We entered the city, and I was struck by its sheer magnitude. The streets sprawled in every direction, wide enough to accommodate three wagons abreast. Cobblestones gleamed underfoot, worn smooth from countless feet and wheels. Buildings of varying heights lined the streets—some simple and practical, their stone facades unadorned, while others boasted intricate carvings and brightly coloured banners fluttering in the breeze.

The crowd thickened as we moved deeper into the city. Traders shouted their wares from stalls crammed with goods—jewellery that sparkled like captured starlight, bolts of fabric in every shade imaginable, and jars of exotic spices that perfumed the air. A street performer juggled flaming torches, drawing an eager crowd, while a woman with a painted face read fortunes from a small booth draped in crimson silk.

Above it all, the distant hum of Thresha’s heart was constant: the clang of hammers from the forges, the melodic chime of bells from the harbour, and the murmur of voices blending into a living tapestry of sound.

At the center of the city stood the Hero of Thresha, his stone form towering over the chaos like a silent sentinel. The statue depicted a warrior clad in heavy armor, a cape billowing behind him as he held a sword aloft. The helmet obscured his face, but his stance radiated defiance. The craftsmanship was extraordinary; even from a distance, the details were sharp—the texture of the armor, the intricate pattern on the sword’s hilt.

Rowan leaned out of the wagon, his voice almost reverent. “The Hero of Thresha. He gave his life during the Great Battle, defending the city against impossible odds. Queen Thresha built this in his memory.”

“He has the look of a man who could part mountains,” I said, my gaze lingering on the statue. “Whoever he was, his name won’t be forgotten.”

The wagon veered left, taking us away from the statue and down a quieter street. My attention shifted to the towering structure ahead—a circular building that rose above its surroundings like a colossus. Its dark stone walls shimmered faintly, etched with runes that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Windows dotted its facade, their glass panes reflecting the sunlight like scattered diamonds.

“That’s the House of Shadows, one of the Houses of Magic spread throughout each sacred city,” Rowan said, his tone almost wistful. “Scholars, mages, and alchemists gather there. This one focuses on illusion magic only, but only notables get access to enter the house and only a handful get to learn and advance further. Mostly old scholars live in this place, dedicating their lives to research spells and even creating new ones. It’s funded by the Council of Magic, which only provides guidance to nobles and some few exceptions.”

I studied the building, noting the intricate design and the aura of power it exuded. The people milling about its grounds wore robes marked with symbols I couldn’t recognize. They moved with purpose, their voices low as they examined scrolls or debated over mysterious objects.

Our wagon slowed as we approached a man in a dark coat. His black hair was slicked back, and his sharp features gave him a predatory air. A scroll was clutched in his hand, and his piercing gaze locked onto Loran. “From House Thorvald?”

Loran’s voice was measured. “Who’s asking?”

The man smirked and handed him the scroll. “Doesn’t matter. This is for Einar Emberheart.”

Loran passed the scroll through the window. I took it, the rough parchment cool against my fingers. The seal—a helmet split across the visor—caught my eye before I unfurled it.

The letter goes like this:

* §§§§§§§§

To the Esteemed Einar Emberheart,

It is with great honor and pride that we recognize your successful completion of the foundational studies in the magical arts. Your dedication and perseverance have marked your path as one worthy of the magic that resides within you.

You are hereby deemed eligible to advance your studies and pursue higher disciplines in magic at an institution of your choosing. Your journey has only just begun, and we trust you will uphold the values instilled during your time with us.

May your magic illuminate the path ahead, and may your actions honor your lineage and the legacy of your name.

Signed,

Headmistress Yseldra Merenthia

School of Thresha

* §§§§§§§§

Rowan glanced over my shoulder, his grin widening. “The School of Thresha,” he said, his voice tinged with awe. “You’re in one hell of a company now. I also got my completion letter from there, after months of dedication, they accepted me for advancement in magic and provided me with a tutor to awaken my magic. It’s in the upper section of Thresha, where mainly nobles reside and where the royal family of Thresha lives in the Moon Palace.”

