It had taken longer than anyone would have ever wished, to walk the final stretch to Tuloria.

Every single one of the weary travelers upon the high road had stayed in Caisus the previous evening at some inn or another. It was the most convenient point of embarkment, and because of this, no one appeared to have any sort of advantage since everyone departed from the same location at almost the same time. Furthermore, they were a bit delayed that morning because somebody in Caisus had chosen to wreak havoc the night before.

Tuloria sat high on the edges of the cliffs, backed against the mountainside, glaring down at them as if to ridicule their efforts, but it also provided them the motivation they needed to finish the hike.

The sun had begun to fall on the horizon, caressing the mountainside in the distance. A flock of birds crested through the pastel skies, their dark silhouettes stark before the clouds, which had been warmed by the golden hour.

Despite the chilled air of the northwest, which only cooled more with the setting of the sun, most were out of breath, panting, and drenched in sweat. Their resolve was on the verge of breaking as they made the final ascent before entering the city. Wrapping their arms over one another’s shoulders, they pulled their friends alongside them, urging them on in a comradery that would soon be shattered.

Tarron stole a glance at Ezreal, who was showing no signs of fatigue despite the long journey.

“Aren’t you tired?” He asked. His own feet were sore and blistered, and he was sure the elf could hear his stomach rumbling.

“Huh?” From his sideways gaze, Ezreal caught a glimpse of the tired-looking human following close behind him. When pressed for an answer, he shrugged and said, “Oh, not really.”

Tarron maintained his composure in front of the elf for the majority of the expedition. But as the day wore on, he, like many others, struggled to preserve his poise. At least they had made it thus far, and Ezreal didn’t seem to care that they had slowed their pace owing to Tarron’s weariness.

Finally, they reached the top.

Tarron had not quite understood how large the metropolis was until they were directly before it. Tuloria and its walls towered above, overshadowing them in their insignificance. Rightfully so.

In front of them stretched an extensive bridge that would take them across a deep ravine into which a dangerously raging torrent poured. It was imposing, with grey stone that had been polished to a shine. Stone balusters supported silver and gold metallic railings wound with ivy that grew down the lengths, highlighting each side.

Tarron had a sneaking suspicion that aesthetics drove the design more than actual safety.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Moon Elf who he had observed earlier, making his way to the edge to warily look below.

Behind him, a head of curls swiftly appeared, roughly grabbing and pushing his shoulders forward before letting go. He let out a shrill shriek, clutching the railing, chest heaving. His face frowned as he turned with pink cheeks, embarrassed by the multitude of people walking by sniggering behind their hands.

He glared at the Sun Elf behind him. The one who wanted to murder him.

“Come on! Was that necessary, Asarrah?!” He questioned, feeling slighted.

When she pushed him, Tarron was very convinced his soul had temporarily crossed over into the beyond, so he offered a small prayer for him in his heart.

“Don’t pass on perfect opportunities, Beniki. Right Nil?” There was no reply. She turned while still chortling, then froze. “Nil?” She asked again while glancing around in confusion. The half-elf buddy of theirs was gone again.

She put her hands on her hips in frustration, “seriously?! Why does he keep vanishing on us?”

From her side, the Moon Elf offered moodily in a quiet voice, “probably because he doesn’t want to be seen with you.”

She narrowed her eyes in a stern warning, “Beniki.”

“I’m only kidding! Sheesh.”

“Just come on,” she huffed as she stomped across the bridge.

He grumbled incoherently as he plodded along behind her obediently.

At the end of the bridge, they passed under a barbican that opened into a large and decorated half-moon-shaped outer bailey, strewn with plants, colorfully potted flowers, and benches. Many rushed to those benches, but some sat where they had stood, not bothering to attempt their hand at getting to a bench before the others. Benches were few while they were many.

The most eye-catching feature was without a doubt the massive gate that sat at the center of the sturdy, towering outer walls that encircled the whole city. Various thicknesses of densely coiled filigree-like leafy vines, fashioned from silver and gold, entwined together and obstructed the view inside. A fine, mostly transparent, glittering sheen surrounded the entirety of the gates, extending upwards over the city and along the length of the walls. A palpable sense of tense force pervaded the area around it.

As more and more applicants came across the bridge, it had become packed to the point that many stood shoulder to shoulder, pushing and shoving to try to get a curious look ahead. Many of them had never been to High Helm, let alone Tuloria, and soon found their lost energy once the excitement of anticipation struck.

