Standing in the vast central square, Kael silently watched as the morning light slid across the polished stone tiles and the silver railings of the great bridge that arched over a deep moat.

  Beyond it lay the walled district—the very heart of the city, where all the key administrative halls of Lasthold stood.

  This part of the city bore a proud yet simple name—the Council Enclave.

  Kael paused for a moment, gazing at the grand gates engraved with the crests of the Three Families: a golden tree, a ring of flame, and a sphere of lightning.

  He narrowed his eyes and thought:

  “It’ll be interesting to see what’s inside. In my previous life, I never made it this far…”

  After a brief pause, he started across the bridge. The stone beneath his boots echoed softly with each step, while the wind whispering between the walls carried the distant chime of bells.

  Glancing over the railing, Kael saw clear water below—deep, pure, alive. Schools of fish darted through it, their scales flashing like shards of glass in the sunlight.

  Halfway across, an arch came into view—wide, intricately carved. Beyond it stretched the inner courtyard of the Enclave.

  Kael slowed his pace. Before him spread manicured gardens, tranquil ponds dotted with water lilies, and neat stone paths crisscrossing the grounds like veins through marble. Scribes and attendants strolled along the alleys, and among the trees shimmered the silhouettes of buildings—austere yet elegant, their carved windows bearing the sigils of ancient clans.

  Shifting his gaze, he noticed several guards standing at attention—unmoving, statuesque, dressed in white with the emblem of the Council of Elders emblazoned across their chests.

  But what drew Kael’s attention was something else: a plump old man standing near the entrance, smiling warmly. His hair and beard had a strange hue—as though they had once been a rich green, now fading into silver, leaving only a faint emerald sheen.

  Kael squinted, realizing the old man was looking directly at him.

  “Seems he’s here for me…” he thought, slipping on a courteous smile and quickening his pace.

  As he approached, Kael noticed the golden insignia gleaming on the man’s chest—a circle with three dots inside, the mark of a Council Elder.

  Realizing whom he was dealing with, Kael inclined his head respectfully and greeted him with a polite smile:

  “The junior greets the Elder.”

  The old man laughed heartily—his voice deep and good-natured.

  “I hardly believed it until I saw you,” he said, studying Kael with open curiosity. “The Council of Elders is quite eager to meet you, young Kael.”

  “I was simply lucky,” Kael replied calmly, shaking his head slightly. “But I’ll do my best to make that luck a habit.”

  “Ha-ha-ha! Now that’s the spirit!” the Elder replied, delighted.

  He took a step closer and, placing a heavy hand on Kael’s back, gently guided him forward into the courtyard.

  “I must admit, at first we didn’t believe it,” he continued with a note of ceremony in his voice. “But when Magister Duran arrived personally and gave his report, all doubts vanished. Lasthold has gained a new genius!”

  He said it loudly, clearly not only for Kael but for the nearby attendants as well—letting everyone hear.

  “If such a man were ever to join the Council of Elders one day,” he added with a wide grin, “it would be a true blessing!”

  Then he waved his hand and chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Ah, listen to me rambling! Getting ahead of myself again, haha!”

  Kael, walking beside him with a courteous smile, thought silently:

  “Smooth talker… Clearly not from the inner circle—otherwise they wouldn’t have sent him as an escort. Still, someone’s told him exactly how to handle me. If I were just another youth, that flattery might’ve gone straight to my head…”

  He cast a sidelong glance at the old man and smirked inwardly, maintaining outward composure.

  Feigning innocence, Kael asked lightly:

  “Elder, I’ve never been inside the Council Enclave before. Could you tell me about these buildings around us?”

  The old man chuckled contentedly, still keeping a firm hand on Kael’s back, as though afraid the young man might get lost among the stone paths and grand buildings.

  “Of course, of course,” he said with a note of pride, guiding Kael along the paved walkway. “Since you’re one of us now, it’s only right you learn where you might one day find yourself.”

  He pointed ahead, and Kael’s gaze fell upon the great structure at the center of the complex—towering above the rest, crowned with a white dome and columns of deep red stone.