I let the scroll roll back up, my grip tightening slightly. “Upper section?”

“That’s the region where nobles reside, the streets are as clean as house floors there. Only specific merchants are allowed there and there are no stools there, just shops dedicated to specific items. That place is otherworld for common folks. The Moon Palace also stood at the centre of the region, the place where the royal family of Thresha lives.”

“So, it’s like division of nobles and us common folks? It only spreads more hate.”

“That’s where you are wrong. That place is more of a refined version of the lower section. No one is stopped from going there, it's just only a few can afford that place, and nobles are one of them.”

“I guess, money is the major difference between commoners and nobles, bloodline is just a facade.”

Rowan chuckled, clearly pleased. “That, it is. But there will be some who have different opinions on this.”

As the wagon rumbled toward the port, the city’s noise softened, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves against the docks. The air grew heavier, rich with the scent of salt and fish. The sea stretched endlessly before us, its surface glinting like molten silver under the sun. Ships of all sizes swayed gently at their moorings, their sails snapping in the breeze.

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Loran reined in the horses and turned to us. “This is where we part our ways, m’lord. The ship’s leaving to Zenith is just ahead.”

“You have done well, Loran. I hope whatever reason you may have to come here will be done with mother’s grace.”

“May goddess guide you on your path ahead. Good Luck.”

With Loran’s final farewell, I hoisted my suitcase, the familiar weight of my sword hanging at my side. Rowan struggled with his bag, his pride keeping him from accepting help.

The port before us, a sprawling, chaotic dance of life and labor. Massive ships swayed gently at their moorings, their sails furled tight against the morning wind. Workers barked orders, hauling crates and barrels across weathered planks, while others shouted the names of their destinations—Zenith, Ihera’s Veil, and beyond. Small fishing boats bobbed along the edges, their nets heavy with the morning’s catch. Smoke coiled lazily from a nearby fire, its sharp tang mixing with the fishy reek that clung to everything.

“Gods, that smell of fish,” Rowan muttered, adjusting his grip on the suitcase. His boots squelched slightly as he stepped onto the damp cobblestones. “If the city’s got perfume smell, then this port got this stench.”

“Better get used to it,” I said, scanning the scene. “The sea doesn’t care for weak stomachs.”

Rowan grunted, too tired to retort. His coat flapped as he shifted, the polished leather of his boots catching the early light. His suitcase bulged with the weight of whatever his mother had deemed necessary for our journey.

“Come on,” Rowan said, nodding toward the farthest dock. “That’s the one. Ship to our destination.”

I followed his gaze. A medium-sized vessel stood apart from the rest, its three sails furled like resting wings. Its flag bore the mark of a trade company, a symbol of crossed keys embroidered in silver. A man in a worn linen shirt, streaked with grease and sea spray, stood at the gangplank, shouting, “Zenith! Zenith! Boarding now!” His voice rose above the din, serving as both beacon and warning.

“Let’s go,” Rowan said, shifting the suitcase higher. “This thing’s going to pull my arms off. If everything in here isn’t useful, I’m tossing it overboard.”

I smirked. “Oh, and this is how you want to impress girls in college, by being this weak.”

As we walked, the bustle of the port pressed in around us. Sailors lounged near their boats, puffing on pipes or sharing bawdy jokes, their laughter mixing with the cries of gulls wheeling overhead. The smaller fishing boats were crusted with salt, their decks cluttered with nets and half-empty buckets. Smoke curled from braziers where fish sizzled, the oil popping loudly in the pan.

Ahead, the man shouting about his destination gestured with exaggerated urgency, his voice hoarse. Next to him stood another man, this one much neater. He wore a dark coat and a wide-brimmed hat, the kind favoured by merchants and stewards. His small beard was neatly trimmed, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. In one hand, he held a leather-bound book, and in the other, a quill poised for writing.

We stopped in front of him, and without looking up, he asked, “Name?” His tone was flat, businesslike, as though addressing a cargo manifest rather than two travellers.