Tarron’s eyes slowly followed the gate to the tip of its pointed peak, mouth agape in awe. Such a stunning sight was unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

“It is impressive, isn’t it?” Startled, Tarron looked to his side. Ezreal, who had been standing at his left, awkwardly shoved against him, leaned over to peer past the tall human whose body had been blocking the view of the person who had spoken.

Alongside them, a short half-elf stood observing the entrance. His expressionless eyes were chilling but were offset by a voice that was neither unpleasant nor unrefined. He was slowly pushed and squished about until he was standing close to Tarron and Ezreal, as had been the similar case with everyone else.

“Oh, hello!” Ezreal greeted cheerfully. The half-elf’s face finally gave a hint of emotion as he gave the Woodland Elf peeking from behind the human a curious glance. He hadn’t even seen him there.

He acknowledged him with a curt nod and a, “hi.” Repeating the gesture to the human beside him. Tarron, who towered over them both, stood awkwardly between them and nodded back in greeting. He cleared his throat, “so what are we waiting for?”

The half-elf that had suddenly emerged arched an eyebrow and said, “you don’t know?” Tarron shook his head, and while he did, Ezreal squeezed between him and the people in front of them to better talk to the newcomer.

“You see, there are some things this one still needs to learn. Thankfully, he met me!” He pointed at himself proudly. He hadn’t meant it as an insult, and Tarron hadn’t taken it that way. It was true, therefore it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Ezreal, realizing the human’s innocence after a few hours of conversation on the road, played “teacher” and crammed as much information as possible into the young man’s head. “Facts that might be valuable,” he had claimed as he went on about a variety of interesting subjects.

Tarron could truthfully say he picked up a lot of useful information from the elf on the way here. For one, learning that he had a very limited understanding of the magical world overall. Perhaps that wasn’t helpful, but neither was it unexpected.

In the confined space, Ezreal did his best to extend his hand as far as he could, elbow softly touching Tarron’s abdomen in the process. Tarron startled and looked down briefly, then switched his attention back to the crowd surrounding them.

Ezreal’s smile revealed his signature sharp canines, “Ezreal. And you are?”

Tarron, while having been just staring aimlessly above their heads at nothing noteworthy, couldn’t keep his eyes from slowly drifting to the clasped hands before him. The strange feeling that had been growing in his gut was abruptly extinguished along with any expression on his face.

Because of his height and the limited space, he reasoned with himself, that it was difficult to avoid the observation altogether. Nothing strange about that. That was normal.

Tarron’s fingers twitched at his side as he recalled the literal shock of the first time his and Ezreal’s hands had touched.

“Nil,” the other replied in a profound and gentlemanly bend of the head as he shook his hand firmly.

Tarron, who had been watching the whole interaction from above despite what he may tell others, took note of this action by the half-elf and pondered whether or not it was a rule of elven etiquette he had missed, or whether he, himself should have followed it. He had certainly encountered elves before but never had any of them lowered their heads to him or anybody else he knew in such a way.

He found that peculiar, to be honest. He had attracted lots of strange stares when he had been walking alone ever since leaving the midlands. Not that he minded people staring at him, he didn’t care about that much.

Then, he and the elf had become the focus of many glances as soon as they began to travel the road together. It did not feel the same, and now he wasn’t sure if they were looking at him or Ezreal.

It felt like there was something he was missing, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

‘Hm,’ he skimmed the appearance of the Woodland Elf speaking animatedly with the half-elf beside them.

A brocade doublet with a pattern of ivy in browns and greens and gold threading was worn over a linen shirt. A capacious brown bag had been fastened to the exquisite leather baldric spanning his chest, engraved with vines and flowers, and complete with a clasp upon the back to store his books. The open-toe sandals that laced up the backs of his calves and over his dark pants were of the same superior caliber of leather and fabric.

Then he glanced at Nil. Nil’s attire was less elaborate, consisting of a loose dark blouse and black slacks tucked into black boots. It seems that black was one of his favorite colors.

Then he looked down at himself and quickly looked away.

In contrast, Ezreal’s clothes were the epitome of tasteful opulence. Perhaps his new friend was from a prestigious household? To have come to this realization so late made him feel like a total idiot.

Wealthy or not, Ezreal’s generosity toward him was all that had and continued to matter.

Nil’s words, “I wonder who it will be,” brought Tarron back to the present.

“What will be who?” Tarron cocked his head toward the half-elf in inquiry, as he had only been half listening.

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Amazingly, he elicited a sincere emotional reaction from Nil, who had raised a finger and blinked in uncertainty before sighing and scratching his head rather than trying to correct the human.