  “That one in the middle, with the dome and columns,” the Elder said, pride coloring his voice. “That’s the Grand Assembly. It’s where the Council of Elders meets and all of Lasthold’s most vital matters are decided. That’s where we’re headed now.”

  He gestured toward a side path and turned slightly, indicating a long, terrace-fronted building lined with columns, where a few figures sat at tables.

  “And that is the Guild Hall,” he continued in a patient, instructive tone. “Usually, it’s quiet there. From time to time, guild representatives come to resolve disputes, sign contracts… or simply argue over who’s richer.” He snorted. “Once a month, the heads of all Guilds gather there to report to the Council.”

  Kael listened silently, noting how harmonious and meticulously maintained everything looked—every stone and hedge radiated authority and order.

  Meanwhile, the old man motioned toward a stately manor near a pond. Its pale walls shimmered in the light, and two guards in white and gold trim stood at the entrance.

  “And there,” the Elder said with reverence, “is the Lord’s Manor. Every ruler of Lasthold has worked within those walls—and the current one is no exception.”

  At that, Kael narrowed his eyes slightly and thought:

  “Lasthold is ruled now by Lord Durimar… the eldest mage of the Ancient Roots Family. One of his sons governs the family itself. Bloodline, power, and heritage—three threads woven tightly around the city…”

  His gaze drifted to the reflection of the buildings in the pond’s still surface. He gave a restrained nod and continued walking beside the Elder.

  As they made their way toward the Grand Assembly, the old man kept talking—about council procedures, formal protocols, even joking that “in the Enclave, the wind itself blows only on schedule.” His tone was confident and good-natured, but Kael was only half-listening.

  He walked slightly behind, eyes lowered to the smooth stones beneath his feet, and his thoughts wandered elsewhere:

  “The highest rank of mage in Lasthold—the so-called Jade rank…” he mused. “Or more simply, the stage of a true Spiritual Mage. There are only three in the entire city: Lord Durimar, and two Elders—Vulnar and Zeiran.”

  He looked ahead toward a distant building the old man was describing, feigning interest.

  “Corebound Mage, Channelweaver Mage, Marked Mage, Soulbound Mage… and finally—Spiritual Mage.”

  Each word landed in his mind like the clang of a hammer.

  “The path ahead is long… just to reach a point where no one in Lasthold can threaten me.”

  He slowed his steps, gazing forward where two magical guards flanked the wide doors of the Grand Assembly.

  “And as for the Master…” he added darkly to himself, a chill running down his spine. “Vengeance isn’t even something I can dream of yet.”

  The murmur of voices grew louder—dozens of tones, male and female, merging into a low, heavy hum.

  Kael lifted his head, straightened his posture, and took the final steps forward before stopping at the grand doors.

  At that moment, the plump Elder beside him touched his elbow gently, pulling him from his thoughts.

  “Good luck, Kael,” he said with a warm smile and a note of quiet gravity in his tone.

  He tugged on the massive bronze ring, and the great doors—bound in dark metal—slowly swung open. The creak of the hinges echoed through the hall, as if heralding the start of something momentous.

  Before Kael stretched a magnificent chamber—a vast hall paneled entirely in dark redwood, polished to a mirror sheen. The ceiling was upheld by carved columns, and along both sides, rising three tiers high, sat dozens of Elders.

  Each occupied an individual seat, dressed in robes of various styles and colors—some in fine silk, others in heavy fur-lined garments. But all shared one symbol: upon every chest gleamed the emblem of the Council—a circle with three dots, the mark of power and knowledge.

  And yet, among that sea of faces, three figures stood out immediately.

  Directly across from the entrance, raised above the floor, stood three thrones—massive, carved from blackwood and inlaid with gemstones. Upon them sat the three most powerful figures in all of Lasthold—Lord Durimar, Elder Vulnar, and Elder Zeiran. Their presence was almost tangible; the very air in the hall seemed to grow denser.

  Kael froze, feeling dozens of eyes turn toward him. For an instant, his heart skipped a beat—then he steadied himself and thought:

  “So. The game begins…”

  Without daring to lift his head, he stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and said clearly and firmly:

  “Junior Kael, son of Kasias, greets the honored Council of Elders! It is a great honor to stand before you today!”