Rowan answered first. “Rowan Thorvald, and this here is Einar Leo—” He hesitated briefly, glancing at me. “Einar Emberheart.”

The steward's sharp eyes flicked up at the name, his gaze narrowing slightly before he sighed and flipped through the ledger. “There’s no reservation under those names. Twenty-five coppers each, plus five for late registration.”

I felt the heat rise to my face. “Thirty coppers? That’s daylight robbery. A copper buys a meal—how does a single trip cost so much?”

The steward gave a dry chuckle, finally meeting my glare. “Your first time on a ship, I take it? The original fare is fifteen coppers combined for this one. The extra is for late registration and lack of permits. Consider yourself fortunate we’re even giving you a seat.” He tapped the ledger with the quill. “Pay, or find another way. The next ship will leave maybe tomorrow.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Rowan’s hand on my shoulder stopped me. He fished a silver coin from his coat pocket and held it out. “Here. Take it, and maybe throw in a meal or two for the journey.”

The steward’s demeanour shifted instantly. He pocketed the coin with a thin smile, then wrote our names into the ledger with deliberate precision. “Welcome aboard,” he said, handing back four copper lots in change, they were double the size of normal coins and were shaped square with a symbol of the tree with branches of silver. That one copper coin is worth ten normal copper coins, and that symbol is of the elven region, which gives more value to it. “The ship leaves in a few minutes. Ask the crew for your quarters below deck, and meals will be served when requested. And please mind that sword of yours—there’s no bloodshed allowed on board, unless you want to swim in deep sea.”

Rowan smiled politely. “We will do just that, Mister...”

The man instantly said, “Brown. Jacob Brown.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown. We will be in your care.”

As we made our way up the gangplank, Rowan muttered, “Still not used to that ‘Emberheart.’ Why not just—”

“Time will tell, my friend,” I said, cutting him off. “There are things even I don’t have answers for. It’s best to get everything cleared before telling anything.”

He shook his head with a grin. “You sound like a priest from those new churches. Full of riddles and mystery. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about your girl. You still have to tell me her name.” His tone shifted to teasing. “You talked about her during the festival like she was the only woman you have ever known. Who is she?”

I laughed, quickening my pace. “Her? You’ll find out someday. Maybe when you finally get yourself someone to bed. And I don’t see that happening soon.”

Even as I teased him, the thought of her stirred something deep within me. I didn’t remember her face clearly—only the shape of her smile, the softness of her touch. Her scent lingered in my mind like the memory of a dream, her voice like a melody I couldn’t place. She was a ghost in my thoughts, vivid yet maddeningly out of reach.

We stepped onto the deck, the sun gleaming off the polished wood. Young travellers about our age milled around, their chatter mixing with the sharp cries of deckhands raising sails and preparing for departure. The air buzzed with anticipation, the promise of new horizons hanging thick over the ship.

A crewman directed us to a small, dimly lit room below deck. The oil lamps flickered against the damp wood, and the faint stench of rats and fish hung in the air. The single bed looked serviceable enough, though the sheets were slightly damp. A table with an oil lamp sat near the wall, next to a window that offered a clear view of the restless sea.

Rowan dropped his suitcase with a groan, stretching his back. “Not bad. Could’ve been much worse.”

“It’ll do,” I said, setting my pack by the table. The window drew my gaze, the endless blue horizon reminding me of how far we still had to go.

Rowan slumped into the chair. “At least we’ll reach by late evening. Tomorrow will be the last day of the exam, with the teleportation station issue, I will have to take the exam with you. At least they are not strict in these aspects.”

I sat on the bed, running my hand over the worn wood of the bedframe. “I wonder what teleportation feels like,” I mused. “My mother always said it was like being torn apart and stitched back together, but over time, you learn to live with it.”

Rowan chuckled. “Well, my father said the same thing. I guess we’ll find out someday.”

The ship rocked gently, the cries of gulls echoing faintly above mixed with the sounds of a bell coming from above the deck. With a sudden shift, the ship moved towards the vast sea and the port getting further and further from us. And just like that.