Caelron Academy

The skies darkened as the mountain path ended.

Before him stood the gates of Caelron Academy—no ordinary threshold, but a monument carved by time and magic itself. Towering obsidian spires flanked either side, etched with ancient runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The gates didn’t open with creaks. They shuddered, as if they sensed the weight of who approached.

Wind roared.

Lightning cracked above.

Not from a storm—from the barrier woven into the sky itself.

A warning.

A challenge.

Elarion didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, boots crunching against marble flecked with gold. The path ahead was lined with statues of former legends—heroes, monsters, and betrayers. Some faces were covered in moss, others cracked by time. All of them were dead.

A crowd had formed at the outer court—new students, nobles in gilded cloaks, heirs to nations. They whispered among themselves, voices hushed and urgent as he passed.

“…he came alone?”

“Is that… him?”

“That aura—he’s not normal.”

“He looks too young.”

The line ahead had grown tense.

Students dressed in enchanted fabrics, bearing crests from noble houses and royal bloodlines, fell quiet as he approached the registration altar. The air pulsed—not with fear, but recognition.

Eyes followed him.

The registrar stood tall atop the stone platform, robes fluttering slightly under the charged air. Two magi stood behind him, staves in hand, their grips tightening as he drew near.

 “Step forward. State your name.”

Elarion didn’t hesitate. He ascended the steps, each footfall echoing.

 “Elarion.”

“Surname?”

The silence stretched long. Even the wind held its breath.

 “Di Valtor.”

A ripple passed through the crowd. Gasps. Sharp inhales.

The magi shifted. The registrar’s expression faltered for a heartbeat.

His fingers hovered above the crystal tome on the pedestal.

“Proof of lineage? House seal?”

Elarion raised his right hand. With a smooth motion, he pulled aside the edge of his dark cloak.

Etched in glowing arcane ink on the skin of his upper chest—directly over his heart—was the sigil:

 A tower piercing through a storm cloud, its base wreathed in flame, its tip lost in stars.

Lightning forked around it.

Beneath the tower, a single open eye glowed—unblinking, eternal.

The Sigil of the Tower.

Not painted. Not worn.

Branded into his soul.

A living seal—undeniable, ancient, and forbidden to falsify.

The registrar took a step back.

The crystal tome lit up on its own, humming in response to the sigil.

 “...Tower sigil confirmed.”

The two magi lowered their staves, eyes averted in silent reverence.

Behind him, the whispers surged.

“Is that really—?”

“He bears the Tower's mark directly...”

“The Tower doesn’t give their sigil unless—”

 “—Unless they intend to make a monster.”

The registrar nodded stiffly and conjured a token from the air.

 “Dormitory: East Wing, Room 317. You’ll be monitored closely.”

He hesitated.

 “You are not to leave Academy grounds without written permission. Orders from the top.”

Elarion took the token without a word.

The sigil on his chest dimmed, sinking beneath his skin like a memory.

He turned and walked through the gates of Caelron Academy as they opened — ancient, alive, and groaning under the weight of legacy.

The halls of the academy were grand, lined with crystalline torches and ancient sigils embedded in marble—but to Elarion, they felt more like a cage.

He walked forward, slow and steady, each step measured. The Tower’s sigil beneath his cloak pulsed faintly, a symbol of prestige… and of the burden chained to his back.

 “Is that him?”

 “That sigil—that’s the Tower’s mark.”

 “I thought he’d be older…”

He didn’t look at them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

On the surface, he was composed. Dignified. Everything they expected him to be.

But in his mind—

he was bleeding.

“They stare at you like you’re a god,” the voice whispered, curling like smoke around his thoughts. “They kneel with their eyes. All of them. Why not make it real?”

His jaw tightened. Not from the words—but the question they raised.

The voice again. His voice. Or... something deeper? Older?

He kept walking.

“They’ll never love you for who you are. Only for what you represent. The Tower. Power. The son of Damien.”

