In the depths of the Dormancy Tower within Asteral High Academy, where light only arrives after being filtered through the eyes of kings, Eleutherios sat alone, bearing within his chest a silence unlike any other. On his desk, carved from ancient Filmora wood, quills made from the feathers of a bird whose name was never spoken moved on their own, recording and inscribing in a language taught only on the third floor of the academy.
The air here was not air—but memory. And the place itself felt what was being planned.
Eleutherios opened a black box made of meteorite stone. Inside, a seal pulsed with a faint green glow. He gazed at it for a long while, as though asking it an unspoken question.
Then he heard the footsteps.
Lorian, his deputy, entered in his light gray robe, his eyes resembling the drifting ash left behind by a noble fire.
"Did you summon me, my lord?"
Eleutherios nodded without looking at him. He said:
"Yes. The time for invitations has come."
Lorian halted, his brows rising like questions too afraid to be asked.
"Invitations? Don't tell me you're thinking of..."
Eleutherios interrupted him quietly:
"Nothing more than a new training cycle. The academy, as always, opens its gates to the children of the Fourteen Continents. As it does every ten years."
Lorian chuckled, but the laugh was hollow. "And do ten years alone ignite the ritual circles? Does the seal in your chest tremble every decade by chance?"
Eleutherios didn't answer. He merely raised his hand, and seven misty figures appeared around him—each shaped like a commander. These were not mere kings, but Bearers of Seals, leaders of armies, high advisors from distant courts.
He spoke in a voice as soft as dust:
"In five years, send us your children. As is the custom. To be raised together, to learn neutrality, understanding, unity."
One of the figures spoke, his voice distant:
"But it is not the academy's custom to send messages through phantoms. And so early?"
Eleutherios replied:
"Sometimes, the earth must remind the sky that we are still here."
Then he added, in a voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking to himself:
"We do not recruit. We observe."
Lorian stepped closer and whispered:
"You mean the sword?"
The headmaster replied without moving his lips:
"It is there. Waiting. It hasn't pulsed in nearly a century."
"Do you think it will choose someone?"
"No... but it will feel them, if they come near."
Suddenly, one of the floating flames in the tower extinguished, as if light itself had grown afraid of something not yet born.
Eleutherios raised his eyes and murmured:
"When the circle opens again... light shall be tested, just as shadow will. Do not tell them. Let them come willingly. We are the academy. We are the neutral ones... until we are forced."
Silence reigned. Not the silence of agreement, nor of hesitation... but the silence that comes before a fracture.
Eleutherios turned his back, his robe whispering beneath his feet like the bending of time, then stepped toward the rear wall—where there was neither door nor carving, only pure black stone, once broken from the heart of a star.
He raised the hand that bore the seal—not to touch the stone, but to make it remember.
The wall opened as if it were breathing, revealing behind it a narrow passage, descending downward, paved with ancient sweat left by the original founders.
Lorian didn't turn, but he muttered:
"To the Beacon Hall, then..."
Eleutherios whispered without replying, his voice blending with the stone:
"It is time for her to see."
---
He descended the stairs alone.
With every step he took, the stair behind him went dark. Not as one fearing pursuit, but as one unwilling for the past to look back.
The air here was different. Not heavy, not suffocating... but charged. As if every step released a memory imprisoned in the void.
When he reached the bottom, a circular door opened before him—leading to the ancient Beacon Hall.
A single door, with no keys, no locks, yet it only opened to one whose heart had known both doubt and faith.
---
The hall was vast—measured not in meters, but in ages.
On its ceiling, a starless celestial map spun. At its center stood a platform of black glass, beneath which burned a fire that had not been lit in ninety years.
But now, it blazed.
Eleutherios stepped onto the platform, raised his hands, and began to chant.
The words were incomprehensible, like a song whose language had died—but whose meaning still groaned within the stones.
Around the edges of the hall, seven gray obelisks rose. They had slumbered—but now, they awoke.
They began to glow—not with light, but with something akin to intent.
Eleutherios spoke:
"This is where the trials begin. No proclamation. No prophecy yet."
He approached a wall marked with a half-erased sigil, laid his hand upon it.
A box emerged, covered in layers of magical dust. He opened it, and for a brief moment, the room was lit by something not seen—but present.
Inside was an ancient map of the world, beside it a book bound in dark leather, engraved with the name of the First Founder:
Ivarios, the Mage-Knight.
He pulled the book out and placed it before the fire, then said quietly:
"It is time for the words to rise again. Let the final generation begin."
And he sat.
And for the first time in decades... he opened the first page.
