Rowan's voice shattered the fragile quiet, yanking me from the scrawled chaos of alchemical notes spread before me. "Einar!" His breath fogged the tiny cabin’s window, face pressed against the glass like a child hunting the first snowflake. "Pack up your things. I see the port lights from here."
The steady thrum of the ship beneath us shifted, a subtle lurch rippling through its timbers as the sails eased down with a sound like the snapping of great wings. Evening’s muted glow spilled over the edges of the horizon, bleeding into the darkening waves. Eight hours at sea, and the ocean had already carried us far from everything familiar. Far from the cold winds of the north.
“Pray we find a decent inn,” I murmured, snapping the leather-bound notebook shut. The scent of ink and old vellum still clung faintly to its pages. My suitcase waited at the edge of the table, barely heavy enough to warrant the effort.
Rowan threw himself onto the bed with a groan, sprawling like a man unused to long journeys. His boots hung off the edge, scuffing the carved posts. "There’ll be plenty of rooms. Don’t worry about that. Most’ve already taken the test by now—probably on their way back to whatever hole they crawled out of." His confidence was as unshaken as his grin.
The lid of my suitcase creaked as I opened it, the faint smell of cedar rising from within. Sparse belongings greeted me: a folded tunic, a pouch of coins, a sidebag at the bottom, a leather strapped notebook with ink and quill tucked in the corner, and the wand. My mother’s wand. Its surface glinted faintly in the lanternlight hanging above the cabin, the runes etched into the firewood catching the glow like melded gold.
Rowan leaned up, curiosity lighting his face. His grin widened, as though he were staring at the spoils of a king’s hoard. “So that’s the wand your mother used. Gods, you’ve been quiet about it all this time.”
I lifted it from its resting place, the weight of it familiar—like holding a fragment of my own bone. Its rough texture bit against my fingers, alive with some faint pulse that seemed to slip from my hand. "Yes… She used it sparingly. I’ve seen her cast spells in an instant without a sweet. Her control over it was truly amazing."
Rowan edged closer, fingers twitching as though tempted to touch it. "It’s rejecting your touch, doesn’t it? That’s firewood for you. Suited to flames, but fickle in the wrong hands. Add a core material, and it becomes a vessel for destruction. And these runes…” His voice softened, reverent. “Lux. Sol. Yol. Three marks on one wand. You don’t see that on every wand. That’s mastercraft. Only sorcerers with mastery can have them carved.”
The words surprised me. Rowan rarely spoke with such weight. "You seem to know your way around a wand for someone who’s never held one."
His laugh was soft, almost bitter. "You spend years studying what you never have, and you pick things up. The runes are shortcuts, Einar. Like paving stones on a dirt path. Lux binds light, Sol bends life, and Yol spits fire. With these carved in, casting becomes as natural as breathing."
"And without them?"
“You’d be fumbling with patterns and perfect incantations mid-spell. Imagine that, in the middle of a duel.” His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. "It’s why most of them end up casting slowly. Not that it’s a bad thing. Just… even a split-second matter for sorcerers."
I slid the wand back into its place, closing the suitcase with care. "Guess we will learn more in the college."
"Will this wand ever choose someone again?" His question echoed, filled with wistful longing. He pushed to his feet, stretching. "Come, let’s not linger. The city awaits."
The ship's bells tolled above us as we stepped onto the deck, the crisp bite of salt-laden air filling my lungs. Around us, the crew moved like shadows, preparing the vessel to anchor. Twelve of us gathered at the rail, a ragtag mix of would-be students, travellers, and dreamers. The port of the city loomed ahead, quiet beneath the deepening twilight.
My eyes found the great structure rising in the centre of the island on the left of the harbour. Zenith, College for Sorcery. Its five spires clawed toward the heavens, joined by ancient stone walls that framed the central keep. Lanterns lined the bridges stretching from the city to the island, their glow flickering against the dark waters below. The dense forests beyond framed it all, stretching into the distant east like the maw of some forgotten beast.