Ezreal did not give him a chance to reply anyway, as he excitedly said, “who will be coming to officially receive us!” Nil nodded in agreement at his side, unfazed by the other’s hasty substitution of a response.

“What do-” Tarron started to ask something more, but a thunderous boom and the collapse of the gate’s aura interrupted him.

In a delicate display reminiscent of summer meadows alive with fireflies, the enchanted ward descended like a gentle rain of brilliant, colorful sparkles. Once a tumult of noise, the assembly had fallen quiet as they wait and watch.

Nil, his lips drawn into a thin line, looked toward the entrance intently.

Ezreal observed Tarron’s anxious expression at that precise time. The young man’s attention was drawn by a gentle elbow to the side. When Tarron glanced down at him, Ezreal nodded his head and grinned knowingly, as if to say, “it will be alright.”

There was a peculiar creaking of metal as the hundreds of intertwined metallic vines sprang to life, unweaving from one another, and slowly parting down the center to reveal the city walls beyond the inner bailey and the soldiers who marched forth.

The even sound of metallic greaves clinking was hypnotic, as they formed two uniform lines of gleaming silver armor and billowing cobalt surcoats.

They halted just inside the gate. With just their eyes visible through ornate winged helms, they proudly displayed the silver and gold winged insignia of Tuloria on their chests. For a long time, they simply stood in silence. It was impossible to see past them.

After a minute or so, the rightmost soldier struck his spear twice into the ground suddenly. He wore armor that stood out from the rest, and his long red cloak was emblazoned with the insignia of “sol.” In a loud voice, he chanted in elven, “Tuloria! Title, and ’ruine!”

Following suit, the remaining troops pounded the ground thrice with their spears while echoing, “Tuloria! Title, and’ruine!” Then, pivoting, they began moving with the finesse of a blooming flower or the revolving of an intricate lock, all while maintaining perfect synchronization and a rigid stance of attention.

One by one, from the rear to the front, they began to part for each step of the man who walked forward, unable to be seen by those waiting beyond the gate.

Other than the movement from down the lines of the armored soldiers, everything was still and quiet. The entire audience was anticipating something great while holding their breath. Indeed, not even Tarron could resist joining in.

Two columns stood at attention on either side of the interior of the gate, and as soon as the last two had parted, the long-held breaths were released all at once.

An elven man of imposing presence and an impossible ethereal grace, halted at the center of the gate, with his hands clasped gently behind his back.

His snow-kissed hair cascaded down his back, with pointed elongated ears that distinguished him as a Moon Elf. His dark, arched brows knitted together slightly over a face so stunning one may cry if they were to stare for too long. He scrutinized the crowd before him with eyes as blue and intense as a raging blizzard.

Belted over black pants was an azure tunic intricately patterned with the motifs of luna and her stars. Beautiful opalescent chains strung with diamonds and sapphires dangled from his waist. And his outer robes, which transitioned from shades of blue to black, included hundreds of white and gold stars, stitched meticulously around the bottom hemline.

Highly extravagant. Transcendingly gorgeous. Wholly immaculate.

Where he stood, his robes silently danced around his long legs.

Applicants’ faces lit up the outer bailey all at once.

“Elrodor?!” A girl’s delighted shriek broke the tension.

“Elrodor himself?!”

“It is!” Someone yelled, “Elrodor!

“I can’t believe how stunningly handsome he is in person!”

Somewhere within the crowd, Beniki rolled his eyes, “uh hello, you see a Moon Elf every day, Asarrah.” This warranted a straight face from the girl.

Tarron raised an eyebrow at all the attention this elf was getting, but after taking a good look at the man, he could see why. He appeared so otherworldly that it was tempting to doubt his reality as an elf, and start to believe that he was more of a celestial being.

Tarron frowned as he looked at Ezreal, who was smiling warmly in the elf’s direction, “what’s so amazing about him?” He grumbled.

Ezreal snapped his head around in shock to look at Tarron.

“What?!” Surprised beyond words, he stared at him wondering if the boy had been joking. A hard look at Tarron’s face belied his words as he stared back. He was serious.

“Tarron, this might sound rude, but were you raised under a rock?”

Tarron suppressed a childish pout at his words because, in a way, he had been, he supposed. A small village seemed no different. Instead, he shrugged.

Tarron suppressed a childish pout at his words. A sheltered life in a small village seemed no different, he supposed. Instead, he shrugged.

“Elrodor Ruellia is one of Tuloria’s High Mages.” Nil chimed in.

