The year was 26 D.E., nearly three decades into Deagon’s Eclipse. The sky had long since cleared from the ash and fire of that apocalyptic backlash, but the scars of the magical lord’s reign were etched into the world. Cities rebuilt from ruins bore the weight of a tenuous peace between the Muggies and the magically inclined, but trust was a commodity in short supply. For Nicholas Abernathy, life in the United North American States was little more than a quiet existence marred by fear. America’s “kill on sight” decree for mages had ensured that those like him lived in shadows, their magic hidden behind locked doors and whispers.
The small, isolated cabin where he’d taken refuge wasn’t much, just a one-room shack on the outskirts of nowhere. Its creaking floorboards and draughty windows were a poor barrier against the outside world, but it offered solitude—and, for now, safety. It had been a week since the letter arrived, an envelope black as night with a deep purple seal of a setting sun framed by dragon wings. It seemed to hum faintly when he touched it, as if alive with the whispers of forgotten magic.
The letter itself was an enigma. Its script was written in flowing German, incomprehensible to Nicholas, but his curiosity outweighed his caution. Within the envelope, he found a ring, simple yet alluring in its craftsmanship. Against better judgment, he slid it onto his finger. A faint, tingling warmth spread up his arm, and as his eyes returned to the page, the text began to shift, the German curling into words he could understand.
“Nicholas Abernathy, you are hereby accepted into Nuemberg Arkane Akademie. Prepare yourself. A guide will arrive in one week’s time to escort you to our halls in the European Alps. Do not stray. Do not disobey. Your future awaits.”
It was signed with an intricate flourish, a name he didn’t recognize but knew instinctively was ancient.
The week passed slowly, a liminal stretch between the life he knew and the unknown that loomed ahead. His mother had said her goodbyes before leaving for work in the city. Nicholas hadn’t told her about the letter, knowing she’d beg him to stay. He’d already made his decision. When the moment came, he’d go. There was no future here—not for someone like him.
That night, as the wind howled against the thin walls of the cabin, Nicholas sat by the window, watching shadows stretch and sway beneath the silver light of the moon. His meager belongings—a bag, a cane, and the small ornate dagger hidden in his boot—were packed and ready. He twirled the ring absentmindedly, its presence both comforting and disconcerting.
Then, without warning, the shadows outside shifted. A figure emerged from the darkness, tall and imposing, with a silhouette that seemed to blur against the night. Beside him stood a massive dog, its glowing eyes fixed on the cabin. Nicholas’s breath caught as he watched the man raise a gloved hand and knock, the sound a sharp, deliberate echo.
This was it. His guide had arrived.
The knock lingered in the silence of the cabin. Nicholas hesitated, his hand tightening around the cane leaning against his chair. His pulse quickened, and he glanced down at the ring once more as if it might offer some kind of reassurance. Instead, its faint warmth seemed to mock him—you’ve already chosen.
He rose, shoulders tense, and approached the door. With one last glance at the bare room behind him, he opened it, squinting into the night.
The figure before him was both unsettling and magnetic. The man was dressed impeccably in a dark, high-collared coat, his sharp features partially obscured by glasses that glinted in the faint light. A top hat perched neatly atop his head, and his expression was one of cold calculation mixed with faint amusement. At his side, the dog—no, hound—sat with an unnatural stillness, its dark fur rippling as if alive.
“Greetings, young Nicholas.” The man spoke with a thick, rolling German accent, his voice deep and resonant. He removed his hat, holding it to his chest as he offered a slight bow. “I am Alfred Von Henrich, your appointed guide. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The hound rose, stepping forward with a grace that belied its size. Its molten gold eyes locked on Nicholas, and for a moment, he felt as though it could see through him.
“This,” Alfred continued, gesturing toward the creature, “is Vulk, my loyal companion. Do not mind him; he is merely curious.”
Nicholas swallowed, gripping his cane a little tighter. “H-hello, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”
Alfred straightened, his piercing gaze appraising the boy. “Have you gathered all you wish to bring? Once we leave, there is no returning.”
“I’ve got everything,” Nicholas replied, stepping onto the porch. His bag hung over his shoulder, the weight of his dagger a small comfort against his ankle.
“Excellent.” Alfred gave a nod, his smile widening just slightly. “The faster we move, the better. The United States, I’m afraid, is not… hospitable to our kind. I would rather avoid any unfortunate encounters.”