---
The Ancient Beacon Hall – Before Sunset
He opened the first page, and particles of gray light fluttered forth. It wasn't light—but residue. As if someone had written these words thousands of years ago, then buried them in a time no longer believed to return.
The words weren't inked—but woven from threads of soul. And as he read them, he did not read aloud, but through an inner echo only audible to those who bore the seal:
"To the one who reads me after the sword's silence,
Know that what was forgotten has not died.
That neutrality is not a shield—but a balance.
And that light… is not always innocent."
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye—not from sorrow, but from a knowledge long suppressed.
He turned the page.
"On the day the Beacon's flame trembles without wind,
In the hour one of the Tower's tongues extinguishes without cause,
Know that the Gate has stirred…
And that the sword, sealed within the heart of the Inverted Valley,
Has begun to listen."
Then he heard a voice within, like an ancient whisper:
"He shall be born from the darkness, bearing no name—but a seal.
But he will not save the light… he will judge it."
Eleutherios slowly closed the book and stood.
---
Light crept through the stained windows of the Beacon Hall like remorse, refracting against glass etched with ancient symbols, casting shadows like spells across the tiled floor. At the center of the hall sat a round black table, carved from a stone found in the heart of a comet that fell thousands of years ago—never touched a sky, never melted in flame.
Eleutherios sat first, as had been the custom since the academy's founding. No one was invited to sit before him, and none dared sit after without a subtle nod from his hand.
Lorian followed, then came Fayora, Arsin, the Lord of Records, the Scribe Monk, and two elder knights who hid their faces behind helms adorned with dragon scale.
Words of greeting were unnecessary. Silence here was a language, presence a rite. To speak first was to reveal one's hand; to smile, to shed one's armor.
Moments passed where time itself seemed to hold its breath. Then Eleutherios spoke, his voice not heard from his throat—but felt in the bones of the neck:
"The messages have been sent. The rulers of the continents will receive them tonight. Some will see us as a threat. Others will suspect the timing… and the rest will see a glimmer of salvation."
Fayora whispered, her hand stroking a shawl woven from threads of blue dust:
"And what are we, Eleutherios? The threat… or the hope?"
He looked up toward the glass, where the sun had fractured into the shape of a closed eye.
"We are… the silence before the scream."
Glances were exchanged. This was not just about the heirs, but something older, deeper—something nearing the edge of prophecy.
Lorian spoke, seated beside a faceless statue:
"To announce the academy's reopening to the heirs of leaders and kings… without saying a word of the sealed sword, or… the Beacon's flame... is madness."
"Or wisdom," murmured the Scribe Monk, running his fingers over a scroll written not in ink—but in the memories of the dead.
Fayora leaned forward and said:
"And the prophecy? Will you conceal that too? You saw it, Eleutherios… the cracks in the continents, the burning wings, the hand gripping the sword—belonging neither to light nor to shadow."
Eleutherios closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if recalling something glimpsed in the silent mirror an hour ago. Then he said:
"Prophecy is betrayal. It tells all what should never be said—then falls silent at the truth."
One of the elder knights stood, his voice thunderous despite the helm:
"And if the sword chooses someone we do not want? Someone who does not belong to us?"
Lorian answered before the headmaster:
"So be it. Every generation chose one who defied expectation. But this time… this heir will either bear the throne—or burn it."
Another silence. Harsher than the one before.
Then Arsin spoke—who had been silent until now. He was the youngest among them, and the wisest.
"The academy has always been a balance, not a blade. If we choose one of the heirs ourselves, we shatter that balance and become a rival, not an arbiter."
Eleutherios smiled faintly, then said:
"We do not choose. We wait. Among these heirs, only one will pass through the Ring. Only one will gaze into the heart of the sword—and not break."
The Lord of Records, the old man who never left the Archive of Shadows unless necessary, murmured:
"The Ring has not been breached since the first millennium… whoever passes through it, their history is erased—and rewritten."
Eleutherios motioned gently to all:
"In five years, as always... they will begin to arrive. Children of the North Continents, sons and daughters of the Elves, heirs of rulers and leaders of other races in the East and West, even those whose names we do not yet know. They shall all enter… but only one will remain."
They exchanged looks. None of them knew who it would be.
At last, Eleutherios stood, looking toward the window where the sun had vanished, leaving behind only a blue fading into black. He said:
"Prepare the academy. Train them. Observe them for ten years—do not interfere... unless the walls begin to tremble."
And he left the hall.
The others remained in their places, as if waiting for the walls to stir first, before they could believe the next chapter had truly begun.