His fingers curled tightly around the edge of his cloak. Just a few more steps. Just don’t listen—

“You're not special, Elarion. You're just a vessel. A name wearing skin.”

He grit his teeth.

His breathing was even, his posture perfect. Not a single crack showed. But inside, he was at war— tearing himself apart in silence while the academy murmured and judged.

 “I heard he’s already mastered sword-arts and magic...”

“He doesn’t even look proud of it. Just... empty.”

“That’s because you are.”

“You weren’t built for peace. You were forged for ruin.”

A flash of memory—fire, a cracked tower, the roar of his father’s voice—

“Be stronger, or be nothing.”

He flinched.

Just a fraction.

Barely noticeable.

But he felt it. The voice inside him did too.

“There it is… the weakness. Still pretending you’re human.”

He stopped in front of a large door. The auditorium hall.

A breath.

Another.

Silence outside. Screaming inside.

He pushed open the great doors of the auditorium.

They didn’t creak.

They recoiled.

The chamber beyond was vast—a cathedral of stone and spellwork. Light filtered through stained glass windows etched with the names of the dead. Aether shimmered faintly in the air like dust suspended in time.

Hundreds of students were already seated.

They turned. Slowly. As one.

Silence swept through the hall like a knife.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t falter.

Elarion walked down the center aisle—not to the sides where the houses clustered, not to the outer rows filled with aristocrats and scions of ancient names—but to the center.

The heart of the auditorium.

The seat meant for no one.

And he sat.

Alone.

No gesture. No words.

Just presence.

The weight of him shifted the air. The murmurs died not because they were told to stop—but because they could no longer find the breath.

Eyes followed. Faces stiffened.

A few recognized the cloak. Fewer recognized the sigil. But all of them felt it:

The pressure.

It wasn’t magic.

It was him.

And then—

they arrived.

The light dimmed. The shadows stretched.

Every back straightened.

No horn. No announcement. Just footsteps—smooth, deliberate, inevitable.

The Crown Prince entered first, draped in obsidian and silver, the hem of his cloak brushing the floor like falling ash. Eyes like blade steel. A jaw carved from stone. Power didn’t just follow him—it moved aside for him.

Beside him walked the Imperial Princess.

A vision in violet and cold fire. Her eyes were galaxies—unreadable, endless. There was no crown on her head. She didn’t need one. Authority radiated from her like heat off molten metal. Dangerous. Beautiful. Untouchable.

They didn’t look around.

They didn’t need to.

The world bent around them.

Their steps carried them to the dais—the highest seats in the hall, above even the professors, nobles, and legacy-born elites.

And still, their eyes found him.

Elarion.

The boy seated alone in the center. Silent. Unmoving.

The Crown Prince watched him with something unreadable—not threat, not curiosity, but calculation… and beneath it, something almost like recognition.

The Imperial Princess, though—

Her gaze was lightning.

Not fear.

Not awe.

Pride.

She looked at Elarion the way rulers look at weapons they’ve secretly forged in the dark. Blades no one else knows exist. Blades meant to shatter kingdoms.

Elarion didn’t look back.

He didn’t have to.

Because even in stillness—

he commanded the room.

The hall remained quiet.

Not from reverence—but survival.

No one moved. Not really. No one breathed too loudly. The air was thick, leaden with weight that didn’t come from spells or mana, but from the collision of existences too large for the space.

From the center seat, Elarion sat like carved obsidian—back straight, hands resting loosely on his lap, gaze lowered… but not in submission.

In detachment.

He didn’t look at them—the royals above—not out of fear, but because they simply didn’t require his attention.

His aura didn’t flare.

It existed.

And that alone made the walls feel narrower.

The Crown Prince, still standing atop the dais, hadn’t taken his seat. His eyes were fixed on Elarion—not hostile, not warm, but searching. Like a predator that’s just locked eyes with something unfamiliar… not prey… not kin… but equal.

A ripple of mana trembled through the floor. Subtle. Like a reflex.

Students closest to the front visibly stiffened, one girl biting her lip to stop her hand from shaking. The tension pressed in like a rising tide.