As he spoke, he extended his arm. From his sleeve, a polished wooden cane slid smoothly into his hand, tapping once against the ground. With a whispered incantation, a faint glow enveloped Vulk, and the hound began to grow. Its limbs stretched, muscles rippling beneath its coat as it transformed into a creature the size of a horse. A leather saddle materialized in Alfred’s hands, and with practiced ease, he strapped it securely onto Vulk’s back.
“Climb on,” Alfred instructed, extending a hand to help Nicholas. “And hold tightly. If you fall, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
Nicholas hesitated, staring at the now-massive hound. “Are you serious?”
“Quite,” Alfred replied, his tone making it clear he did not intend to entertain arguments. “Now, up you go.”
With a deep breath, Nicholas accepted the hand and swung himself onto the saddle. The hound’s movements were unnervingly smooth, its body warm beneath him. Alfred joined him, settling in with an elegance that made Nicholas feel clumsy in comparison.
“Now then,” Alfred said, gripping the reins. “Vulk, Lauffen!”
At the command, the hound surged forward, its powerful limbs devouring the ground beneath them. Nicholas clung to the saddle for dear life, the rush of wind stealing his breath as they accelerated faster than any car he’d ever seen. He tried to focus on the horizon, but the sensation of movement was overwhelming.
Just as he thought it couldn’t get any more surreal, Alfred spoke another incantation. The saddle glowed, and Vulk’s feet left the ground. Nicholas’s stomach lurched as they rose into the air, the landscape falling away below them.
“If you are afraid of heights,” Alfred called over the wind, “I suggest you close your eyes. We will be flying for several hours.”
Nicholas didn’t answer. He was too busy gripping the saddle and praying he wouldn’t slip. Despite his initial terror, a small, traitorous part of him marveled at the sight of the world below, bathed in silver moonlight. For the first time in his life, the idea of magic felt less like a curse and more like… freedom.
They soared through the night, the wind carrying them toward a new horizon. Nicholas didn’t know what awaited him in Europe, but one thing was certain—his world had already changed forever.
The flight stretched on, the cold wind biting at Nicholas’s face despite the magical warmth emanating from Vulk. The lights of distant cities sparkled below, fading into darkened wilderness as they crossed state lines, then coastlines. Hours passed in near silence, save for the rush of air and the occasional whispered command from Alfred to Vulk.
Finally, the hound began to descend, its massive form gliding smoothly through the air. Nicholas’s muscles ached from clinging to the saddle, and he exhaled in relief when Vulk’s paws touched solid ground. The landing was surprisingly soft, the hound slowing to a trot before coming to a complete stop in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. The air smelled of salt and damp earth—a sign that they had reached the coast.
Alfred dismounted first, his movements as fluid as ever. He turned and extended a hand to Nicholas. “Come, we have a bit of a walk ahead of us.”
Nicholas slid awkwardly off the saddle, his legs wobbly from the ride. “A walk? I thought we were flying all the way.”
Alfred smirked. “Unfortunately, the Americans have ways of detecting magic in their airspace, particularly along the coast. We will travel the rest of the way by sea.”
With a wave of his cane and a muttered incantation, Alfred removed the saddle from Vulk’s back and shrank the hound back to its original size. Vulk padded silently to Alfred’s side, its form disappearing into the man’s shadow as though it were being absorbed.
Nicholas stared. “I’m never going to get used to that.”
“I hope you do,” Alfred replied. “You’ll see far stranger things at Nuemberg.” He gestured for Nicholas to follow. “Now, come along. The ship won’t wait.”
The two made their way through the forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees casting long, flickering shadows. Nicholas kept close to Alfred, the older man’s presence both reassuring and unsettling. Despite his polished demeanor, there was something dangerous about Alfred—an edge that hinted at a past filled with violence and power.
After what felt like half an hour, they emerged onto a rocky beach. The ocean stretched before them, vast and endless, its surface shimmering under the pale light of the moon. Anchored a short distance from the shore was a peculiar ship, its design both ancient and otherworldly. The hull was rounded and sleek, glowing faintly with runes etched into its wood. It floated as though the water barely touched it, a ghostly presence against the dark waves.
“This,” Alfred announced, “is our vessel. It will take us across the Atlantic and into the heart of Europe.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Looks like something out of a pirate story.”
Alfred chuckled. “Oh, it’s much older than that. Come, the ladder is this way.”
