The storm didn't arrive.
It descended.
Clouds drowned the sky in thick ink, merging into one vast creature that shuddered with every rumble of thunder. The wind coiled around the tower like something with a mind of its own—curious, hungry, waiting. And the rain… the rain fell not as droplets, but as grief finally broken loose.
Each drop struck the balcony stone with a soft, mournful tap, as though the heavens had rehearsed sorrow for centuries and now, at last, remembered how to cry.
An old man stood alone at the railing.
His robe fluttered like a torn page in the storm. His long white hair bowed and lifted with each gust. He didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He simply watched the sky with an intimacy reserved for old friends… or old enemies.
Behind him, the room blurred—edges dimming, air thickening, space bending without sound. A presence arrived not by stepping into place but by erasing something that had once been there.
Grey mist thickened until shapes couldn't exist inside it.
Until thought itself hesitated to approach. A shape. A presence. A figure wrapped in a mist so thick and grey that the room itself seemed to warp around it, refusing to acknowledge its existence. Even the air trembled, unwilling to remember it.
But the old man—Balthazar—didn't turn.
"So the day chooses to come early."
His voice drifted like the rain—soft, certain, tired.
He smiled faintly.
"You agree, don't you?"
The figure gave no answer. Silence answered for it—sharp, weighty, deliberate.
"As expected," the old man chuckled softly. "Your kind rarely wastes words."
He opened his palm, catching a few cold droplets.
"Time," he murmured, closing his fingers gently around the rain, "slips faster than we pretend. It doesn't stop for fear… or for prophecy."
The mist stirred—slow, reluctant.
"You speak in circles again."
"Do I?" Balthazar finally turned.
His blue eyes—calm, impossibly calm—reflected neither storm nor fear. Only acceptance, sharpened by years.
"I'm merely waiting. Waiting for a moment written long before either of us learned to walk."
The figure behind him darkened, its voice like someone speaking from beneath water.
"The boy is cursed.
Every power, every clan, every forgotten order… Everyone who knows even a fragment of his story wants him dead
And you—"
A pause thickened the air.
"You want to protect him. Why? Is it compassion? Or something else?"
The old man breathed out.
Not a sigh—more like letting go of a weight he'd carried too long.
"Only time," he answered, "can accuse me."
The mist cracked apart like smoke cut by wind.
The figure vanished, leaving the room too empty, the silence too loud.
Balthazar remained where he was, watching the rain fall as though counting each drop.
"Run fast, boy," he whispered.
"The world has already begun to chase."
---
A different sky greeted Rion.
The storm was gone—perhaps left behind in another world entirely.
Here, the sun ruled mercilessly, the desert stretching like an endless ocean of gold. Heat shimmered in waves, blurring the horizon until even the mountains looked like wandering ghosts.
By the time Rion reached the checkpoint, dust coated him like a second skin.
Two guards squinted at him—part suspicion, part pity.
"Name," one demanded.
"Rion Alder."
"Purpose?"
"Academy enrollment."
"Origin?"
"North."
A moment of quiet assessment.
Then a stamped entry seal and a muttered:
"Try not to get lost. Or eaten."
"…Comforting," Rion whispered as he walked toward the city gate.
But the moment he stepped inside, the word died on his tongue.
He froze—completely stunned.
He had expected a small settlement, a scattering of houses, perhaps a dusty training yard and a few stalls at most.
Instead—
The city unfolded before him like a painted scroll touched by sunlight.
Bridges of carved jade arched gracefully over broad canals where crystal-blue water drifted in lazy, shimmering currents. Floating lanterns glided through the air even in broad daylight, glowing softly like domesticated stars. Tiered pagodas rose in elegant layers, their roofs catching the light in flashes of emerald and gold.
Markets spilled into the streets, overflowing with color—petals drifting like confetti, silk banners rippling in the breeze, and fruit piled so perfectly it looked sculpted instead of grown.
It was not a city.
It was a dream given shape.
Rion stopped moving.
His breath paused.
"…I imagined something grand," he murmured.
"But this… this feels unreal."
The cool breeze that swept from the canals carried music, laughter, spices.
He took a slow breath.
"This is it. The true beginning."
He had barely taken another step when—
A thunderous voice boomed behind him:
"HEY! YOU! DION ALJER!"
A shout hit him from behind.
Rion froze.
Dion… Aljer? Why do people insist on mutating my name?
He turned—and nearly stepped backward on instinct.
Nearly 8 feet 6 inches, thick muscles like carved stone, long unkempt black hair, and a beard so wild half his face was nothing but forest. His clothes looked like he wrestled bears for fun.
His eyes—dark, unreadable—looked Rion over as though measuring the distance between existence and death.
Rion swallowed. His first thought was not noble.
"Is that… a man? Or a mountain that got tired of standing still and decided to walk around?
And why is he strolling like he pays taxes here?!
Wait—don't tell me that's a monster?
Why is it free?!
Why is no one screaming?!
Why am I the only one freaking out?!"
The giant leaned down.
"So. You are Dion Aljer."
"Actually—sir—I'm Rion—"
"Good," the giant said, not hearing a syllable.
"I am Borin."
A hand the size of Rion's entire torso extended.
Rion stared.
Very slowly.
"…Hello… sir," he managed, unsure whether shaking it would end in survival.
Borin nodded, apparently satisfied by the lack of an explosion.
"I will oversee your exam. Follow."
His tone was simple.
But his steps made the street tremble.
Rion followed before he could think of alternatives.
Now they had finally reached their destination. The building Borin pointed to was humble—hardly what Rion expected from a city so elaborate. A small hall with wooden benches lined neatly in rows.
Two students occupied the front seats.
The boy—brown hair neatly combed, grey eyes sharp but trembling—kept straightening his papers as if order alone might save him.
The girl—golden hair braided with precision, green eyes steady—looked like someone raised with expectations groomed into her bones. Her calm was practiced, not natural.
Both turned when Rion entered.
Dusty boots. Torn travel clothes.
He looked like he'd fought a desert, lost, and then argued with it.
Their faces didn't change.
But their silence spoke enough.
He could tell what they were thinking.
Wild barbarian? Lost wanderer? Did he fight wolves on the way?
Rion offered a polite nod and sat toward the back.
Borin placed three thick papers in front of them.
"When the incense burns out," he rumbled, lighting a thin stick, "your time ends."
He stepped back, arms crossed, watching them with the serene patience of a predator.
The test was merciless.
Questions twisted into traps.
Spells described in fragments.
Histories written like riddles.
Even Rion felt his pulse quicken.
Minutes crawled by.
The brown-haired boy's hands trembled so fiercely his quill nearly snapped.
The girl's composure cracked slightly—her foot tapping, her breath shallow.
The boy looked back at Rion again.
A silent plea.
Rion exhaled quietly.
Kindness wasn't a strategy.
It was a reflex he never managed to extinguish.
He tilted his paper just enough—nothing obvious, nothing loud. Just a hint.
One answer.
Only one.
The boy's shoulders loosened.
Color returned to his face.
Not gratitude—relief.
Moments later, the thin column of incense collapsed into ash.
"Time," Borin said, collecting the papers gently—surprisingly gently for hands that could crush boulders.