Penelo’s Visit

Penelo entered the room with her usual warm smile, carrying a small basket of herbs and fruits. She walked over to Aethyr, gently checking his wounds, but then she suddenly smacked him on the back—right on a tender spot.

“Ow! Penelo!” Aethyr yelped, his face twisted in a mix of pain and surprise.

Penelo grinned mischievously. “Remember, my punch hurts more than any monster you’ll face! Don’t you dare get hurt like that again!”

Aethyr let out a soft chuckle, rubbing his sore back. “Can’t promise that... but I’ll do my best to keep myself in one piece. Promise.” He smiled back, though the concern lingered in Penelo’s eyes.

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The Mage Council Debate

The grand hall of the Mage’s Council buzzed with tension. The air felt heavy with the weight of their discussion. Some of the mages were pacing, while others argued, their faces flushed with frustration. Aethyr’s name was on everyone’s lips.

“He should be our weapon to end the conflicts plaguing the kingdom!” one mage, a tall man with a red beard, exclaimed. “Imagine the power we could wield with him on our side. He could crush armies!”

Another mage shook her head, her voice dripping with disapproval. “No! That’s madness. We need to foster him as a great mage—his skills will attract new apprentices to the college. He should be a beacon of hope and learning, not a weapon of war!”

“He should be a hero! Someone the people can rally behind!” shouted a younger mage. “A symbol of peace, not violence!”

The arguments grew louder, voices clashing like thunder in the echoing hall.

“Silence!” The booming voice of the Grand Master, Grandhir, cut through the noise like a blade. The room instantly quieted, all eyes turning to the elderly but imposing figure standing at the center of the council table. His eyes, sharp and knowing, surveyed the crowd before he spoke again, his tone steady and authoritative.

“For now, we grant Aethyr a full pass to the Destruction Magic School.”

A collective gasp rose from the room.

“What?!”

“He’s already dangerously powerful!”

“Master Grandhir, you can’t be serious!”

The Grand Master raised his hand, silencing the dissent again. “It is our duty to guide him, not to cage him. Master Sarphin, you will teach him everything you know about destruction magic—properly, and with responsibility—before he resorts to... forbidden methods.” His eyes glanced toward the cracked stones in the hall where Aethyr's armor and stones were placed.

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Master Sarphin, his face pale and strained, spoke up. “But, sire... what if he becomes another Merodach? You trained Merodach too, and he—he surpassed all of us, only to descend into madness! Aethyr... he could follow that same path!” Sarphin’s voice cracked with fear, a memory of terror flashing in his eyes.

Grandhir’s voice softened, barely a whisper now. “Aethyr is not Merodach.” He paused. “He can become what he chooses to be... and it is our duty to ensure that choice is guided by wisdom, not fear.” Then, almost to himself, the Grand Master muttered, “And perhaps... he is the one to stop Merodach.”

The council room fell into a deep silence. The weight of Grandhir’s words hung in the air.

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The Arrival of the Phalanx

The next day, excitement rippled through the college as word spread like wildfire: The Phalanx had arrived in the city. Townsfolk gathered in the streets, whispers and gasps following the legendary warriors as they approached. At the front of the group stood Whitemane himself, Aethyr’s grandfather. His tall figure cut an imposing presence, the epitome of an elder warrior who had seen countless battles. Behind him, the other nine members of the Phalanx, each an icon in their own right, marched in perfect formation. Their armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, their weapons hanging heavy with the stories of a hundred campaigns.

When Whitemane saw Aethyr, his face broke into a broad grin, and for a moment, the hardened warrior seemed to vanish, replaced by a doting grandfather. He rushed forward and pulled Aethyr into a tight embrace.

“By the gods, my little cookie-sweet monster has grown into a fine young man!” Whitemane’s voice boomed, deep and affectionate.

Aethyr laughed, though he was slightly embarrassed by the nickname. “Grandfather...”

Penelo stood behind Aethyr, smiling softly.

“And who’s this?” Whitemane’s eyes twinkled as he noticed Penelo, his voice brimming with playful curiosity. “A future bearer of Whitemane’s offspring, eh? I approve!” He laughed, his voice hearty and booming, loud enough for the entire street to hear. “She’ll make me a grandchild worthy of legends!”

Aethyr's face flushed red. “Grandfather, this is Penelo... She’s a healer, a restoration specialist.”

“For now!” Whitemane’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “But soon, she’ll be healing my heart with a grandchild!” He let out a belly laugh that echoed down the street.

Penelo, trying to keep a straight face, shot Aethyr an amused look.

“Come, old man,” Aethyr said with a grin. “Let me introduce you properly to the others.” He gestured toward the college grounds.

The Phalanx followed, their presence causing heads to turn as they entered the college grounds. Intimidating figures, each of the Nine carried a reputation as fierce as their leader’s.

Chornut, the Chopper, was first, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his weathered face a testament to decades of battle. Aela the Huntress walked with deadly grace, her eyes scanning the surroundings like a hawk, always alert. Valiant and Gallant, the twin brothers, walked in lockstep, their contrasting styles—one a deadly ambusher, the other a near-invulnerable tank—clear even in their strides.

As they entered the grand hall, the students and mages stared in awe, some too intimidated to even breathe. The arrival of the Phalanx was no small event, and the college felt the weight of their presence.