They climbed aboard via a rope ladder, Alfred leading the way with practiced ease. The ship’s deck was illuminated by softly glowing lanterns, their light casting an otherworldly blue hue. Other figures moved about the ship, some human, others… less so. Nicholas caught sight of a towering figure with broad shoulders and unnaturally long arms—a half-giant, perhaps. Nearby, a cloaked individual leaned over the railing, the moonlight briefly illuminating their pale, angular features.
“Passengers,” Alfred said casually. “Some are students like yourself. Others are returning from missions or business. All are magical in one way or another.”
“Even him?” Nicholas nodded toward the half-giant, who was now tying a rope to a large crate.
“Indeed. And I suggest you keep your curiosity to yourself. Some aboard this ship are not as friendly as I am.” Alfred’s eyes glinted behind his glasses as he guided Nicholas below deck.
The interior of the ship was just as strange as the exterior. The walls pulsed faintly with a soft, rhythmic light, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and old wood. Nicholas followed Alfred down a narrow corridor until they reached a small cabin.
“This will be your quarters for the journey,” Alfred said, opening the door to reveal a modest room with a single bed, a small desk, and a round porthole offering a view of the ocean. “You’ll find it more comfortable than the saddle, I imagine.”
Nicholas nodded, his body already longing for rest. “Thanks. How long until we reach Europe?”
“About eight hours,” Alfred replied. “The ship moves quickly, but the Atlantic is vast. Get some rest or explore the ship—it’s up to you. Breakfast will be served at dawn.” He tipped his hat and turned to leave. “Oh, and one more thing. Do not stray too far below deck. Some areas are… less than hospitable.”
Before Nicholas could ask what he meant, Alfred disappeared into the corridor, leaving him alone.
Unable to shake his curiosity, Nicholas decided to explore before settling in for the night. The ship was alive with quiet activity, the passengers moving about with purpose. Some lingered in the dining area, chatting over strange, glowing drinks. Others vanished into rooms that Nicholas swore weren’t there a moment before.
As he wandered, he noticed a pair of sisters sitting at a table in the dining area. They seemed around his age, their features strikingly similar—one bright and lively, the other brooding and reserved. Gathering his nerve, Nicholas approached.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. “I’m new to all this. Do either of you have any tips for when we land?”
The more cheerful of the two looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You’re from the States, aren’t you?”
Nicholas nodded. “That obvious?”
She grinned. “A little. I’m Stella, and this is my sister, Savana. As for tips… well, first thing, you’ll need to get your supplies—catalysts, robes, books, all that good stuff. Then, we’ll head to the academy and get sorted into houses.”
“Houses?” Nicholas asked, intrigued.
Savana, the quieter of the two, chimed in. “Think of them like teams. They compete for glory and prizes, but they’re also your family while you’re at the academy. There are four houses, split into two groups: Vertebrates and Invertebrates.”
Stella nodded. “You’ll be assigned based on your strengths and weaknesses. It’s meant to help you grow, though some of us”—she shot a playful glance at her sister—“don’t think much of the system.”
Nicholas listened intently, a mix of anticipation and unease settling over him. The ship groaned softly beneath his feet, as if echoing the weight of his thoughts. Whatever awaited him in Europe, he knew one thing for certain—this was only the beginning.
The hours aboard the ship passed in a blur. After a restless sleep interrupted by strange dreams of thrones and whispers, Nicholas woke to the faint sound of bells and the gentle creak of the vessel. His cabin glowed with soft morning light streaming through the porthole. The ship was surfacing, the water around it parting in shimmering ripples as it rose to the surface.
When Nicholas emerged on deck, he was greeted by the sight of Europe’s coastline. The sprawling docks of the Great Hisperian Federated Republic stretched out ahead, their towering spires and bustling activity a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the cabin he had left behind. Massive magical wards shimmered faintly in the air, visible only to those with the Sight, and the air buzzed with energy Nicholas could almost taste.
Alfred was already waiting by the gangplank, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Come, Nicholas. Our journey is far from over.”
The next few hours were a whirlwind of movement. Nicholas was guided through a labyrinth of checkpoints and bustling marketplaces, the crowd a mix of magical and mundane. Muggies moved with wary glances, their expressions a blend of fear and awe as they skirted around wizards in resplendent robes. Merchants hawked wares ranging from enchanted trinkets to bottled storms, their voices rising above the din.
Alfred moved with purpose, his presence cutting through the chaos like a knife. Nicholas followed closely, taking in every detail he could. By the time they reached the foot of the Alps, his mind was spinning with questions he didn’t know how to ask.