  His voice echoed off the wooden walls, and for a heartbeat, the hall fell into perfect silence.

  Dozens of elders fixed their gazes on the young man.

  Some—with curiosity. Others—with caution.

  A few gray-haired mages in the back rows nodded approvingly, while two women in silver robes whispered something quickly to each other, their eyes never leaving Kael.

  A tense pause hung in the air, broken only by soft breaths and the faint rustle of cloth.

  Then, from the depths of the hall—from the raised dais itself—came a calm but resonant voice, deep and powerful, as if born from the earth itself:

  “Raise your head, child.”

  That bass voice rolled through the chamber, vibrating faintly in Kael’s chest. He obeyed, lifting his gaze—though he remained kneeling.

  At that moment, his eyes met the three figures upon the thrones.

  Three elders. Three forces upon which all of Lasthold rested.

  But Kael’s focus settled immediately on the central throne—the one set slightly higher than the other two.

  Upon it sat a man with a gentle, almost fatherly expression. His robe was a blend of green and gold, woven from a fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer with its own light. His hair and beard were thick, a deep forest-green—like living foliage—and two heavy brows arched upward above eyes the color of polished emeralds.

  Above the throne hung a great banner—green, embroidered with a golden tree whose roots spread into intricate patterns: the crest of the Ancient Roots Family.

  Kael stilled.

  “So this is Lord Durimar…” he thought, feeling the old man’s overwhelming aura wash over him.

  His hands began to tremble—not from fear, but from the instinctive response of a body that was still too young to bear such pressure.

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  “Damn it… this immature body is betraying me again. I need to pull myself together if I want this to go smoothly.”

  Lord Durimar inclined his head slightly, and a soft, almost kindly smile touched his lips.

  “It was you who discovered the method for mana ore compression?” he asked in that deep, measured tone.

  Without hesitation, Kael replied:

  “Yes, honored Lord Durimar. But to be perfectly honest, there was a great deal of luck involved.”

  A murmur rippled through the hall—quiet whispers, the rustle of robes, a few muffled coughs. But before the silence could return, another elder spoke—the man seated to the right.

  He was bald, with a short crimson beard, and his eyes burned with unyielding determination. Despite his age, his body was powerful—broad shoulders and arms that looked as though they’d been carved from stone. His voice was rough but strong:

  “Even luck won’t catch fire without fuel,” he said pointedly, his gaze sharp as a blade as he studied Kael, as if testing whether the youth could hold his stare.

  Kael bowed his head respectfully, but before he could respond, the third elder—seated to the left—spoke up.

  He was the complete opposite of Vulnar: slender, graceful, with fine features and dark violet hair tied neatly into a knot. His eyes—sly, foxlike—gleamed with amused curiosity. His robe was a deep sapphire hue, embroidered with threads of silver that caught the light.

  “I was about to say the same, Elder Vulnar,” he drawled softly, his voice like the whisper of a cold wind. Shifting his cunning gaze to Kael, he added with a playful smirk: “What a shame you’re of common birth, young man. Had you been born into a more distinguished family, you’d have already—”

  But he didn’t finish.

  “Compose yourself, Elder Zeiran,” Lord Durimar’s bass voice cut through the air.

  The tone remained calm, yet an unmistakable note of authority slipped through it—as though the entire Council Enclave had, for a moment, held its breath.

  Zeiran only laughed, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of apology.

  “Forgive me, it just slipped out,” he said with a chuckle. “I must truly be getting old… keh-heh.”

  Kael, outwardly composed, felt a faint tension ripple through the air. There was no mistaking it—an invisible rivalry simmered between the Elders.

  “A good sign,” he thought, lowering his gaze briefly to hide a trace of a smile.

  While the old men exchanged words, Kael had enough time to calm his body and still the tremor in his hands. His control returned completely—mind ruling over flesh once more.

  “If they all see me as a valuable prize, they won’t let any single faction claim me too quickly. Which means… I’ll have time.”

  At that moment, Lord Durimar slowly rose from his throne. His movements were fluid and deliberate—not as if he stood, but as if he grew, like a tree stretching toward the sun.