Rowan whistled low as we disembarked, his breath curling in the cool air. “Look at it, Einar. Bigger than I imagined. Makes our whole town look like a collection of pigsties." His voice dropped, reverent. "The oldest wizarding college. I wonder how many secrets lie on that island and behind those walls.”
I stared up at the towering spires, their silhouettes cutting against the dying light. "Secrets… answers for everything," I murmured.
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The city itself rose from the shore with quiet dignity, its streets curving in deliberate arcs. Every building seemed placed with care, from the stout stone inns to the sprawling taverns and even the brothels tucked into discreet corners. The cobblestones beneath our boots were clean and polished. Yet worn, bearing the weight of centuries.
Yet for all its order, the city itself felt empty. Taverns echoed with distant laughter, but the streets themselves grew quieter as the oil lamps flared to life. Shadows stretched long between the alleys, and an odd stillness clung to the air.
Rowan scowled as another innkeeper waved us off, his hands raised in apology. “No rooms left. Bastards. You’d think a city built around a bloody college would have more than a handful of beds.”
“Most of these places cater to the rich,” I muttered. "Or the ones who’ve planned better than us."
After scrambling for half an hour, we finally stumbled upon ‘The Frosty Mead.’ We found it by accident. Its weathered sign swayed in the faint breeze, the iron chains creaking softly. The inn crouched at the edge of the street, its slanted roof and leaning walls giving it the appearance of a drunkard swaying after too many tankards.
Rowan eyed it with open suspicion, crossing his arms. “That? It looks like it’s held together by spit and stubbornness.”
“Do we have another choice?” I stepped forward, fingers brushing the iron door handle.
He groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "If rats gnaw my toes, I’ll make you clean the wounds."
I shoved the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. “Let’s hope they have a bed first.”
The inn’s interior reeked of neglect and secrets best left unspoken. The air clung damp and heavy, laced with the faint tang of mildew and something metallic—iron, perhaps blood. A sickly orange glow flickered from a hearth near the back, its fire gasping against the weight of the shadows. Candlelight trembled on warped wooden tables pitted with scars and dark stains, their histories better imagined than known.
“This place feels…” Rowan’s voice lowered as his eyes darted to the darker corners, where the flickering light refused to go. “Old.”
I stepped further in, boots creaking against the uneven floorboards. “I would say ’Forgotten’,” I murmured, my gaze sweeping the common room. “Though I’m not sure which is worse.”
Rowan adjusted the grip on his suitcase, his knuckles pale against the leather handle. “Bet we’re the first fools to step in here in weeks. Maybe months.” His eyes flicked to the rafters above, following a faint skittering sound. Something unseen shifted in the shadows. “Gods help us if this place has rats. We’ve had plenty on the ship.”
I ignored him, my focus drawn to the figure behind the counter. A stocky dwarf leaned against the shelves, arms folded over a chest like a barrel. His beard, braided and threaded with dull copper rings, was immaculately groomed—a jarring contrast to the chaos around him. Dusty bottles lined the shelves at his back, their contents too murky to identify, while tarnished tankards hung on hooks like forgotten relics. He polished one absentmindedly, the cup already gleaming as though the act were more habit than necessity.
His sharp eyes flicked up, pinning us in place with a glance as precise as a dagger’s edge. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional pop of the dying fire.
“Any rooms?” My voice cut through the stillness, even and measured.
“Plenty,” he grunted. His words were clipped, every syllable blunt. “How long?”
“One night, one room with two beds,” I answered, though the thought of more made my stomach twist.
The dwarf held out a calloused hand without looking up. “Four coppers.”
“Does that come with a meal? Sir...?” Rowan shifted next to me, rummaging through the inside pockets of his coat. He counted the coins quickly, the faint clink of metal breaking the quiet. He placed them into the dwarf’s waiting palm, but the man didn’t move to pocket them right away. His eyes flicked between us again, assessing, and weighing, before he finally turned and stuffed the coins into a small iron box beside the keg on the counter.
“Durin will be fine. And yes, it comes with a meal,” he said, voice flat. “Sylvie! Get in here!”