Tarron made an ‘oh’ face and shifted his pack on his shoulder, blinking while asking in a small voice unbefitting of his looks, “um...what does that imply...exactly?”

Ezreal appeared about to collapse under the weight of the humans’ words, and he reached out with one hand and grabbed Tarron’s forearm to brace himself, slowly looking up to stare at him gravely. Tarron started, glancing down at the small hand upon his arm, and raised a black brow.

“Tarron. I know we just met,” he said softly, “could you tell me anyway?” The pitch of his voice increased, “do you think we’re fools?! How can you possibly not know that?!” By the conclusion of the statement, his tone and attitude had changed from somber to exasperated. For someone who said he liked reading, albeit the few books he had, Tarron Vane was truly just too callow!

“You are not a fool in my eyes, Ezreal. It’s just that no one has yet explained to me what it is about young mages that makes them so popular.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice he couldn’t help.

Ezreals face went blank as he looked to Nil for some guidance.

Nil returned his gaze, similarly perplexed, before looking at Tarron and adding, “young? He certainly doesn’t seem youthful anymore.”

Tarron looked at the elven man standing between the open gate, soaked in the ovations and praises of the applicants, and then turned to Ezreal and Nil with a “really?” Of disbelief.

With a sigh, Ezreal patted Tarron’s arm, releasing it and straightening his back. He gave him a serious look and said, “I understand my shortcomings now. I have failed you as your interim instructor.”

“I don’t think that...”

Ezreal ignored him as he conceded, telling the human what he needed to know, “Elrodor has lived for more than three thousand years. In Tuloria’s hierarchy, he is second only to the High Magus himself. And if that is not impressive enough, he is considered to be among the most powerful of magicians in all of Anumiel.”

Tarron’s mouth fell open, and his gaze shifted to the elf waiting patiently for the enthusiastic banter to die down. He appeared to be no more than thirty years old, with his immaculate pale complexion and dazzling beauty.

Even if magic-born humans had the potential to live to roughly five hundred years old, this in no way implied that the average human had a lifespan comparable to that of an elf. In theory, humans with a high enough base magic who also took the time to develop their core may achieve the same level of immortality as elves. Even this was immensely rare and had only happened on a few occasions throughout time. To sum up, most humans on Anumiel would be completely mystified by the sight of a being so old and also...not.

“A more precise number would be three thousand three hundred and one.” The two of them whirled to face Nil, who was looking unflappably at the Moon Elf.

Ezreal’s dark brows lifted in appreciation as he said, “not bad.”

On the inside, Tarron let out a groan. There were now two experts in the room.

Ezreal’s knowledge was overwhelming enough for him. While it wasn’t a bad thing in any way, Nil combined with that only emphasized how little Tarron knew about...quite literally everything. It wasn’t a matter of being intelligent or not, it was an ignorance he seemed to be unable to escape.

‘We’ll have to move on from that,’ Tarron sighed.

Nearly all of the nearby women were crimson in the face as they looked shyly across at Elrodor, who was completely oblivious to their presence.

“I was wondering, how many apprentices does he have? Can we expect him to take on more?” He thought back to the notice that had mentioned the apprenticeships. The prospect of one combined with his optimistic nature to make him act irrationally got the better of him. In an instant, those optimistic dreams were dashed.

Nil replied casually, “none.”

“And also no. Elrodor made it clear long ago he does not want to accept a single apprentice,” Ezreal added.

“Why not?” Tarron asked. Why wouldn’t a person of such advanced age seek out the companionship of others, or wish to impart some of their doubtlessly great wisdom?

“No one knows, but I would avoid getting on his bad side either way.” Ezreal examined the Moon Elf standing between the open gate in a quiet shrewdness. “Seriously, really avoid it.”

A pale hand rose into the air, and a deep clear voice spoke, “Quillë.” He had been patient long enough.

Everyone went silent with this one word, his stern voice carrying over them in a tidal wave as his blue eyes scanned the crowd of youths. He crossed his hands behind his back once more.

“Welcome to Tuloria. There are three simple rules you should know before entering the city.”

“One.” He looked out across the crowd in a sweeping motion. “Do not speak when an elder is about to address you.”

Nearly everyone around them looked down in shame. All but Nil who seemed fairly indifferent to everything in general, and Tarron who kept his gaze firmly on the man as he spoke.

“Secondly. Particularly amongst applicants, Tuloria does not tolerate fighting that is not merited. This involves any method of harm whether caused by magical or martial means or deliverance by a weapon. Initiating a fight during the application period will result in immediate failure. You will be removed from the roster and escorted from the city. There are methods for fairly resolving any future disputes if you are among the privileged few who remain.”