  “Today is a remarkable day,” he declared, his voice filling the chamber, smooth and commanding, echoing through every arch and beam. “We are gathered here to honor young talent. But perhaps…” he paused, letting his gaze sweep across the hall, “this day will become something greater—the day we met the future benefactor of Lasthold.”

  A ripple of murmurs swept through the chamber—dozens of Elders nodding in agreement, some murmuring praise, others even clapping softly, eager to curry favor with the Head.

  Kael, meanwhile, stood motionless, maintaining an expression of reverent humility, though inwardly he watched their performance with quiet detachment.

  Durimar raised his hand slightly.

  At once, the air beneath his throne shimmered, and from below it, a small dark box slid forth, rising gently into the air. Surrounded by a soft aura of green mana, it floated toward Kael and came to rest before his chest.

  He looked at it, eyes widening theatrically—though inwardly he scoffed:

  “A box? Hopefully there’s money inside, not some ceremonial trinket. I’ve no use for keepsakes right now…”

  Durimar’s tone grew solemn once again.

  “We have deliberated and judged your work worthy of high merit. After reviewing all reports, the Council of Elders has unanimously decided to reward you with a sum equal to the annual salary of a Third-Rank Master—fifteen steel coins.”

  A hum of approval spread through the hall—voices murmuring, applause, whispers of “Generous!” and “Well deserved!”

  Kael instantly adopted the look of stunned disbelief. His eyes widened, his breath caught; he bowed his head as though overwhelmed, then pressed a hand to his chest and exclaimed loudly:

  “Thank you, honored Elders! This is an honor beyond anything I could have dreamed!”

  But behind that mask of gratitude, his true thoughts were far colder.

  A faint smile flickered deep within his mind.

  “How amusing…” he thought, keeping his expression perfectly still. “This mana ore compression method will save Lasthold more resources and gold than I could spend in ten lifetimes—and I’m getting a year’s wage. Well. For now, that will do.”

  As he held his pose of reverence, his mind was already at work—cold, precise, calculating.

  “A single mana elixir costs around thirty bronze… fifteen steel makes fifteen hundred bronze… That’s roughly fifty elixirs.”

  His gaze drifted idly around the hall, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Fifty should be enough. More than enough to break through and stabilize at the Core Mage stage.”

  Kael lowered his chin slightly, hiding a faint, fleeting smirk, and added inwardly with quiet satisfaction:

  “And after that… I’ll start brewing my own elixirs—far superior in quality.”

  But just then, the box quivered. The lid slowly lifted open on its own, shattering his train of thought.

  Inside, upon dark velvet, rested a silver ring—plain and unadorned, save for a tiny black stone set flush into the metal, as though fused with it.

  “Oh-ho… could it be…” Kael thought, his lips twitching ever so slightly.

  And as if in answer to his thoughts, Lord Durimar spoke again—his voice still ceremonious, smooth as ever:

  “We wish for this spatial ring to serve as a reminder of your first significant discovery,” he said, making a gentle motion with his hand. “Let it become a symbol of your path—and of your first contribution to the prosperity of Lasthold, the discovery that will allow an increase in the capacity of spatial storage.”

  A murmur of approval swept through the hall; one of the elders even began to applaud. But before Kael could open his mouth to thank them, a quiet, mocking chuckle came from the right.

  “Khe-khe…” Elder Zeiran tilted his head, a familiar foxlike glint lighting his eyes. “It should be clarified,” he said with feigned innocence, “that this is a personal gift from the Three Families. Consider it simply a gesture of goodwill.”

  He smiled and inclined his head slightly—and Kael understood the subtext at once: “You’re already in our debt.”

  Beside him, Vulnar, his face as stern as ever, ran a hand through his crimson beard and added in his gravelly tone:

  “As I said before, I don’t believe in mere luck. Remember, Kael—the Sacred Flame Family always values talent.”

  The last words carried a subtle weight, a quiet emphasis that felt almost like a warning.

  Zeiran couldn’t resist—he crossed his arms and smirked.

  “And expresses that appreciation far too bluntly…”

  The two old men exchanged a brief glance—short, but sharp enough to make the air between them seem to crackle with unseen tension.

