Chapter 6 A war?

The stern woman, who introduced herself as Proctor Valeria, led Aelric through a labyrinth of silent, soaring corridors. The sounds of the courtyard faded, replaced by the whisper of their footsteps on polished stone and the distant, resonant hum of powerful enchantments. They passed libraries whose doors revealed shelves that stretched up into dizzying darkness, and courtyards where floating crystals pulsed with captured light. The scale of the place was meant to intimidate, and it was working.

Proctor Valeria stopped before a pair of immense, unadorned doors made of a wood so dark it seemed to drink the light from the sconces on the walls. She did not knock. Instead, she placed her palm flat against the wood. A complex pattern of silver runes flared around her hand, and the doors swung inward without a sound.

“The Headmaster will see you now,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space beyond. She did not enter, merely gestured for him to proceed.

Aelric stepped across the threshold, and the doors sealed shut behind him, the click of the lock final and unnaturally loud.

He stood in Headmaster Theron’s sanctum. It was not an office, but a circular chamber that felt more like the inside of a great, celestial instrument. The domed ceiling was a mosaic of the night sky, the constellations crafted from gems and precious metals that glowed with their own soft light. The walls were lined not with books, but with floating, spinning orbs of crystal and metal, each humming a different, quiet note, creating a complex, harmonic background drone. In the center of the room, a wide pool of perfectly still water reflected the starry ceiling above.

And behind the pool, at a desk that seemed to be carved from a single, massive piece of obsidian, sat Headmaster Theron.

He was an ancient man, his face a web of fine lines, his hair and long beard a shock of pure white. But his eyes, a piercing, vivid amethyst, held a youthful, unnerving acuity. He was dressed in simple grey robes, a stark contrast to the room’s grandeur.

“Prince Aelric Vaelthorn,” the Headmaster said, his voice a dry rustle, like pages turning in an ancient tome. It was soft, yet it filled the entire chamber. “Please, come closer. Do not be afraid of the Pool of Reflection. It shows only truth, and you have nothing to hide from me.”

The statement felt less like reassurance and more like a challenge. Aelric walked forward, his boots making no sound on the deep, midnight-blue carpet. He stopped at the edge of the pool, the still water showing a perfect, inverted image of the starry dome—and of himself, a small, pale figure in a sea of blue.

“You requested my presence, Headmaster?” Aelric said, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“I did.” Theron steepled his fingers, his amethyst eyes boring into Aelric. “The official report cites a traumatic fall, resulting in memory loss. A tidy explanation. The world loves tidy explanations.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “I, however, prefer the messy, complicated truth. And the truth, young prince, is that the boy who fell down those stairs… died.”

Aelric’s blood turned to ice. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“His soul departed,” Theron continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “It was a tragic, but simple, passing. And then, something extraordinary happened. Another soul, a soul not of this world, violently displaced from its own vessel, was drawn into the vacancy. A soul brimming with the grief and resolve of a life cut short. Your soul, Riven Hale.”

The use of his real name was a physical blow. Aelric stumbled back a step, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. “How… how can you know that?”

A faint smile touched Theron’s lips. “This Academy sits on the world’s strongest confluence of ley lines. I am the guardian of that confluence. I feel the tides of magic, of life and death, that flow through this land. The death of a royal heir creates a ripple. The arrival of a new soul, especially one from… elsewhere… creates a tidal wave. I felt you arrive. A scream in the silent fabric of reality.”

He stood, walking around the desk to stand opposite Aelric, the Pool of Reflection between them. “You are not the first, you know. Throughout history, there have been… echoes. Souls from other realities finding purchase here. Most fade, unable to reconcile the dissonance. Some go mad. A rare few… adapt. They thrive.”

Aelric’s mind was reeling. He wasn’t alone. The concept was both terrifying and profoundly comforting. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are the rarest of them all,” Theron said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You did not arrive in a random vessel. You arrived in a body whose inherent magical affinity is Shadow—a power of negation, of entropy, of the void between stars. A power that has not been seen in a pure form in a thousand years. And you, Riven, carry the trauma of a death by absolute light, by nuclear fire. The contradiction is… exquisite.”

