The sun rose over Arcano, bathing the city in a golden light that made its crystal spires gleam like rivers of molten gold. From afar, the city was a marvel, its architecture a ballet of magic and stone, where even the air seemed to hum with enchantment. Streets paved with luminescent stones lit up at dusk, and magical lanterns floated above, casting shadows that danced like living creatures.

Here, magic was not just a tool but the very breath of the city. The air was alive, vibrating with the hum of magic, a melody that whispered of ancient power and new possibilities, yet beneath this enchanting facade lay a darker truth.

In the market square, where the scent of fresh produce mingled with the sharp tang of magic, Eldora moved with a weary grace. She had dark, curly hair often tied back, with bright, purple eyes that missed little. Her skin was sun-kissed from her work outdoors. Her hands, stained with the day's labor, were deft as she arranged fruits and vegetables in her stall. Her eyes, however, belied the fatigue; they were alight with a spark of defiance, a silent protest against the life laid out for her by the mages who ruled Arcano. 

The city's magic did not belong to all; it was a privilege, a chain that bound those without it to a life of servitude. Commoners like Eldora lived under the shadow of the mages, their lives dictated by spells that compelled obedience, their dreams curtailed by invisible barriers.

Galen, an apprentice mage with robes that had yet to earn the sigils of mastery, watched Eldora from a distance. He had a lean build and sharp features, and his hair was a tousled brown, often falling over his eyes. His heart ached with the disparity he saw. His own rise in the mage hierarchy had been through merit, but now, as he observed Eldora, he questioned the fairness of a world where magic was a birthright rather than a gift to be shared.

"You could use some magic, girl," a mage sneered at Eldora's stall, his voice dripping with condescension as he passed by, his robe adorned with the symbols of his rank.

Eldora's response was quick, her voice sharp yet composed. "And you could use some humility, mage. Or is that not taught in your towers?" Her words earned her a glare but also a few hidden smiles from fellow commoners.

Then Eldora noticed Galen, sensing his gaze was not like the condescending looks of other mages. She met his eyes with a challenging stare, her voice sharp when she spoke, "Lost among us common folk, mage?"

Galen, intrigued rather than offended, smiled, a rare gesture for one of his rank. "I'm just looking for something... different," he said, his voice genuine, not laced with the usual arrogance of his kind.

Eldora's response was quick, her tone softening a bit. "Then perhaps you should look beyond your robes."

This exchange planted the seeds of curiosity in both of them. Over the following days, Galen found excuses to visit the market more often, drawn not just by Eldora's spirit but by the stark contrast between the life he knew and the one he was beginning to glimpse.

Afterwards, their relationship began to grow in the market, where Galen would help Eldora with heavy baskets under the guise of learning about the commoners' lives. He would ask questions about the fruits, the herbs, and the daily struggles.

***

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

In the corners of Arcano, whispers began to spread of an ancient prophecy, one that spoke of a time when a mage of fire would rise to either save or doom the city.

Not far away, in a modest home on the city's fringe, Delilah sat by a small window. She had long, wavy silver hair that seemed to catch fire under the sun, with eyes that shifted from a deep blue to an amber glow when her emotions were high, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun kissed the earth.

Delilah felt these prophetic whispers in her dreams, a call to destiny she couldn't ignore. Her mother, Mira, with the same silver hair as Delilah, watched her with eyes full of both pride and fear. Delilah's lineage was a secret, her potential as a fire mage from the Emberflame family hidden under layers of mundane existence.

"Why do we live like this, Mother?" Delilah asked, her voice a whisper laced with curiosity. "Why must we hide?"

Mira's hands clasped a pendant that glowed softly with hidden magic. "Because, my child, in Arcano, fire mages are feared. Your father... he was one, and his fate taught us caution."

Delilah's question was cut short by the clanging of bells, signaling the start of another day of work for the commoners. The sound was a stark reminder of their place in this magical city, a melody of oppression rather than celebration.

Atop the Mage's Tower, Alaric, High Mage of Arcano, surveyed his domain. His hair was silver, kept short and neat, matching his well-groomed beard, while his robes were heavy with the weight of his office, embroidered with runes that shimmered in the morning light. His gaze, sharp and piercing, missed nothing. He felt every spell, every whisper of magic in the air, a constant reminder of his control.

"Another day of peace," he murmured to himself, though his voice lacked conviction. His rule was secure, but the undercurrents of discontent among the commoners were like whispers in the wind, heard but not acknowledged.

"Master Alaric," Galen called out, spotting the High Mage descending from his tower. His voice was eager, seeking the approval that every apprentice craved but was also tinged with the knowledge of the city's dark underbelly.

Alaric turned, his expression softening for a moment, a mask of benevolence. "Galen, you're out late. What keeps you from your studies?"

Galen hesitated, his eyes darting back to where Eldora had disappeared into the crowd. "The city, sir. It's... it's alive tonight."

"Indeed, it is," Alaric agreed, his gaze following Galen's, but his voice carried an edge. "But remember, magic is a gift, not a right. It must be used to maintain order, to keep the peace." His words were an assertion of his control, not just over magic but over lives.

As they walked through the streets, Alaric guiding Galen through the lesser-known paths where magic and common life intertwined, they passed by a small, hidden garden where commoners and mages alike gathered to share stories, the air filled with the scent of night-blooming flowers and the murmur of laughter, a rare moment where the divide seemed less pronounced.

"See this, Galen," Alaric said, gesturing to the scene, his tone patronizing. "Magic is not just power. It's connection, understanding. But only when used wisely, by those who understand its true nature."

Galen nodded, his voice sincere but with a hint of challenge. "I see, Master. But what about when magic becomes the chain that binds rather than the light that frees?"

Alaric's eyes narrowed, his voice cold. "There is always a balance, Galen. And those who cannot see it, who do not respect it, must be guided by those who do." His words were a veiled threat, an indication of his iron grip on Arcano.

As night fell over Arcano, the city's enchantment was at its peak, the stars reflecting off the magical barriers that protected the city, yet also enclosed it in a gilded cage. The contrast between the beauty of the night and the reality of the day was never more apparent. 

In the quiet of her home, Delilah practiced under her mother's watchful eye, her fingers tracing unseen patterns in the air, a dance of potential that was both her birthright and her curse. Mira's voice was soft, laden with the weight of their secret. "Remember, Delilah, your fire can be a light, not just a weapon. But we must be careful. The city isn't ready for our truth."