  Vulnar’s fingers tightened on his throne’s armrest, and Zeiran’s eyes gleamed with open challenge.

  Silence stretched—taut as a string.

  No one in the hall dared move. The rivalry between the two elders was now laid bare for all to see.

  Only Lord Durimar remained calm. He stood serenely, his expression still soft, almost benevolent.

  But when he spoke, his voice carried power—calm, without a hint of irritation, yet leaving no room for defiance:

  “Tell me, Kael…” he said, turning directly to the young man. “Do you see what is happening right now? Do you understand the meaning of my colleagues’ actions?”

  The question struck like thunder in a clear sky. Kael felt the weight of countless gazes descend upon him.

  He raised his head—not defiantly, but with steady composure.

  In the corners of Zeiran’s eyes, a sly, measuring smile flickered.

  Vulnar leaned forward slightly, arms crossed, as though testing whether the youth would falter.

  Seeing the hesitation, Durimar spoke again, his tone softer now—but carrying the same quiet authority:

  “Magister Duran told me you were perceptive beyond your years. Don’t be afraid—speak plainly.”

  At that, Kael narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze thoughtful.

  “A hint from Magister Duran?” he wondered. “If so, he wants me to show some character…”

  He drew a slow breath, then exhaled, deciding on the tone to take. After a glance at the three elders, Kael lowered his head slightly, feigning a touch of apprehension.

  “I would never dare lie before the Council of Elders,” he said clearly and evenly. “So I will be completely honest.”

  He paused briefly, letting the words settle in the air, then continued with a quiet trace of nobility in his voice:

  “I do not wish to succumb to temptation at the very beginning of my path. Sometimes, hunger is necessary for growth and progress.”

  A ripple moved through the distant rows of elders; some exchanged glances, a few nodded approvingly, others smirked—taking his words as youthful bravado.

  But Durimar didn’t let him slip away from the moment. His eyes gleamed with interest, and a knowing smile touched his lips.

  “And what exactly do you mean by that, young Kael?” he asked, taking a slow step forward and folding his hands behind his back.

  Kael lifted his head slightly. His gaze wavered, as though he hesitated to say what was truly on his mind.

  “I would prefer to serve for the good of Lasthold,” he said firmly. “To learn, to work, and to hone my skills through my own effort. Let the road be harder—it will keep me hungry for truth.”

  He gave a modest bow and added with sincere restraint:

  “Forgive me if my words sound ungrateful. I only fear that ease might kill my will to strive.”

  At Kael’s words, silence fell over the Grand Assembly—thick, heavy, almost ceremonial.

  Dozens of elders exchanged glances, as if trying to confirm they had truly heard such words from a boy not yet sixteen.

  Even Zeiran, sly as a fox, stopped smiling. His eyes narrowed, and a shadow of respect crossed his face. He gave a faint nod—barely noticeable, but in his gaze flickered approval.

  Only Lord Durimar remained as calm as ever, in no hurry to break the silence.

  He tilted his head slightly, as though studying Kael from a different angle, and finally spoke—softly, but with an unmistakable note of testing in his tone:

  “So, you mean to say you’re not yet interested in joining one of the Three Families?”

  The directness of the question sent a subtle jolt through the air. A few elders cleared their throats quietly; the rest fell into deeper stillness.

  But Kael, to everyone’s surprise, nodded calmly.

  “It may sound blasphemous, but… yes,” he replied evenly. Then, almost at once, added with the faintest of smiles: “Though the key word here is ‘yet.’”

  He said it in such a way that even the most unseasoned elders understood—he wasn’t burning bridges.

  “Always leave the door ajar,” Kael thought with a mental smirk.

  “And when, pray tell, might this ‘yet’ pass, young man?” Zeiran asked slyly, leaning on his armrest, eyes narrowing like a cat toying with its prey.

  This time Kael didn’t feign humility. His amber eyes gleamed with quiet determination—and ambition.

  “When I become skilled enough to conduct large-scale research,” he said confidently. “On that day, I’ll certainly be in need of funding.”

  A few elders chuckled.

