The Dream of Ashmark

Later that night, Aethyr made camp at the edge of the swamp. As the fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the trees, he stared into the flames, lost in thought. His journey was far from over, and the road ahead would only grow more dangerous.

But his mind kept drifting to Ashmark. What kind of city awaited him there? Would he be strong enough to withstand the trials of a foreign land, so different from his own? His dreams were filled with questions and uncertainty.

In the distance, the faint hum of the swamp lingered, but in his heart, a different fire burned. One that pushed him forward, to discover what fate had in store for him—and what kind of man he would become.

Aethyr waved goodbye to his escort and pressed on through the valley and wide-open meadow. The afternoon sun bathed the rolling hills in a golden hue, casting long shadows across the land. He took a sip from his water container, enjoying the peaceful solitude. The road stretched endlessly ahead, but the tranquility of the landscape eased his mind. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, he found a suitable spot to make camp. Luck favored him as he spotted a rabbit along the way, and by dusk, he feasted like a king, the crackling fire warming him against the cool evening breeze.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the mist, Aethyr resumed his journey. Not long after, he came upon a merchant struggling with a broken cart.

"Excuse me, sir," Aethyr said, approaching cautiously. "Is this the road to Ashmark?"

The merchant, an older man with graying hair, looked up from the wheel, wiping his brow. "Ahh, yes, just keep walking, lad. You'll reach it by sundown, at least." He paused, glancing at Aethyr. "I'm Rowan, by the way. I sell household goods—shampoo, soap, and some fine leather hides from exotic animals."

Aethyr smiled. "Aethyrvald Whitemane, though most just call me Aethyr." He glanced at the broken wheel and added, "I think I can help you. Do you have a spare rim?"

Rowan scratched his head. "I do, but I wouldn't know how to fit it."

Aethyr knelt beside the cart, examining the broken spoke. "No worries, I’ve got some experience with this." He set to work, building a small fire to heat the spare rim. The flames licked the metal, causing it to expand. Aethyr hammered it carefully into place, ensuring the wheel fit snugly. His hands moved with precision, fixing the spoke with a makeshift but sturdy replacement.

Within an hour, the job was done. Rowan watched in awe, his face breaking into a wide grin. "By the gods, you’ve saved me! Hop on, lad! I can take you to town."

The journey to Ashmark became easier with Rowan's cart in working condition, and as they arrived at the gates, Aethyr presented his scholar's card while Rowan directed him to the best inn in town. That evening, Aethyr sat down to a hearty meal, the flavors rich with familiar spices and herbs, filling him with warmth. He slept well that night, excited for what awaited him the next day.

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Morning arrived with a cool breeze, and Aethyr walked through the bustling streets of Ashmark. He marveled at the magical shops and alchemy stalls, each teeming with strange and wonderful objects. Potions bubbled in glass vials, glowing softly in the early light. Sorcerers in their robes wandered past, discussing arcane matters in hushed tones. Then, something caught his eye—an old, weathered sign that read, Alteration School: Master the Art of Transformation.

Intrigued, Aethyr stepped inside and was immediately greeted by an eccentric man with wild hair and robes patched with different fabrics.

"Welcome, welcome!" the man exclaimed with a wide grin. "I’m Alious, owner of this humble establishment. You seek knowledge, yes?"

Aethyr blinked, taken aback by the man’s energy. "What is... alteration?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

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Alious chuckled and picked up a small, dull rock. "How much would this sell for in the market?"

"It’s worthless," Aethyr replied, puzzled.

"Ah, but watch." Alious placed the rock in a strange contraption, whispering an incantation. Slowly, the rock shimmered and transformed into a gleaming piece of gold.

Aethyr's eyes widened. "That’s incredible..."

"You see! Alteration can make you rich, yes, yes!" Alious gestured excitedly. "The possibilities are endless, young one."

Just then, Rowan walked by and hurried inside. "Aethyr, lad, get out of here. That’s nothing but a scam. Magic tricks, nothing more."

Alious grinned slyly. "Ta-ta, my young friend. The knowledge you seek is here, waiting."

Aethyr followed Rowan out, but he couldn't shake what he'd seen. As they walked away, Rowan shook his head. "People like that, they’ll take your money and leave you with nothing but dreams of wealth. Be careful."

But Aethyr knew better. The stone had returned to its original form, no longer gold. That wasn’t a scam. Alteration was real, and only a few could truly master it. He felt a spark of excitement, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time.

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Later that day, Aethyr stood at the grand gates of the college. Cloaked figures with magical robes moved about, their faces obscured in the shadow of their hoods. Nervous but determined, Aethyr joined the line of other applicants.

When his turn came, he approached the pedestal where mana was to be tested. Placing his hand on the cold stone surface, he felt a spark, a brief flicker of energy. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. The attending scholar glanced at the reading.

"Mana level: 100." The words felt like a hammer blow.

Aethyr stared at the number, stunned. He had expected more—he had wielded elemental magic before, grand spells that made him feel powerful. And yet, here he was, just an average student, barely enough mana to cast a few fireballs.

But deep inside, Aethyr knew there was something more. He felt it—an ancient power sealed within him, waiting to be unlocked. He had felt it stir during moments of intense emotion, but he didn’t yet know how to control it.

He exhaled slowly, accepting the result. It was enough to gain entrance to the college, after all. With a sense of determination, he paid the entry fees and chose a staff instead of a wand, its sturdiness offering him a sense of security. As he made his way to the dormitories, his heart raced with excitement. His journey was only just beginning.

The first morning at the college was dedicated to introductions: the layout of the school, its various classrooms, laboratories, and experimental chambers, all part of the grand tour. Students were introduced to their masters and the staff they’d be learning from. Aethyr followed along, quietly observing everything.

The first class for beginners was Protection Magic and Basic Healing. They began by reading from the standard book, memorizing incantations, and learning how to perform the necessary hand gestures. As Aethyr glanced around, he couldn’t help but chuckle. His fellow students all looked ridiculous—murmuring under their breath while waving their hands aimlessly in the air. Aethyr tried to contain his laughter, but his smirk betrayed him.

Master Healer Asphir, standing at the front of the room, noticed Aethyr's amusement. His voice echoed across the classroom.

"Whitemane! Come forward!" the master commanded. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Aethyr. "If you find this so amusing, perhaps you’d like to demonstrate your skill. Heal this plant." He gestured toward a withered vine, its leaves dry and brittle.

Aethyr stepped forward, suddenly aware of the pressure. Asphir's eyes bore into him. Healing magic, the master explained, "is a delicate art. Potions aren’t always available on the battlefield, so we rely on pure magicka to mend the broken."

Aethyr recalled the spell he’d read earlier. He focused, chanting softly, and moved his hands as instructed. The air shimmered faintly as he cast the spell. The vine trembled and straightened, its color deepening to a healthy green.

He smiled in triumph. But deep down, Aethyr knew this was only a small success—true healing required far greater mastery. Today, he could heal a dying plant; tomorrow, perhaps, a shallow wound. But to heal deep injuries or bring someone back from the brink of death? That was beyond him. For now.

The second class of the day introduced Protection Magic. Master Asphir explained that protection spells were as crucial as healing, for no mage could survive long without defending themselves.