The name echoed through the room, carrying with it a weight that seemed to stir the very walls. A ripple moved through the air—subtle, almost imperceptible—but I felt it in my chest, like my instinct had detected a presence ever before my eyes.
A shimmer appeared to our right, faint at first but growing brighter, the edges of it like liquid light rippling in place. Rowan stiffened beside me, his breath catching as the glow solidified like a round gate in the very fabric of reality. From it stepped a figure that made my pulse quicken, not from fear, but from the sheer otherworldly presence she carried.
She was slight, no taller than my chest, her form wrapped in a faint aura that seemed to refract the firelight into a cascade of shifting hues. Her blonde hair floated as though caught in a gentle breeze, each strand like a smouldering ember, and her jewel-like eyes; bright green and unnervingly sharp. Transparent wings, veined and delicate, extended from her back, their edges glimmering faintly with traces of ember reflecting fireplace behind her.
“Yes, Father?” Her voice was melodic, but it lacked warmth. Each word rang with precision, every syllable deliberate.
Rowan’s whisper was barely audible. “Einar… am I seeing this right? Is that… a fairy?”
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I nodded slowly, not taking my eyes off her. “It seems like it. Perhaps the only few of her kind. Heard stories about them, they have long extinct ages ago.”
“She’s…” Rowan trailed off, his words caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Incredible. Just look at her enchanting figure and that otherworldly beauty. Fuck, man. How can there be anyone like that?”
“Careful,” I muttered, keeping my voice low. “That ‘incredible’ might turn you into ash if you gawk too long.”
Durin grunted from behind the counter, his tone carrying the weariness of a man accustomed to her presence. “Sylvie, show them their room with two beds. And try not to scare them half to death while you’re at it.”
Her eyes lingered on Rowan for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before she turned to me. “Follow me,” she commanded, the single word carrying an authority that left no room for argument.
She moved toward the stairs without waiting, her wings shimmering faintly with each step. She didn’t walk so much as glide, her movements fluid and precise. Rowan nudged me as we followed, his expression torn between awe and nervous excitement.
“Did you see that? Her wings, her hair—she’s like something out of a storybook.”
“Focus on the stairs before you trip,” I muttered, though my own focus lingered on her. Something was unsettling about her presence, something unnatural even for a being like me.
The staircase groaned beneath our weight, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent inn. The floor was darker, the light from the hearth below barely reaching the narrow hallway. Sylvie stopped at the farthest door, her hand rising with a sharp, practiced motion. A faint glow surrounded the wood as she snapped her fingers, unlocking it with a soft click.
“This is your room,” she said, her voice as cold as the inn’s draft. Another flick of her wrist, and the faint shimmer of magic settled over the door. “Dinner will be served shortly. If you need anything else…” Her lips curled faintly, though the expression lacked humor. “…don’t bother.”
With that, she turned and descended the stairs without another word, her wings fluttering faintly as she moved.
Rowan exhaled loudly as soon as she was out of earshot. “Gods. Einar, I think I’m in love. I will take my chance with her.”
“You’re an idiot,” I muttered, pushing the door open. “That’s the first girl we have seen here. Let's get comfortable before going back.”
The room was sparse with two narrow beds, a small table, and a single glass window that let in the faint glow of the moonlight. The floor creaked as I stepped inside, the air carrying the faint scent of old wood and rats mixed with the faint scent of resin. Rowan dropped his suitcase onto the nearest bed, flopping down with a sigh.
“It’s not much,” he muttered, bouncing the mattress slightly to test it out. “But it’s better than the cold floors of other inns, and a lot better than that cabin bed on the ship. There was a smell of fish everywhere in there…”
I placed my sword and suitcase down, feeling the weight of the journey settle on my shoulders. “Yes, let’s hope the meal is much better than the ship's food. The dry fish they served us definitely wasn’t worth the coins we paid.”
Rowan grinned, his expression lighter now. “Agh. But if it’s half as better as theirs, I’ll be satisfied.”
I snorted, shaking my head as I removed my cloak. “Let’s just hope so.”