  And Vulnar, who had kept his stern expression until now, suddenly burst into a booming laugh. His bass voice rolled through the hall like a hammer striking an anvil.

  “Ha-ha! Now that’s a lad from the merchant’s quarter, no doubt!” he thundered, leaning forward.

  It seemed, in that moment, that the elders had heard everything they’d wanted to hear from Kael.

  The air in the hall lightened; the tension melted away, replaced by approving murmurs and subdued amusement. Several elders exchanged pleased glances—some nodded in quiet approval, others even allowed themselves faint smiles.

  Lord Durimar sank back into his throne, watching the young man with quiet satisfaction.

  “Magister Duran did not exaggerate,” he said with calm assurance, and in his voice there was genuine respect. “The Hall of Ancient Research has found itself a remarkable youth.”

  He made a subtle motion with his hand. The box with the ring—still hovering in the air—trembled, then closed softly. It drifted toward Kael and vanished neatly into his inner pocket, as if obeying Durimar’s will.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Kael,” the Head continued, once more assuming his stately posture upon the throne. “You may take your leave.”

  Kael bowed deeply at once.

  “My heartfelt thanks, honored Elders!” he said clearly and firmly, his voice carrying both reverence and a touch of quiet dignity.

  Rising, he turned and strode toward the great doors. His steps echoed across the hall as dozens of eyes followed his every movement.

  He had already reached for the handle when behind him came Durimar’s deep, commanding voice once more—now sharper, like a mentor’s parting warning:

  “Do not give anyone reason to doubt our goodwill, Kael.”

  He paused, and the hall fell silent again.

  “We expect new discoveries from you. All of Lasthold does.”

  Kael stopped for only a heartbeat, not turning his head. He gave a short, composed nod.

  Then he pushed open the heavy doors and left the hall.

  The doors closed slowly behind him, sealing the Council in a soft, lingering hush.

  A few elders seated near the edge exchanged knowing smiles. One—a gray-haired mage with a hooked nose—leaned toward his neighbor and murmured:

  “The boy speaks beautifully. But we’ll see how he acts once he’s had a taste of power.”

  “Or when power has a taste of him,” the other replied with a smirk.

  ? ? ?

  And as the heavy thud of the closing doors echoed behind him, a mocking, almost defiant smile spread across Kael’s face.

  “All of Lasthold awaits my discoveries, huh? More like the Council can’t wait to profit from them.”

  He smirked, his gaze sliding over the garden ahead.

  “Well then… let them wait. I couldn’t care less.”

  He drew the ring from his inner pocket and held it on his palm for a few moments, examining it in silence. Thin silver, a black stone that seemed to swallow the light—simple in appearance, yet dense with magical weight.

  “What matters is that I’ve got enough money now for a breakthrough,” he murmured softly, sliding the ring onto his finger.

  At once he felt a cool tingling, followed by a faint glow from the stone—a quiet sign that the artifact had accepted its new master.

  Kael stepped beyond the threshold and walked along the marble path leading out of the Council Enclave. The morning wind played at the hem of his cloak, and that same calm, assured smile lingered on his lips.

  “I should set aside part of the money for alchemical reagents,” he thought as he passed a line of fountains. “Once I break through, I’ll move on to brewing my own elixirs. The store-bought ones are far too mediocre.”

  He reached the broad street and slowed, his eyes lifting toward the distant spire of the Academy.

  “I should probably speak with Magister Duran…” he mused. “After today, there’s no point wasting time on theory lectures. If he can arrange something with the Academy Principal, that would free up a great deal of time. And time right now… is my best investment.”

  With that thought, Kael strode forward, steady and self-assured—his inner rhythm settling once more after the strain of the council meeting.

  ? ? ?

  Meanwhile, inside the Grand Assembly, the discussions had slowly returned to the city’s routine matters—taxes, mana supplies, the distribution of ore.

  Only three remained silent—Durimar, Vulnar, and Zeiran—their gazes fixed on the closed doors. Their auras hummed softly, intertwining in invisible tension.

  Each of them was already drawing conclusions.

  Each was beginning to weave plans.

  Plans in which the strange young man named Kael was taking on an increasingly intriguing place.