1st July,
1352
The morning sun filtered through the high dormitory windows, its light softened by spring's lingering haze.
One by one, the girls stirred from slumber, rising quietly to prepare for the day ahead.
Today marked the true beginning—when lessons would start and the weight of Hermandry's reputation would settle upon their shoulders.
After getting ready, the group decided to eat breakfast together before heading to their assigned departments. It was a silent pact, a small ritual to anchor them before the separation that lay ahead.
Each department at Hermandry Academy required students to attend three core classes. Two Classes would mean six one-hour classes per day, broken only by a hour of free time provided to them for lunch and other activities at noon. From 8:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., students were bound to the campus grounds—no exceptions without a professor's leave or participation in an outdoor session.
There were four elemental magics one could learn:
Fire Magic
Frost Magic
Thunder Magic
Earth Magic
Beyond them stood the enigmatic Arcane Arts—not considered "magic" in the traditional sense, but rather, the manipulation of matter through the True Force itself. This subtle craft was taught mainly in the Magic Tools and Magical Studies departments. Arcane Arts allowed one to bend materials directly, without element, without spectacle.
The True Force was the thing that allowed them to perform magic. It was whispered to dwell in all things—living, dying, even dead.
As the group made their way toward the towering stone buildings of the Magical Department, a parting was inevitable.
Candice peeled off first, her path leading toward the Spear Combat training grounds. Solaria would later join her for their hand-to-hand combat classes. At the building's front steps, Maylyn veered toward a separate classroom, leaving Solaria, Withney, Cynthia, and Elise to continue alone.
Withney's thoughts drifted as she walked ahead of the group, faster than usual, her mind circling the rumors she'd overheard about an artifact hidden in the Hiddleston wilderness. And then there was that strange hand motion—a gesture that still haunted the edges of her memory.
She murmured to herself, "I wonder who the professor will be... and if they know anything about the scroll."
They reached the classroom. It was massive—clearly built to host over two hundred students. Wooden floorboards creaked faintly underfoot. Pale walls bore the faint marks of chalk and time. Rows of polished desks gleamed under the morning sun streaming through wide, glass-paned windows.
Roughly 50 to 60 students were already seated, murmuring quietly, their voices a low tide of anticipation. Withney and the others found an empty row near the middle, where they settled in.
A flicker of movement caught Withney's eye.
"It's the group of the Golden Sun Believers. But the two girls are not here. Only the four boys." she thought to herself.
As Withney was in deep thought the group of four boys sat before her group.
She stared a moment longer, the memory of crimson robes and whispered devotion clinging to the edges of her mind.
By the time the last of the students filed in, the room had swelled to nearly a hundred.
Then, the door opened again.
A man stepped in—tall, aged, and dressed in an impeccably tailored suit. He wore a white coat over a midnight-blue vest and high-collared white shirt. A pale ascot adorned his neck. His eyes were a piercing cerulean, deep and calm like still water. There was a weight to his presence a scholarly aura exuded from him and also something not quite explainable, like old magic woven into the folds of his coat.
"Greetings, younglings," the man said, voice smooth yet commanding. "I am Bethel Abraham, your instructor for Practical Magic Theory this year."
There was a moment of silence—then the subtle shuffle of notebooks, pens, and shifting bodies.
"Today is simply an introduction. Relax, take notes if you wish. Let's begin by learning each other's names—front to back."
One by one, students introduced themselves. Withney noted several familiar names—aristocrats, nobles, the sons and daughters of power.
The boys seated in front of her were no different.
Red hair—Antoine Arred. Golden curls—Groelle Augustus. Blue locks and a bored stare—Galis Kevin.
Those names… Withney's brow furrowed. Aren't those noble names of the Sinter Kingdom?
Her thoughts wandered further, piecing together the fractured map of the Northern Continent.
There were six great powers across the land:
The Evernight Empire, cloaked in shadow and prestige, was the most formidable.
Then came the Turnovest Empire, nestled at the base of the jagged Turnovest Mountains.
The third was the Feodor Republic, known for its scholarly might. They had the largest number of mages compared to any Nation.
Next were the three kingdoms: Sinter, Cyril, and Robes—each proud but far from equal.
Beyond politics lay independent cities like Deep Blue and Lione— which weren't under the rules of any nation.
Beyond even these, past the impassable Turnovest range, stood the Elven Kingdom, shielded not by armies but by the very bones of the world. They weren't strong when it came to war, but their natural shield of the unforgiving Mountain Range and enormous amounts of precious metals kept their relationship with every nation amicable.
And then—there was the last boy.
White-haired, pale skinned.
Luka Jones.
The only name she didn't recognize of the group.
Who is he and why is he the leader of a group of nobles? Nobles are notorious for their pride so they wouldn't follow someone unknown.
It made her incredibly unsettled.
Professor Abraham resumed speaking.
"You may already know some of this, but I'll review it regardless. There are four elemental magics: Fire, Frost, Thunder, Earth. And then there are the Arcane Arts—taught in specialized departments."
"The ranks of a mage," he continued, writing on the blackboard in swift, elegant strokes, "are as follows:"
1. Debutant2. Apprentice
3. Adept
4. Mage
"Following this is the 'Calling Stage,' where you are given a title by the True Force based on your magical expression. It has three sub-levels. For instance—my title is Stormborne, as a Thunder Mage in the second Calling stage."
The class murmured quietly.
"Your title is not chosen. It is received—gifted by the True Force itself during your Ritual of Advancement. If you succeed, it reveals your path. If you fail…" he paused, tone darkening slightly, "...the Force recedes. You remain where you are—or worse."
A silence fell. Even the sunlight through the windows seemed to hesitate.
"There are risks," he added, eyes scanning the room. "Diseases such as Force Overflow or Force Deficiency. Side effects of failure. The price of ambition. So, always know your limits. A Weak Mage is better than a dead one."
Then, with a lighter tone, he concluded,
"Next class, Mrs. Crysis will oversee your Practical session. You'll have your magical affinity measured. That will determine your primary study path—but all students will learn beginner spells in each art, regardless."
The rest of the period passed with logistical notes—equipment lists, spellbooks, required materials.
When the bell rang, the trio of Withney, Cynthia, and Elise gathered their belongings, ready for their next class.
On the way to the training grounds, they bumped into Maylyn, heading in the opposite direction.
"Hey girls! Going to the grounds?" she asked, bright as ever.
"Yep. Practical's next. You're going to Theory?"
"Just came up on my schedule. How was the teacher?"
"Mr. Abraham's pretty cool," Cynthia said.
"Calm. Knows what he's talking about. Nothing weird... yet."
"Hah. Good to know. I'll see you at lunch then?"
"Yeah, sure—bye, Maylyn!" the three said in perfect unison.
They blinked at each other, then burst into laughter.
Maylyn grinned, waving as she disappeared into the building.
As the girls made their way toward the open fields of the training grounds, the air grew sharper. Laughing and Joking about their recent predicament.