Still, Elarion didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t acknowledge.

He just sat—effortlessly still, like a blade resting in its sheath, the kind you don’t draw unless you mean to end something.

The Imperial Princess tilted her head—barely—but the motion felt seismic. Her lips curled the slightest bit.

Not amusement.

Satisfaction.

Like watching a long-laid plan finally reveal itself.

For a fleeting second, the auras in the room reacted.

Not clashing—but recognizing each other.

The weapon. The wielder. The witness.

Then the moment passed.

The Crown Prince sat down beside his sister, back like a spear, his jaw tight. The Imperial Princess leaned slightly back in her chair, elegant fingers laced together, but her gaze never left the center of the room.

Never left him.

Elarion finally exhaled.

Quietly.

And with it, half the students in the room remembered how to breathe.

But not all.

Some still sat paralyzed—unsure whether they’d just witnessed a silent threat…

…or the start of a silent alliance.

Then—

a single clap.

Sharp. Crisp. Measured.

It cracked through the stillness like flint to stone.

All eyes snapped toward the source.

From the upper end of the hall, a man emerged. Not with haste. Not with flare. But with the quiet authority of someone who had once commanded battlefields… and won without ever drawing his blade.

Professor Thareon.

The Archmagister of Caelron’s Foundational Arts. Middle-aged, yes—hair streaked with silver and temples worn by time—but his posture straight, his steps precise, his presence unmistakable. He wore deep sapphire robes lined with ancient script barely visible unless you knew where to look, and even then, they shifted, as if the fabric itself whispered forgotten truths.

His face held no warmth, yet no cruelty—only the cool, unshakable calm of someone who had long ago transcended the need for posturing.

When he stopped at the edge of the grand podium, the room adjusted around him. Not out of fear… but out of instinct.

This was not a man to be underestimated.

He let the silence settle, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Then, his voice—deep, clear, resonant—rolled out over the students like a quiet tide.

"Good," Thareon said. "You're still alive."

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the younger students. But most stayed still—as if unsure whether it was a joke.

Thareon’s gaze swept the auditorium, passing over nobles, prodigies, heirs, and the unknowns in between.

"No illusions, then," he continued. "You’ve felt it already—the weight of the room you’ve stepped into. Not just the walls. Not just the names beside you. But the truth beneath it all."

He paused, his eyes briefly landing on Elarion, then flicking to the royal pair above—not with challenge, but with acknowledgment.

"This is Caelron. The center of power. Of legacy. Of consequence. You will either become someone here…" His tone sharpened slightly, just enough to sting. "…or you will be forgotten beneath the boots of those who did."

The hall remained silent.

Not from reverence.

Still not from fear.

But because, for the first time since the doors opened…

…everyone was truly listening.

Then—

A pause. 

Thareon’s gaze rose. 

To the royal box.

First, the Crown Prince. A figure carved from discipline and fire, jaw set like stone, eyes unmoving — watching everything, revealing nothing.

Then, the Imperial Princess. Grace in posture, frost in presence. She didn’t need to speak; power radiated from her like a second skin.

Thareon gave the smallest nod—neither deference nor challenge. Acknowledgment. A silent gesture shared only between those who have stood at the edge of war and remained whole.

His gaze fell next—

Not upward, but down.

Elarion.

A stillness in the crowd. Not apart, yet not among them. As if the world made space for him and didn’t know why.

Thareon lingered this time.

Not curiosity.

Recognition.

Faint. Flickering. Like remembering a name you hadn’t heard in years.

And then he spoke.

"No one here is special."

His voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be.

"You think power brought you through those gates? Legacy? Blood?"

A pause. Breath held.

"None of it matters. Not anymore."

Overhead, the high runes glowed. A subtle shift in air pressure. Like something ancient had stirred—and was listening.

"You will earn your name here… or lose it."

The sigil flickered under Elarion's skin, a heartbeat not his own.

It didn’t speak.

But he felt it, always—the part of him that never bled.