The night when the Phoenix Comet first appeared, burning at the edge of the stars, the sage supreme broke free of his confinement. Deep underground he had no need to see the comet, his own senses had alerted him. His eyes snapped open, crackling with yellow bolts. The skies called him.

For countless years the sage slept away in his prison chamber. While his body remained that of a young man, his black hair had grown long over his body. His white robes were a projection of his own magic, shining like a glossy mirror as he awakened. The shackles that carved into his ankles and wrists snapped open.

Immediately, the sage's eyes bore holes through metal enchantments that had barred his room off from the world. If he were still asleep the weak spells would have worked. He stepped over the melted bars and created two man-shaped holes in the walls for each of the prison guards. The broken enchantments had raised the alarm throughout the prison.

Ahead of the sage, his familiar, a giant eagle, clawed and pecked and slammed guards against the stone walls. At an intersection in his narrow path, rows of guards filed onto each side. They launched colorful volleys of magic that fizzled out, inches from the sage's face. He turned down one of the sides, his familiar taking the other. Down the hallway, the guard mages crumpled under the force of the sage's presence. He walked over them all.

The sage supreme emerged in an ornate yard that was meant for less dangerous guests. The brilliant sun brought to light all the mages that had gathered to drag him back into the prison's depths. A crowd of cloaks accented by the occasional colors of an archmage dotted the yard. The sage knew everyone by name, he had watched them grow up in his dreams. He smiled and drew his sword.

Pandemonium erupted on the yard.

The mages swarmed like ants trying to take a bite of sugar. They cut at him with wind and sharpened blades of grass. Blue fire raged around his feet. Illusions attempted to hide bold strikes, but there was no vulnerabilities in the sage's defense. He stood in a whirlwind of chaos, eyes locked onto the staff-wielding monarch in his midst.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Monarch Ozceron Markar was a secretive man. He had touched only a fraction of the sage's power and was hidden in his robes; ilusion-enchanted rings masked the rest of his appearance. This was the monarch's way of hiding his allegiances. The Supreme Sage could see through it all, and if he wanted to, he could ruin him in-front of his mages. Fortunately for Oz, the sage had no interest.

The sage turned his eyes to the sky and reached his hand upward, grasping at the air. At that moment his familiar began to shimmy his way out from the tunnel door. Feathers the size of people were ruffled up and sent flying through the hurricane of magic. The feathers knocked mages off their feet and disrupted their casting.

Magic altogether was beginning to wane as the mage's exhausted their energy. Unyielding, they took up their weapons and attacked once more. To the sage, it was like they were children tapping him with feathers. It annoyed him.

Beams of light burst forth from the sage cracking the warding armor of everyone present, even the monarch.

"Retreat! Do not throw your lives at me!" the sage said exasperated.

As he discarded the shattered gems of his ward into the yard, Ozceron looked at his mages. They were still unharmed, but without wards, the next attack they take would be lethal.

"In his madness the sage is still wise. All of you, go home safely, I will fight," he said.

The mages respected Ozceron’s request for a duel. Reluctantly, they left one by one until it was just the sage and the monarch. The sage smiled at Oz, his teeth and black hair glimmering. He looked young and limitless. His familiar towered behind him, clawing at the ground like a bull ready to charge.

The monarch faced him with confidence. Two glowing dragon rings manifested themselves around him and Ozceron's familiar revealed itself. A little chameleon on the head of his quarterstaff turned from brown to purple.

The battle that awaited would break the sky.