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The rich, earthy scent of the stew hit us like a hammer as we trudged down the narrow corridor. The aroma swirled with spices sharp enough to awaken old memories. My stomach knotted with a hunger that I hadn't felt in days, perhaps even weeks.
Rowan walked beside me, stretching his neck as though shaking off the weariness of the road. “If that tastes even half as good as it smells, I’ll count it as a blessing,” he muttered, his voice low but hopeful. “Feels like I’ve been gnawing on salted leather for days.”
The common room greeted us again, warmer now, though still dim. The fireplace burned with more purpose, though the flames clung to life like a wounded beast, casting jittering shadows across the stone walls. Wooden tables stretched out before us, their surfaces marred with the evidence of years filled with scars, gouges, and the faint sticky sheen of spilled drink long since dried. Most of the benches sat empty, save for two figures by the fire.
One of them was Sylvie. Her expression was as frosty as ever, though for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught the hint of a smile on her lips. Beside her sat a girl I hadn’t seen before, with dirt-blonde hair that fell in loose waves and sharp hazel eyes that seemed to assess the room effortlessly. The way she spoke exuded confidence, and her every movement was elegant and precise as she ate stew from a wooden spoon, a tankard sitting beside her.
Rowan was drawn to them like a moth to flame. He picked up his pace, shoulders rolling back, the faintest trace of his practised charm slipping into his posture. I sighed and kept my stride measured, trailing after him at a slower pace.
Before following Rowan’s inevitable trail of theatrics, I approached the counter. Durin still stood there, his stocky frame braced against the worn wood as he polished the tankard. His eyes flicked to me giving a nod, before returning to his task.
“Is the meal ready?” My tone was even, measured.
Durin gave the faintest of nods. “Been ready. Sit beside the others.” He gestured toward the long table near the only presence in the room. “I’ll bring it over.”
Rowan, oblivious to the quiet exchange, was already hovering by their table. “Uh, excuse me,” he began, voice unusually tentative. “I, uh… I wanted to apologize. For earlier. If I came off… rude. It’s just—well, I’ve never seen a fairy before. And you’re, uh…” He hesitated, the words tripping over themselves. “…beautiful.”
Sylvie’s expression shifted like a blade glinting in shadow, her faint smile vanishing into a cold, unreadable mask. Her green eyes bore into him, unblinking and sharp. “First time seeing my kind, is it?” Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “That one”. She nodded toward me. “Likely hasn’t either. Yet he managed to keep his mouth shut. Or at least tried to keep it down, unlike his other companion…”
Rowan flinched as though struck, his gaze darting toward me for support. I raised an eyebrow, offering no reprieve.
The dirt-blonde girl beside Sylvie chuckled softly, a low sound that hummed with amusement. “Go easy on him, Sylvie. He looks like he means it. Even if he’s got the subtlety of a club.”
Sylvie’s wings gave the faintest twitch as she let out a resigned huff, crossing her arms. “Fine,” she muttered, her tone clipped. “You’re forgiven. But don’t make a habit of it. You will never get any girl like that.”
Relief washed over Rowan’s face like a sunrise. “Thank you,” he managed, his grin sheepish.
I took a seat on the long bench beside Rowan, across the other two girls, just as Durin appeared with two steaming bowls of stew. He placed them down without ceremony, but his eyes lingered on me longer than was comfortable before he turned back toward the bar.
The stew was a revelation. One cautious bite unleashed a flood of warmth and flavour of soft potatoes and tender chunks of meat mixed with a blend of spices that hit like the memory of home. The heat spread through my chest, chasing away the fatigue of the day. For a moment, I was at my mother’s table, the sound of her humming, the steady rhythm of her ladle against the pot. The memory was so vivid it stung, and before I knew it, my vision blurred.
Rowan noticed immediately. “Einar… are you crying over stew?”
I wiped at my eyes hastily, setting the spoon down with a deliberate motion. “It’s… well-made,” I admitted, my voice steadying. “Reminded me of home.”
From behind the counter, Durin’s lips twitched, his stoic mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of pride. Even Sylvie glanced at me, the hard edges of her expression softening for the briefest moment before she turned away.
