Crying Tower was the oldest construction known to the people of Grailand. One of the four great towers, it was also home to Arcana Academy, an institution for young apprentices to master their powers. Made of sandstone and granite, its thirty floors towered over the Northern Dunes akin to a stone oasis, surrounded by green trees, a beautiful lake, and sand for as far as the eye could see.

Inside, it resembled a vertical labyrinth of stairs, turns, student quarters, and auditoriums. On the top, almost touching the clouds, was an open roof where the graduates practiced the voice—one of the strongest spells known to man. From time to time, the cries were so loud that people of the closest village - Dabuu Stan - could hear them echoing through the desert, hence the name - Crying Tower.

Aside from places for practice, study, and combat training, the home of Arcana had many more secrets to offer. For instance, only a few chosen wielders knew that the tower, although having thirty floors, was twice as high.

Thirty more levels grew deep into the ground, hidden from plain sight and accessible only to those selected few. It was a grand library with books and scrolls, some as old as the tower itself. Hundreds of texts, maps, notes, and journals were kept there safely and studied by the Arcana wisemen. Secrets hidden among those pieces of parchment and layers of paper were priceless and if fallen into the wrong hands - extremely dangerous, for if there was one thing more powerful than magic, it was knowledge.

#

In one of the countless auditoriums, a lesson held by High Wielder Priam was just about to finish. Although previous High Wielders usually were more involved in administrative questions and financial matters, Priam still chose to remain a teacher, emphasizing the utmost importance of education and practice above any paperwork.

Splashes of emerald-green substance scattered through the air along with pieces of broken rocks, obliterated by the jet streams. A few last-year apprentices drew circles in the air with their hands, covered in green light, before clenching fists, causing more streams of green matter to hit the rocks on the other side of the room.

"Juniper, too slow, control your left hand," a deep voice echoed through the practice room. High Wielder Priam walked behind the students, hands behind the back, looking closely at their attempts to vanquish stone pillars. One of the students, a tall red-haired girl, blew a flock from her sweaty forehead and nodded.

"You can't let go of a single muscle to perfect the Forsa Glas spell. The stream will be only as strong as your body is. If you relax a finger, the flow turns soft," he said, stopping to get a better look. "Again."

The students moved choreographically, dancing and stepping forward and a huge green wave emerged on the other side of the room, turning the remaining stone pillars into dust and gravel. High Wielder turned his back to the students, "Better."

An elder in a blue shirt walked into the auditorium, waving to Priam. High Wielder nodded in response and turned to the students.

"That will be enough for today. Practice the dance at your quarters. But, please, without wielding, you need those bunk beds to sleep," he said, raising a giggle among students, and walked towards the man in the doorway.

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"My apologies for the interruption, High Wielder," said the man, bowing his head slightly.

"Don't be, Frōglin, we were finishing up anyway. Any news from the South Cliffs?"

"Yes," the man said glancing over High Wielder's shoulder and lowering his voice. "Can we continue upstairs?"

Priam picked his gloves from a massive wooden desk and nodded, following the man into a narrow corridor.

#

"Your little performance at the Council of Citadels made quite a fuss," said Frōglin, lowering into a chair. High Wielder's cabinet was no different from any other teacher's room, except for a thick pile of papers requiring a signature and a golden staff hanging on the wall. Arcanists stopped using magic staffs to cast spells hundreds of years ago, yet some traditions were hard to outlive.

"It was not a performance," said Priam, the leather rustled as he leaned back into his chair. "The King asked for our support, and I denied his request. It was well within my rights."

Frōglin cleared his throat, "I agree. But the king took it quite personally. Look."

He passed a piece of paper to Priam.

"A royal decree, all Arcana wielders unaligned to the king's army are banished from Greystone Forrest and premises under the punishment of three hundred silverines."

Priam took the paper and studied it carefully, huffing as he went from one line to the other.

"There's more," said Frōglin, scratching his thick, long eyebrow in hesitation. "King's Court also raised the pay for the Arcana wielders enlisted in the army."

Priam frowned, tossing away the reprint of the King's decree.

"Recruiting. Harald Ikalot is a blind fool driven by arrogance and lust for power," said Priam standing up and turning to a window - a breathtaking view of the desert lightly touched by the pink early dusk opened before him.

"He is still a Reign Supreme," Frōglin's slightly doubtful voice came from behind. "Listen, Priam. I'm telling you this as a friend - make peace with Ikalot. You don't have to participate in his war plans. Just stay neutral, let him do whatever he is trying to do, keep a respectful distance."

Priam turned around and pierced Frōglin with his eyes. Frōglin shrugged his shoulders, "What harm could it do?"

"He thinks he's Queen Freye but lacks everything that makes Reign Supreme truly powerful - patience, balance, rationality. I suggested he offer the Island King a vassalage, invite him to the court, and grant him a reign charter. Trading with the Islands could be much more fruitful than weighing a war with them," said Priam, coining every word.

"Queen Freye fought many wars," parried Frōglin. Priam nodded in agreement.

"Wars with savage tribes, with golem riders, with tyrants from the East and oppressors from the South. Not with reasonable people. Galion Ikalot was smart enough to deal with them. His son is not."

"In any course of events, the deeds of people and Reign Supreme are of no concern to us. We should care about our kind, Arcanists, touched by the stone," concluded Frōlin spreading his hands.

"And I intend to do this very thing. The way I see it, it means doing everything necessary to prevent the war. The Council should take care of all Grailand. No one would profit from another conflict," said Priam, slowly tapping his finger on the table. "That is why I shall travel to the Greystone Forrest once again. But first I need to speak with Lady Iliana, make sure her oath to peace still stands. And you, my friend, will gather a small party of wielders and send them to the Crestbone Village, South Cliffs."

Frōglin opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Priam raised his hand to prevent any objections.

"Just to observe. Make them quarter outside the village, and tell them not to draw any attention. I need eyes and ears there."

"Priam, that's not exactly keeping a distance," said Frōglin, unhappy with High Wielder's decision.

"Don't make it a bigger deal than it is, Frōglin," Priam reassured, putting a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "I have to go. Two more classes today."

Frōglin let out a heavy breath, "I'm just worried about you. We are wielders, not politicians."

"Trust me, I have no interest in politics," Priam laughed.

"The common folk, they like you. And when you are popular - everything becomes politics," Frōglin remarked, shaking his head.