The final leg of the journey was by lift, a massive, enchanted platform that creaked and groaned as it ascended the mountain. Nicholas clung to the railing, his heart pounding as the ground fell away beneath them. The air grew colder with each passing moment, the wind biting against his skin despite the thick cloak Alfred had handed him.
Then, as the lift crested the ridge, Nicholas saw it.
Nuemberg Arkane Akademie was carved into the mountainside, its spires reaching high into the sky like claws. The structure seemed to hum with magic, its stone walls pulsing faintly with light. Waterfalls cascaded from the heights above, their streams forming shimmering runes as they flowed into a vast lake below. The air was alive with the sound of chanting, laughter, and the occasional burst of magical energy.
Alfred turned to Nicholas, his expression unreadable. “Welcome to your new home.”
The lift carried them to the base of the academy, where a bustling village nestled against the mountain’s edge. Zevera was alive with activity, its narrow streets lined with shops and stalls catering to the needs of the academy’s students. Alfred led Nicholas through the winding paths, pausing occasionally to gesture toward notable landmarks.
“This is where you’ll gather your supplies,” Alfred said as they stopped in front of a weathered shop with a sign that read Jorgen’s Catalyst Emporium. “Your catalyst will be the most important tool in your arsenal. Choose wisely.”
Inside, the shop was a treasure trove of magical artifacts. Shelves lined with wands, staffs, and other implements of magic glimmered under soft candlelight. Jorgen, a stout man with sharp eyes and a perpetual scowl, greeted them with a curt nod.
“Another student, eh?” he grunted, sizing Nicholas up. “Well, let’s see what fits.”
After several minutes of experimentation, Nicholas found himself drawn to a gladius, its blade short but perfectly balanced. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a wave of warmth spread through him, and the blade emitted a faint glow.
“Interesting choice,” Jorgen murmured, his tone betraying a hint of surprise. “Swords are rare among casters. You’re an anomaly, boy.”
Nicholas grinned, his grip tightening on the hilt. “Good. I like standing out.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as Nicholas gathered his robes, books, and other essentials. By the time they reached the academy’s gates, the sun was beginning to set, casting the mountain in hues of gold and crimson.
A large dining hall awaited them, filled with rows of long tables and a raised platform at the far end where the faculty sat. The new students were ushered to the front, their gazes drawn to the centerpiece of the room: a throne of dark, twisting wood, its surface etched with glowing runes.
As the headmaster, Zeinreich Von Valereich, delivered his speech, Nicholas’s attention lingered on the throne. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching him, its runes shifting subtly as though alive.
One by one, the students were called to sit on the throne. Each time, the runes enveloped the student, forming a wooden cocoon that cracked open moments later to reveal their assigned house. Cheers and jeers erupted from the tables as colors and symbols marked the new arrivals.
When his name was called, Nicholas stepped forward, his heart pounding. He gripped the hilt of his gladius for comfort as he sat on the throne. The wood creaked and groaned as it closed around him, plunging him into darkness.
A voice, soft and serpentine, whispered in his mind. “What do you desire?”
Nicholas’s response was quiet but firm. “To carve my own path. To prove that I’m more than a shadow of the past.”
The voice chuckled. “Interesting. Let us see.”
Visions flooded his mind: a burning house, his mother’s death, a throne of gold surrounded by bowing wizards. He felt anger, grief, power, and ambition in equal measure, but he did not lose himself to any of them. The scenes faded, and the voice spoke once more.
“You are stubborn, ambitious, and braver than you realize. You will find your home among the invertebrates. House Hartn’kreatur.”
The cocoon shattered, and Nicholas stood, his new robes shimmering with purple and black. The room erupted in applause and laughter, the sound washing over him as he made his way to his new house’s table.
Savana, already seated among the Geltunmig students, caught his eye and gave him a nod. He returned the gesture, his grip on his gladius tightening.
The feast that followed the Sorting Ceremony was unlike anything Nicholas had ever experienced. Platters of roasted meats, shimmering fruits, and goblets filled with enchanted drinks that changed flavor with every sip appeared before them, seemingly endless in supply. The hall was alive with laughter and chatter, students leaning over the tables to meet their new housemates and reconnect with old friends.