Rowan, of course, seized the moment. “Einar doesn’t cry over much,” he declared to no one in particular, lifting his spoon like a toast. “Durin, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Durin let out a gruff chuckle, but his sharp eyes never strayed far from me. “Credits not mine to take. Need an ale, bot?” His tone was light, almost teasing.
I nodded. “Yes. Bring one real quick.”
As he moved to pour the drink, the dirt-blonde girl leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes fixed on me. “You’re a weird one,” she said, her tone laced with curiosity. “Never seen men cry over their supper.”
Rowan snorted, but I didn’t take the bait, focusing on my stew instead. The small talk felt like an unnecessary effort. Rowan, however, was quick to leap in.
“I’m Rowan, and that’s Einar,” he said, ever the diplomat. “We’re here for the college exams. You?”
She leans forward to the table, her smile easy. “Alina Eveline. And it’s the same for me.” The way she carried herself indicated that she was no ordinary student; she likely hailed from a well-established noble house in the capital. Yet, there was a quiet certainty about her that exuded humility rather than arrogance.
Durin returned with two tankards of ale, setting it down with a heavy hand. But instead of stepping away, he sat beside me and leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I’ve a question for you, boy.”
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “Go on.”
He nodded toward the wolf-head statue mounted above the counter, its glass eyes catching the flicker of the firelight. “You see those eyes over there? That’s an artifact, it detects corrupted people and dark sources. When you walked in, it nearly flared. Doesn’t happen often with humans, only being like elves with their large essence can make it fluster. But it nearly flared, you either have a larger essence than elves or a tainted source. The latter is impossible for a human of your age.”
A chill settled over me with a question in my mind. Was it from my Drakon heart and the untamed essence present in my body? I took a measured sip of the ale while keeping a neutral expression. The sharp yet sweet honey flavour grounded me, while its later bitterness was a welcome distraction.
“I’m just an ordinary boy from the village, a human with common origins. Just a mere peasant.”
“Ordinary, huh? Let’s say your magic feels… old. It doesn’t match up your age, not many have this type of magic and can still walk freely among men.”
“Don’t you think your artifact may be faulty? There’s nothing unusual about me and my magic.”
“I’ve seen a lot in my years. It carries a touch of corruption, much from another source. Tell me have you been near death? Let's say, undead.”
“My village was attacked by undead, lots of them. But it has been weeks since then. Can that cause it?”
“Hmm? That can be the reason. Your essence may have absorbed the dark energy from that source, leaving a malice touch to it. You should be careful, boy. That could cause problems if left untreated.”
“Let’s say, there's something wrong with my essence like you said. How do I tame it? Control it?”
“Interesting… I’m not an expert on this, but you can try the pond on the north side of the college grounds; it's rich with essence. It could help calm yours and possibly tame it in the process. It worked for Sylvie. But tread carefully, boy. Everyone has a different essence source. Her essence is unique, stemming from fairies and some other ancient beings: Aether.”
Rowan called out, breaking our muttering conversation. “What are you two whispering about over there?”
Durin straightened with a cough, his jovial mask returning. “Just giving him tips for the exam.”
He gets up from the table holding the empty tankard. But as he walked back toward the counter, his voice reached me one last time. “Don’t use your magic without control unless you’re ready for the consequences.”
I drained the rest of the ale in an instant, its bitter taste grounding me. Standing abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
Rowan blinked with the spoon in his hand. “Alright. I’ll be up soon.”
I climbed the narrow stairs quickly, each step creaking beneath my boots, the warning weighing heavily on my mind. The sounds of Rowan and Alina's laughter mingled with the crackle of the hearth behind me, but it was the unmistakable feeling of piercing green eyes on my back that made me quicken my pace.
The coarse wool blanket scratched against my skin as I settled into the bed’s waiting embrace. The mattress was firm and unyielding, yet it felt as if it were made from clouds. The warmth enveloped me like a long-absent lover, easing the stiffness in my limbs and drawing me into a deep slumber with the promise of dreamless sleep.