Year 3918 of the Almanac of Ages, Kingdom of Solstice capital Whirich.

Elynor Thorne

As the laboratory door closed behind me, I leaned against the cold corridor wall and took a deep breath, freeing myself from Thea's suffocating presence. "Damned elf," I cursed through gritted teeth, massaging my temples. "This is the last time I recommend anyone to the Arcanum, may the gods strike me down if I lie." Not that the gods had ever been particularly interested in my oaths, but sometimes it helped to feel better.

The corridor was deserted, but from the adjacent classrooms, I could hear the voices of students engaged in their final lessons of the day. A group of novices passed by me, their robes swaying as they animatedly discussed. I watched them with a mixture of nostalgia and irritation - it seemed like an eternity since I had been one of them, so certain that magic was the answer to everything. How naive I was.

I walked down to the lower floor, where I knew I'd find the group of novices who always attended that pointy-ears' lessons before he vanished. The sound of my boots echoed on the polished marble floors, mixing with the constant hum of magic that permeated the air of the Arcanum. That sound had always grated on my nerves - like a bee too close to your ear that you can't swat away.

I found them in the main atrium, three students huddled near one of the large arched windows. When they saw me approach, they fell silent immediately, like novices caught in the act. Typical - just wearing an instructor's robe was enough to trigger that guilt reflex.

"Miss Thorne," one of them greeted me, an olive-skinned boy named Deren. "Are you looking for Professor Neville?"

"Indeed. Can you tell me anything?"

The three exchanged nervous glances. It was Lyra, a girl with hair as white as the snow outside - typical of Whirich natives - who spoke: "The last time we saw him... well, he was talking about the Broken Crow Tavern, down in the Lower Quarters. Said something about a debt to settle."

I sighed heavily. Of course, he had to end up in the worst possible place in the city. I wrapped my cloak tighter and headed towards the Arcanum's exit, preparing myself for Whirich's biting cold.

The imposing structure of the Arcanum loomed behind me, a fortress of white stone and colored glass that stood stark against the perpetually grey sky. Its towers rose like fingers of ice towards the low clouds, while the decorative elements - menacing gargoyles and statues of ancient mages - seemed to observe the city with stern gazes. I've always thought whoever designed this place had a serious problem with the concept of "subtle." But then again, when have mages ever been subtle about anything?

From here, I could see all of Whirich sprawling below me, a maze of steep roofs perpetually covered in snow. The Eternal City, they called it. Personally, I would have called it the City of Perpetual Colds, but nobody ever asked for my opinion.

I began my descent along Mages' Avenue, the main road connecting the Arcanum to Refoundation Square. Here the houses were elegant, with elaborate wrought iron decorations adorning windows and balconies, and small heating runes carved into the doorframes to keep warmth inside. The constantly falling snow melted before touching the ground, thanks to magical seals embedded in the pavement. An incredible waste of magical energy, if you ask me, but obviously the rich had to show the world how special they were.

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A group of nobles passed by me, their heavy robes decorated with complex runic patterns that glowed faintly - the latest fashion among Whirich's high society. Purely decorative runes, obviously. Half of them wouldn't know a power sigil from a tavern graffiti. I heard them discussing the latest capital fashions, upcoming parties, the usual trivialities that seemed to occupy their days.

A little further ahead, a street vendor was offering heating amulets at "extraordinarily low" prices. His counter was surrounded by servants and common citizens seeking some relief from the city's eternal cold. "Guaranteed by the Merchants' Guild!" the man shouted, though I could see the runes were poorly carved and would probably exhaust themselves within days. My hands itched with the desire to report him to the Guild, but I had more urgent problems to solve.

Refoundation Square opened before me, an immense paved expanse dominated by the statue of the First King. I had seen it hundreds of times, but I always stopped to observe it: the sovereign standing proud, with one hand resting on the shoulder of a cloaked figure whose face was hidden by a deep hood. The Unknown Mage, they called him. The one who had helped found the kingdom, only to vanish into history. I had always wondered if staying anonymous had really been his choice, or if someone had decided it was better that way.

History has this nasty habit of being rewritten by the victors. I lingered another moment observing the statue, thinking back to that morning's meeting. The Council elders were too busy discussing procedures and protocols.

I pulled my cloak tighter, trying to ignore the icy wind that snaked between the folds of the fabric. The snow had started falling again, small flakes dancing in the air like ash. I found myself laughing bitterly - just like Whirich's eternal snow, problems seemed to pile up endlessly in this city.

A group of royal guards marched past, their armor decorated with the same ornamental runes that adorned the royal palace behind them. More waste of magical energy for purely aesthetic purposes. If only they had invested half that power in something useful... but no, better to make armor sparkle like Yule trees.

"Magic shouldn't be this," I said while observing those cloaks full of futile runes, those that drain power just for show. I remembered Master Ronir's words, the first to explain magical art to me, a man who carried wisdom I've always respected. 'Every spell has a cost, Elynor.' How many times had I set aside that lesson? And how many times had I repeated it to myself?

I walked eastward, where the streets began to narrow and the air smelled less of magical incense and more of real life. The perfectly maintained paving of the square gradually gave way to worn stone, with cracks where snow accumulated in small dirty piles. Here the heating runes were rare and decrepit, carved by third-rate mages who had probably learned their trade more in taverns than at the Arcanum.

A beggar stared at me from an alley, his hands clutched around what I recognized as a counterfeit heating amulet. Probably one of those sold by the charlatan in the square. I wondered how many hours of warmth he had left before realizing he'd been swindled. But I couldn't stop to think about it - I had an elf to find.

A group of unsavory-looking men cast interested glances my way as I passed. I shot them an icy look, letting a small flicker of magical energy dance in my eyes, making them glow slightly - just to remind them I wasn't easy prey. They turned away immediately, suddenly very interested in a crack in the wall. Typical street thugs: all muscle and no brains.

The Broken Crow wasn't far now. I could already hear the voices spilling from its fogged windows, mixed with the smell of sour beer and burnt stew. I paused for a moment, checking that my wand was easily accessible in my sleeve. In places like this, it was better to be prepared for the worst.

"If that idiot elf is still alive," I muttered through my teeth, "I'll kill him myself."