The cool mist stroked Spencer's back, comforting it from the blazing sunlight that rained down upon them. The trees stood, watching carefully, as they trod through their forest domain. Spencer smiled, inhaling a lungful of the mountain air in an effort to calm his nerves.

This was it. They were about to go into the keep. He was about to see Noruhito Academy for the very first time.

His body tingled with excitement. His heart pounded like a tribal war drum, each beat it seemed, stronger than the last.

He followed Lois along the dirt track in silence, striding across the gnarled roots of the dark trees. The wind hissed through the trees. Occasional bursts of birdsong would ring out. Black shapes flitted across the sky, barely discernible pinpricks through the mist.

The dirt track shortly led onto a bridge, and the sound rushing water could distinctly be heard beneath them. Their feet crunched against the gravel as they strode across the bridge.

A dark shape appeared from behind the mist, looming over them. As they stepped forward, a tower of black stone appeared before them. Spencer looked up; it seemed as though the wall went up and up forever, soaring into the heavens.

As he brought his eyes down, they locked on the silhouette of a portcullis and before it, barely visible through the mist, was a squad of men, who strode towards them, onto the bridge. Lois stepped forwards and talked to them. The men nodded, turned away, and shouted for the gates to be opened.

As the portcullis creaked open, Spencer glanced at Lois, barely able to suppress his grin. They were here, at Noruhito at last. If only his granddad were here. He had told Spencer of so many stories and tales of his time in the Academy - he loved this place.

Lois smiled. 'I remember my first time here. It was a pretty magical experience.'

Spencer smiled and followed her off the bridge. As they approached the portcullis, the mist began to thin, until it was gone altogether.

They passed under the portcullis and emerged into a courtyard, encircled by black, stone walls, lying beneath a ceiling of mist. The courtyard was made of concentric circles of cobbled stones, alternating between shades of brown and grey stones, the shades growing darker as they neared the wall. People - men and women alike - of various builds and demeanours, from sour-faced behemoths layered with muscle to stick-thin balls of anxiety, strode across the cobbled stone. They wore kimonos like Lois's, with various colours of sashes. Spencer spied only a few with no sash at all: the two Matthews siblings who they'd met at breakfast, Toby and Riley, and a little snivelling runt of the boy with ashen hair and a ratty face.

At the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by a circle of golden steps leading up to it, was a black tower, its head buried in the misty ceiling: the Noruhito Academy. The black stone gleamed like onyx. Sticking out from the tower's side were large circles - which were, as Lois explained, battlegrounds where the trainees practiced. Looking up at them, Spencer spied several flashes of bright light, fire, and lightning. A grin spread over his face.

It's like you said, Granddad. It's magnificent. His heart raced with excitement.

The clang of metal against metal rang through the courtyard, cutting over the sound of chatter and voices. Off to one side of the courtyard was a forge, which glimmered brightly. Beside the forge was a rough-faced man and a portly fellow, stood beside racks of silver armour and weapons.

The smell of bread and cheese and wine, too, flooded the courtyard, as chefs darted about. Spencer's stomach, though still full from breakfast, rumbled loudly as the beautiful smells drifted up his nose.

I hope they serve cheeseboards here, he thought, watching a scullion carrying a wheel of cheese as she made her way across the courtyard. I do love a cheeseboard.

Along the edge of the wall, beneath the battlemented walkways and crenels, was a ring of timber-framed paths, following the edge of the courtyard. The people on these paths mostly wore white kimonos - they were the Academy's trainers, as Lois told him - or kimonos of blood-red (Khai sorcerers who had already graduated from the Academy but hadn't stayed on as trainers). There were also a few people in black kimonos and red sashes - the Academy's third-years.

'Once you get to the third year, everything changes,' Lois explained. 'You get certain privileges and access to some of the trainer-only facilities. We plebs in the first and second years unfortunately do not receive such treatment. Follow me. Dejarum wants us to meet at the Academy.'

She led him up the golden steps and through the huge, cast-iron gateway into the Noruhito Academy. They came into a hall, which was almost empty, stepping onto a marble floor. The walls were covered in portraits of gallant warriors and fiendish beasts - which Spencer knew to be Manifestations of the Dark World, cast into being by the nefarious Qualms. On almost every portrait was a man with a Five-Pointed Star adorning his black gown: a Qualm.

Spencer grimaced as the memory of his father's face, pale and pallid, emblazoned with that very same starry emblem, rushed through his mind. His breathing grew heavy. He bowed his head and fell to one knee.

Lois frowned. 'Are you alright?'

Spencer gasped. 'Yeah, yeah. Just...The Five-Pointed Star.' He fought to keep tears from his eyes. 'I can still remember...'

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

He felt a hand touch his shoulder, radiating warmth. The warm feeling spread across his body. Images of his father's dead body vanished from his mind. Spencer looked up, expecting to see Lois, but instead saw a bald, dark-skinned old man in a red kimono touching his shoulder. A small, white goatee clutched the man's chin, and his face was sharp, like a knife.

There were two things peculiar about him: for one, he had a jagged, red scar running from the top-left side of his forehead, across his creased face, down his neck, and it continued underneath his kimono; the second thing peculiar about him were his eyes, which were coloured solid white.

Despite this, Spencer remained at ease with the man's callused hand gripping his shoulder, and made no reaction, feeling the warmth the man exuded rushing through him. He sighed and nodded, smiling. 'Thank you, sir.'

The man bowed his head, muttered something incoherent, then tsked and turned away, striding across the marble. His bare feet made no sound as he made his way across the hall to one of the many staircases in the room. He started up the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Spencer frowned. What a strange man.

Lois helped him to his feet, her face pale and still. Her eyes were wide. She didn't blink and stared dumbly at Spencer.

Spencer's frown deepened. 'What?'