Nicholas sat among his new housemates, still adjusting to the weight of his new robes and the gladius at his side. The purple-and-black insignia of the Yeti Slug adorned his chest—a symbol he still found both amusing and oddly fitting. His tablemates were a mix of personalities, ranging from boisterous pranksters to quiet, calculating types. Despite their differences, they shared an air of unshakable confidence, a kind of thick-skinned resilience that made Nicholas feel like he belonged.
A boy with wild, dark hair and a scar running down his cheek leaned over to him. “First time seeing a magical feast?”
Nicholas nodded, his mouth half-full of spiced lamb. “Yeah, it’s… a lot.”
The boy chuckled, thumping his chest. “You’ll get used to it. Name’s Felix, by the way. You’re the sword caster, right?”
“That’s me,” Nicholas replied, wiping his hands on a napkin. “What about you?”
Felix grinned, pulling a jagged staff from beneath the table. It was made of dark wood and wrapped in silver wire that pulsed faintly with energy. “Staff caster. Pretty standard, but it gets the job done.”
Another student, a girl with short, spiky hair and piercing blue eyes, chimed in. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s top of the dueling charts for our house. If you’re planning to challenge him, you’d better be ready.”
Felix waved her off with a laugh. “Ignore Iris. She just likes to hype people up.”
Nicholas smirked. “Noted. I’ll stick to practicing with my gladius for now.”
The conversation flowed easily after that, and for the first time since leaving home, Nicholas felt a sense of camaraderie. He glanced over at the Geltunmig table, where Savana was deep in conversation with a group of her housemates. She caught his eye and gave him a small smile, which he returned.
The next morning, Nicholas found himself in the Combat Magic 101 classroom, an expansive space dominated by a sunken fighting ring. The desks and seats were arranged in tiers around the pit, ensuring everyone had a clear view of the action. At the center of it all stood Professor Victoria Heimdale, her imposing figure framed by floating orbs of light that cast shifting shadows across her face.
She didn’t waste time on introductions. “Magic is not just a tool,” she began, her voice sharp and commanding. “It is a weapon. It is life and death. And in this class, you will learn to wield it as such.”
Nicholas leaned forward in his seat, his curiosity piqued. Around him, students whispered to one another, their excitement palpable.
“Pay attention,” Heimdale snapped, silencing the murmurs. “This is not a place for the weak-willed or the inattentive. If you fail to keep up, you will fall behind, and in the real world, falling behind means death.”
She raised her dagger-like wand, and with a flick of her wrist, summoned a creature from the shadows. The spectral figure that emerged was hunched and grotesque, its hollow eyes scanning the room with predatory intent.
“This,” Heimdale said, gesturing to the creature, “is a Spectral Shadow. A parasite of fear that preys on the weak. They are drawn to hesitation, to doubt. But they are also fragile.”
With another flick of her wand, she muttered an incantation, and a burst of light erupted from the tip. The Spectral Shadow froze in place, its form rippling as though in pain. Heimdale didn’t stop there—she followed up with a jet of fire that consumed the creature entirely, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake.
“Light binds them. Fire destroys them. Remember that,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tomorrow, you will face your own Spectral Shadows. I suggest you prepare.”
Nicholas exchanged a glance with Felix, who gave him a knowing smirk. “Welcome to the big leagues,” Felix whispered.
After class, Nicholas wandered the twisting halls of the academy, the layout still a confusing maze of shifting rooms and endless corridors. He found himself in a quieter part of the building, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters and founders. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, their expressions ranging from stern to outright disapproving.
As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a figure coming the other way. It was a girl, tall and pale, with long black hair that shimmered faintly as though woven with starlight. She regarded him with a piercing gaze, her silver eyes unreadable.
“You’re the sword caster,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
Nicholas blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. That’s me. And you are…?”
“Calla,” she replied. “House Kaiserheim.”
Her robes of red and gold confirmed it, the emblem of the Golden Eagle standing out proudly on her chest. She studied him for a moment before nodding. “You’ll do well here, I think. Just… don’t get too comfortable.”
“Is that a warning?” Nicholas asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A reminder,” Calla said cryptically. “The academy isn’t just a school. It’s a crucible. Some come out stronger. Others… don’t.”
Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared down the hall, her footsteps eerily silent. Nicholas stared after her, unease prickling at the back of his neck.
Later that evening, as Nicholas settled into his dorm room, he couldn’t shake Calla’s words. The academy was a crucible, and it was clear that he’d only just begun to feel its heat. His gladius rested on the desk, the faint glow of its blade a quiet reminder of the path he had chosen.