Everyone exchanged glances. Weren’t fights inevitable when gathering so many youths in one place? What with all the rivalry soon to be going around, it would be surprising if a fight didn’t break out once in a while. For some, this rule may be more challenging than it would be for others.

“Thirdly and most crucial of all.” He paused briefly before continuing, “any use, possession, dissemination, or production of materials associated with obscurity will result in instant expulsion. In addition to expulsion, you will be banished from Tuloria, and on no account will you ever be able to step through this gate again. In Tuloria, and notably under the guidance of the hierarchy of mages across Anumiel: Obscurity. Is. Not. Treated. Lightly.” He said the final words with deliberate emphasis, making his point loud and clear.

Tarron shivered at the tone behind those words combined with the terrifying aura that surrounded him while he said them.

The collective gulping sounds that reverberated across the otherwise hushed throng were reminiscent of a swarm of guttural sea slugs. Who would be so foolish as to practice black magic, or even admit to being interested in it?! Messing around with obscurity was the equivalent of blacklisting yourself from the hierarchies, not just in High Helm, but all across Anumiel!

The tone of his voice eased then, and he looked out one last time with a strange expression on his face, “with that said. The trials ahead are never easy, regardless, we must persevere with a clear conscience and willful heart. Go forth with this command. Become the better for it. By following these simple practices, I hope you will find your time in Tuloria to be pleasant, though for some I am afraid it will be short.”

Elrodor turned on a heel, his intricately patterned sleeves and long white hair fluttering behind as he walked back through the gate and past the soldiers to wait at the side.

The soldier with the red cape stepped forward, beckoning the applicants his way, “this way, please! Enter in an orderly fashion and do not stray, we will know.”

Roughly two hundred young people made their way through the gates and past the stern Moon Elf remaining off to the side with the soldiers, his hands folded behind his back as he observed the stream of applicants entering through the gate.

Elrodor was passed by the unit’s leader, a soldier with a scarlet cloak who paused only briefly before nodding to him. Elrodor nodded back politely as he watched the soldier usher the excited candidates through the inner gatehouse.

Deep blue eyes scanned over them all as they went. On his way through, Tarron cast a glance at the Moon Elf, who either didn’t see him or didn’t care. He did a double take and wondered whether a peculiar light had genuinely been shining in his eyes. He had seen something very similar just that morning, with the officer at Caisus’ gates.

He would have to ask Ezreal about it sometime if he got the chance.

“Tarron! Look!” Ezreal pulled at his sleeves to get his attention back on the metropolis that was slowly coming into view. Beside him, Nil cocked his head forward, an uncharacteristic grin beginning to form on his face.

The three walked side by side into Tuloria as new friends, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

The mechanical-looking vines began to entangle themselves shortly after the last person passed through the gate, thereby shutting access to the bridge and the outer bailey. The remaining soldiers were hastily dismissed by Elrodor; they formed two orderly lines and followed the prospects out of the gatehouse.

Elrodor, the last person remaining, shook out a long sleeve and placed a pale palm on the metallic vines. He gently closed his eyes. A dazzling blue light surged up his left arm and shoulder from the partially visible tattooed runes that began at the back of his hand. He murmured the word “ah’lihta.” Over the gate, a massive golden rune formed, and then its fragments emerged and vanished in quick succession.

When he saw the white aura swiftly climb, producing a gradient, and then receding to its normal shimmering condition, his fingers slid from the gate. It pulsated in waves of significant undulating power only capable of being produced by a magician of such prowess as himself.

He stood alone. The sun fell below the mountainous horizon, the streets springing to life with the glow of lanterns and the flitting of fairy lights that danced around bushes and the bases of the trees.

Elrodor’s eyes shifted upwards toward the city’s grand wards as he tried to tune out the cheers coming from beyond the inner walls.

“Not everything is as it should be, not all is as it will.” He whispered.

Cheers turned to screams within his mind. With a pained look, he closed his eyes tightly as if that small action would be sufficient to block out the undesirable voices of memories long since past that tore through his mind. Sharper than a blade, as clear as morning rain.

He lingered. His countenance was evocative of deep concentration or fond reverie. Finding himself lost in his mind for quite some time, unconsciously, he began reaching for the safety of something tucked away within the folds of his fine robes.

His hand wavered.

He turned around slowly and frowned, with a gaze fixating on the street beyond the gatehouse.

Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and his head sprang up to inspect the wards above, which seemed to have not stirred.

“Something isn’t right.”