of Adepts or the Astrate-blue of Sage Scholars, were adorned with gold thread, runes, and geometric patterns. Burgundy stoles draped over their shoulders, enhancing their commanding presence.

  Approaching the opal columns, Rhys felt a mix of awe and apprehension. Fifteen years had passed since his initiation in this very hall, yet the Celestial Chamber’s majesty felt even more overwhelming now.

  But he had little time to dwell. The Sage Masters had already noticed him, pausing their discussion to focus on him.

  He took a deep breath and approached, fully aware that the Masters’ reputation rested not only on their knowledge but also on their unyielding standards.

  Rhys bowed gracefully, hands clasped behind his back, left knee bending in a perfect salute.

  “Sage Scholar Rhys, thank you for joining us,” said one Master, inclining his head slightly.

  The others followed suit, and Rhys felt a growing pressure in his chest.

  “By the Creator and the Ancients, I am yours to serve, Sage Master Fugli,” Rhys replied solemnly, adhering to etiquette.

  “We have summoned you for an unusual task, so to speak,” said another Master, his voice calm. “For reasons yet unclear, and though you were only raised to Sage yesterday, it seems your mother is already aware.”

  “My mother?” Rhys blurted, caught off guard.

  “She has informed Lord Benjamin of Elmathea,” the Master continued. “This morning, he contacted us via an Exchange Stone. What’s stranger still, we have no Exchange Stone linked to this lord. The stone that received the message belonged to Alzam.”

  Rhys was stunned. How could they dare such a thing? He could already sense where this was headed.

  “The reasons tying Alzam to a lord of the Free Imperial Kingdom are not our concern, but Alzam has accepted his request,” the Master said evenly. “Said lord specifically requests your services as an advisor.”

  “I’m not sure I’m equipped to fulfill such a role, Sage Master Divahm,” Rhys replied.

  “It is common for the nobility of the world to seek our services,” Divahm continued, as if Rhys hadn’t spoken, “and we always assign a Sage Scholar.”

  Fugli glanced briefly at his peers before continuing.

  “They are, however, typically more experienced. Thus, we wish to remind you of a few key points. Though your thesis is particularly impressive and you rank among the best of your cohort, as a Scholar, you represent not only the Academy but all of New Echo. You are the keeper of the State’s knowledge, the Academy’s teachings, and Alzam’s will. No mistakes or lapses in conduct will be tolerated. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Master Fugli,” Rhys said, bowing again.

  “You will, of course, keep us informed of your actions,” Fugli added, pausing briefly. “We expect a letter from you once a month. Lord Benjamin has also sent you a message,” he said, handing Rhys a Word Stone with reverence. “A ship awaits you at the port in one hour. Do not be late—it will be commanded by Vice-Admiral Parmanil, who tolerates no lack of punctuality. May the Creator and the Ancients guide you, Sage Scholar Rhys.”

  Rhys stood still for a moment, then collected himself, offered a final bow, and left the Celestial Chamber swiftly. Alone in the corridors, he activated the Word Stone, letting Lord Benjamin’s voice spill forth.