He gestured to the pool. “Look.”

Reluctantly, Aelric looked down into the water. His reflection stared back. But as he watched, the image began to change. The silver-haired prince wavered, and for a fleeting, horrifying second, he saw his own face—Riven’s face, streaked with blood and dust, eyes wide with terror. Then, a shadow bloomed in the water around the reflection, a darkness so deep it was like a hole in the world. And within that darkness, two points of cold, blue light ignited, like the eyes of a predator.

He gasped, wrenching his gaze away. “What was that?”

“That is your potential,” Theron said, his amethyst eyes gleaming. “That is the fusion of Aelric Vaelthorn’s birthright and Riven Hale’s will to survive. The Healer and the Void. The Academy is not just a school for you, boy. It is your sanctuary and your proving ground. The political machinations of the princes, the expectations of your family… they are nothing compared to the war you will face within yourself.”

“A war?” Aelric whispered, the word tasting like ash.

“Light magic creates, fire magic consumes, water magic flows, ice magic preserves. Shadow magic… unmakes. It is the counterpoint to all existence. It is why you were born to healers—a cosmic joke, or perhaps a desperate attempt at balance. You must learn control, or the shadow will consume you, and then it will begin to consume everything around you.” Theron’s gaze was relentless. “Your ‘amnesia’ provides the perfect cover. You can relearn everything, rebuild your identity from the ground up, while you learn to master this power in secret.”

He returned to his desk and picked up a small, black crystal on a silver chain. “This is a Shadow-Binding Crystal. It is inert for any other mage. For you, it will be a focus. A anchor. When the darkness threatens to rise, when your emotions run high, it will help you cage it. Take it.”

Aelric reached out with a trembling hand and took the crystal. The moment his fingers touched it, he felt a jolt. The cold, humming void within him, the sleeping serpent of his magic, stirred. The crystal grew warm in his palm, and the darkness at its core seemed to swirl, alive.

“Your official curriculum will be adjusted,” Theron said, sitting once more. “You will have private tutoring with me, twice a week, in this chamber. We will begin the work of understanding what you are. No one else is to know of this. Not your family. Not your sister. And certainly not the other princes. Their interest in you is a variable I cannot predict. Their own magics are potent, and their reaction to the truth could be… volatile.”

Aelric clutched the crystal, the weight of it feeling like a collar. He was a secret. A weapon in the making. A problem to be managed.

“Why help me?” Aelric asked, his voice raw. “If I’m so dangerous, why not just… lock me away?”

Theron’s ancient face was unreadable. “Because the world is not as stable as it appears. The old alliances are fracturing. A new power stirs in the Ashen Wastes, one that smells of a different kind of shadow. A corrupted, hungry shadow. A natural counter to such a force is not more light, but a purer darkness. You may be our salvation, Aelric Vaelthorn. Or you may be our doom. My duty is to ensure it is the former.”

He waved a hand, and the doors behind Aelric swung open once more. “Proctor Valeria will see you to your first lesson. History of Magical Diplomacy. Try to pay attention. The past often holds the key to future conflicts.”

Dismissed, Aelric walked back into the corridor on unsteady legs. The Proctor was waiting, her face as impassive as ever. The black crystal was hidden beneath his tunic, a cold, secret weight against his chest.

The world had shifted yet again. He wasn't just a reincarnated soul in a strange land. He was a strategic asset, a potential weapon, a key in a lock no one had yet fully described. The glances from Solian, the calm support from Lyren, the icy watchfulness of Eryndor, and the fierce, protective vow from Kael—all of it was now cast in a new, ominous light.

They were drawn to him, but did they sense the shadow within? Were they allies, or were they potential chains? As he followed the Proctor towards his classroom, the harmonious hum of the Academy’s magic felt like a lie. Beneath it, he could now hear a dissonant chord, a silent, screaming note that was his, and his alone.

The lesson had already begun. Not in a classroom, but in the depths of his own soul. And the first lesson was this: trust no one.