The Council at Ardanhall
In the cold southern wing of the Tower,
In the high chamber, four figures stood around a round stone table. A glowing crystal hovered at its center, pulsing dimly like it too was exhausted from the news it carried.
Two of the figures were old men — one tall and white-bearded in ceremonial robes and a pointed hat: Grand Magus Derkein, Head of the Tower. The other, slightly younger with a rougher look, wore a deep blue cloak lined with wolf fur. His name was Archmage Ryvell, a field veteran and master of battle spells.
Alongside them stood two younger mages — a sharp-featured man named Marcus, and a dark-haired woman in a long cloak: Valerie. She looked worn but composed, her eyes rimmed red.
Mana maps floated in the air before them, flickering with motion. Red lines marked the shifting warfront. They'd already redrawn it three times that morning.
Valerie leaned over the map. Her voice was calm, but cold.
"The Third Legion — Southern Front. Commander Alen Caelthorn led them. Last report had them pushing through Seryth Pass, just east of Velgath Ridge."
"Border territory," Ryvell muttered. "Too many claims. Eranor says it's theirs. Thaelbrin says the same. Neither ever holds it for long."
"They don't anymore," Valerie said. "It's gone."
Derkein narrowed his eyes. "Gone? What do you mean?"
"I inspected it myself," she said. "There are no bodies. No weapons. Just ash. The terrain itself is scorched. It wasn't a siege or ambush. A spell did this — and not a normal one."
Marcus frowned. "A spell? Even my strongest one — an Ultimate-class — couldn't erase an entire legion."
Ryvell crossed his arms. "She's right. I've seen high-tier magic, even ancient ones… but what we found there was something else. The mana residue was still heavy in the air — unstable, angry."
Derkein looked toward Valerie.
"What class of spell?"
Her voice lowered. "Above Ultimate."
The chamber fell silent.
Derkein's eyes darkened. "A spell beyond an Ultimate class would need vast mana. And total control. That level of magic isn't just rare — it's dangerous."
Ryvell muttered, "If such a spell exists… someone in this war has power we don't understand."
Marcus broke the silence. "Did Commander Caelthorn have any kin?"
Valerie nodded. "A wife. And a one-year-old son."
"They live in the outer forest of Lirren Vale," Derkein added. "Far from the capital. Off the grid."
Ryvell grunted. "Keep it quiet. No panic."
Derkein nodded. "Send two mages. Discreetly. Standard rites. Nothing official. No noise."
"And if anything unusual is found," Ryvell said, "we report directly to the Tower Head. No chain."
"What are we even looking for?" Marcus asked.
Derkein looked up from the floating map.
"Answers," he said grimly.
"Or the beginning of something far worse."
____
Chapter 1 — Ashes on the Wind
The knock came just after dawn.
Elira had already been awake, though she hadn't meant to be. The kettle had long since cooled. The fire was embers. Her son was still asleep, curled like a little cat in his cradle, his small hand twitching now and then in dream.
She wiped her palms on the edge of her apron and stood.
There it was again — three sharp raps, deliberate. Not the kind made by a neighbor or a wandering peddler.
She opened the door slowly.
Two figures stood outside.
They wore ash-grey cloaks, pinned with the black-stone crest of Ardanhall. Rain dripped steadily from their hoods, though the skies had cleared hours ago. One was tall, with a stiff jaw and sharper eyes. The other younger — eyes downcast, hands folded, not meeting her gaze.
Elira didn't say a word. She didn't have to.
"Elira Caelthorn?" the tall one asked, already knowing the answer.
She gave a single nod.
"We've come on behalf of the Tower of Ardanhall," he said, voice clipped, formal. "We regret to bring you news of your husband — Commander Alen Caelthorn."
Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't look away. She stood firm, one hand still on the doorframe.
"He was reported lost in the field during an operation near Seryth Pass, on the Velgath border," the mage continued. "His company—"
"Was wiped out," Elira finished for him.
She already knew. She had known the moment she saw them.
The younger mage shifted awkwardly, then stepped forward and extended a sealed letter. The wax bore the Tower's crest — neat, cold, impersonal.
"There were no recoverable remains," he said softly. "He is listed… presumed fallen in service."
Elira reached out and took the letter. Her hands were steady.
They didn't offer false comfort. Tower mages never did.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "That will be all."
The tall one hesitated, as if waiting for her to break. When she didn't, he nodded.
"If you require anything from the Tower," he said, "a request form is enclosed."
They turned without further word. Their cloaks swept over the damp grass as they made their way down the hill, horses tethered just beyond the low stone wall.
She closed the door gently.
Inside, the silence stretched. The kettle let out a tiny hiss as it cooled further. The baby stirred in his cradle and made a soft noise, like a breath caught in a dream.
Elira leaned against the door and slid slowly to the floor.
She did not cry. Not yet.
She unsealed the letter and read its stiff, stilted script — the kind used for all the dead.
No mention of how. No mention of why.
Just lost.
A word that could mean a thousand things.
But to her, it only meant one.
Her son whimpered. She rose slowly and went to him, lifting him into her arms. He nestled against her neck with a sleepy sigh.
She breathed in the smell of his hair, his warmth. Her arms wrapped around him tight — too tight.
"You'll never know him," she whispered.
"He never got to see you."
She stood there, holding her child in the pale morning light, listening to the wind outside brush across the shutters.
No fire burned. No birds sang.
And far to the east, over the blackened mountains and the shattered glass of Seryth Pass, the ashes of war still fell with the hush of falling snow.