'That,' Lois began. 'was Vesner Yorgbraag, an ancient warrior of the First Qualm War. It was rumoured he was the one who felled Ghigor the Blood-Menace*.'

Spencer's eyes widened as he recalled information of the Khai sorcerers' history he had learned from his granddad. 'He killed Ghigor? But I thought Ghigor died two centuries ago?'

Lois nodded slowly. 'Yorgbraag is a living legend. Very few have ever seen him. He has an ability, one which allows him to sense strength and potential. He touched you, Spencer. He cast Fiarlad's Temperament on you. He thinks you have potential.'

'We'll see,' Spencer muttered. 'Let's not go jumping feet-first into anything. Besides, I don't care how great my potential is. I need to get through the Basic Trial then I can go home.'

'Dejarum and the other trainers won't see it that way,' Lois answered. 'If indeed your potential is as great as they say.'

Spencer followed to one the stone staircases, boots clip-clopping on the marble. Their boots thumped against the stone as they walked up the staircase.

Striding through an oaken door, they came to a stone chamber. Opposite the entrance was a door. On the left of the chamber was what looked to be a human-sized stone box, which Lois immediately strode towards. She rested her hand on the stone and gestured Spencer do the same. Confused, Spencer nonetheless obliged her request.

'It's a coffin,' Lois explained. 'Inside is Tharis Greatheart - Dejarum's father.'

Spencer frowned. 'You talk as if he isn't dead? But if he's in a coffin, then he must be dead.'

Lois sighed, bowing her head. Her face darkened. 'Tharis Greatheart is alive, somewhat. He has no consciousness and remains in a coma - and so he shall for the rest of the lifetime of the world.'

She paused. 'To be a sorcerer of the Khai dynasty is to take up serious emotional strain. All powers come from emotions, be them positive or negative emotions. If one overuses their Khai abilities, they are abusing their emotions. And when emotions are abused, they hide in their shells and the sorcerer becomes increasingly cold-hearted, until at last, they become a Qualm. Once a sorcerer becomes a Qualm, there is no bringing them back.'

She sighed, stroking the lid of Greatheart's coffin. 'Tharis Greatheart overexerted himself, yet he did not become a Qualm. For while a Qualm loses much of their moral inhibitions, they still retain a sense of self that can only be granted by the continued existence of their emotions. Greatheart exerted himself too much at the Battle of the Meeting Rivers**, to such an extent his emotions did not just hide away, but were destroyed altogether. And now he remains in this pitiful state, a shadow of the warrior he once was. Dejarum was there at the battle and saw his father lose himself first-hand. He has this coffin outside his office to remind Khai sorcerers of the potential dangers if they abuse their powers.'

She paused and shut her eyes, angling her head towards the ceiling, her fingers strafing up and down the coffin lid. She inhaled sharply and let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. A flash of darkness flickered behind her eyes.

Spencer was about to ask her what had sparked her peculiar reaction, but stopped himself. Judging by the intense look on her face, the matter was likely a personal matter, one she likely did not want to talk about.

Lois straightened herself up, and the flash of darkness disappeared, and her eyes returned to their kind and calm hazel-brown. She ran a hand through her fiery locks and pointed at the door ahead. 'The door leads to Dejarum's office. Go. He is expecting you. I'll wait outside. It was you he wanted to talk to, not me.' She smiled kindly. 'You'll be fine.'

Spencer nodded and approached the doorway. He grasped the golden knocker - fashioned into the shape of a python's head - and smacked it twice against the door. He stepped back, crossed his arms, and waited.

There was a sudden bang, and smoke began pouring out from beneath the door. It stank of rotten eggs and fish. Spencer grimaced and crinkled his nose, fighting to keep a straight face. He didn't know what to expect from Master Dejarum, the so-called Hero of the Gladden Field. Though his granddad had told him tales of many of the Academy's trainers and staff, he had never mentioned anyone by that name - nor any "Gladden Field" for that matter.

The door opened with a creak, sending more smoke billowing into the stone chamber. Spencer coughed, fighting the urge not to gag as the terrible smell enveloped him. He heard a bang as Lois scarpered from the room and slammed the door behind her, coughing and wheezing.

A skeletal hand grasped the door, pulling it open further. Smoke rushed out in an almighty torrent; but in just a few seconds, it had disappeared. What had not disappeared was the rotten stench. Spencer tried to suppress a gag, but bent over, retching.

No, no, get up. If Master Dejarum sees you like this, what'll he think?

'He'll think ya look a little bit off-colour, lad,' answered a hearty voice, laced with a strong Irish accent.

Spencer froze. He can read my thoughts?

'Aye, but, ah, there's no need ta be afeared,' came the voice again.

Spencer hesitated, then picked up his gaze to look at the man in the doorway. By now, all the smoke had disappeared, and through the doorway could be seen Dejarum's office-space.

Dejarum himself - the Irishman - was a thin, skeletal man. He was so thin, Spencer reckoned the winds blowing down the mountain could likely take him with them. As much as Dejarum was thin, he was also tall, his round head over two metres from the ground. Adorning his head was spiky grey hair, jutting off in all directions like a mountain range.

Dejarum smiled and offered Spencer a hand as the young man straightened himself. 'Ah, Thomas Dejarum.'

Spencer looked at him incredulously. So this is the mythical Hero of Gladden Field? Caught off-guard, he cautiously took the man's hand and shook it tentatively. 'Spencer Jackson...sir.'

'Good man,' Dejarum murmured. 'Though why're ya lookin' so off-colour? Are ye surprised there's such thing as an Irishman not called "Paddy"?' He laughed. 'Ah, my husband loves that joke. Come on, lad. Git in 'ere.'

Spencer sighed, relaxing himself, and stepped inside the office.