Even the cave ceiling
trembled, filling everything with dust. Though it was nighttime, and the
catacombs of Axbryn never saw sunlight, the ethereal fire bursting from within
the fallen demon’s colossal body flooded the chamber as if it were the sun
itself.
The belt that had held the skull for weeks now hung from Nero’s back, split in
two. His hair, dark blue like the ocean, clung to his forehead, soaked with
sweat. Nero, using two fingers like a wand, conjured a wind glyph to clear the
dust around him, so he wouldn’t be left blind.
—Hey! You still with me? —said Nero, trying to keep his voice calm, though he didn’t quite succeed.
Clouds of a sickly yellow hue began to gather above them. A magical storm, electrical and potentially devastating. Nero bit his lip with his fangs and conjured a power glyph around his waist, enhancing the strength of his legs and spine.
Varkuzhal was no longer the friendly demon Nero had once encountered. He had reverted to his primal self. And he was angry. The flames from Varkuzhal’s eyes spread through the skull’s interior, emerging from the sides of its jaw like a burning cloud.
Opening his grimoire with his left hand, Nero conjured a defensive glyph in the air between himself and Varkuzhal. Nero’s magic, unique, reacted just in time, forming a rippling wall above him just before the skull’s jaws slammed down. The demon laughed endlessly, his voice deep, heavy, and ancient.
—IT IS YOUR TIME, BOY! I SHALL DEVOUR YOUR FLESH AND SOUL, ABSORB YOUR MAGIC, AND RECLAIM THE POWER I ONCE HELD! —shouted Varkuzhal, never taking his eyes off Nero.
—This… this wasn’t supposed to happen… —Nero said.
The demon Varkuzhal’s red eyes flashed, reflecting the state of the sky. The magical energy from the thunderstorm was enough to recharge him, allowing Varkuzhal, for a moment, to return to his former glory.
The disembodied skull that was Varkuzhal shook itself free from Nero’s belt and rolled across the muddy ground, still laughing. Moments later, the skull had grown to over two meters in length. The horns, the flames, even the razor-sharp teeth, all became massive.
The body fused with the head, and the demon rose, whole once more. Magic flowed from the demon, and Nero pulled it toward himself, conjuring one protective glyph after another, every one he had recorded in his grimoire.
Varkuzhal’s fist, as large as a boulder, came crashing down on Nero, destroying one by one the defenses the boy had worked so hard to build.
The smell of sulfur intensified. Nero’s clothes caught fire.
And then, darkness came.
Few months BEFORE the encounter with Varkuzhal — Velmardia
The morning light poured in through the tall windows of Velmardia’s throne room. The sun was shining brightly, and the clouds hung distant, like shadows lurking on the edge of the world, too timid to come closer. The chamber was majestic, with tapestries hanging from the walls, depicting past queens of Velmardia and their noble knights. Behind the throne, an immense statue of the Goddess Velmar crowned the hall, a reminder to all who entered that Velmar always watched over her faithful.
It was completely empty, except for Lionel, who stood at attention even though he was alone in the vast hall. He did it out of habit and out of respect for the throne. He was the most beloved and decorated knight in the kingdom and yet had never taken the post of army general. He had turned down that honor many times, for he loved being on the battlefield, alongside the men and women who risked their lives each day to defend Velmardia’s borders.
—Ever the gallant one —came the voice of a woman from the doorway.
Lionel turned and knelt on one knee, for he recognized the voice. It was Queen Matelda. At her right stood a young herald, no more than eleven years old, who took a deep breath and unfurled a scroll before him, held between two golden rods.
—Her Majesty, Queen Matelda of Velmardia! First of her name, Blessed by the Goddess, queen of the Three Plateaus, of the free men, of the angelic hosts, incarnation of t…! —the boy shouted at full volume.
—That’s enough, Abel. You only need to announce me when there’s a crowd, not when I’m with friends —said Queen Matelda, calmly.
—Ah, sorry, your majest… Matel… I mean, Your Majesty! —said Abel, flustered and stumbling over his words.
—I’m giving you the rest of the morning off, Abel. Come back after lunch —said the queen.
—Really? —the boy’s eyes lit up— Thank you, Your Majesty!
—Call me Matelda. My friends can call me that —she said with a smile.
—Yes, Your Maje… I mean, Matelda! —the boy said, before running off without bowing and turning his back. Halfway down the corridor, realizing his mistake, he turned around and began bowing repeatedly, deeply apologetic.
Matelda walked along the carpet that led from the entrance to the throne. Her steps were short and silent. Lionel remained kneeling until the queen sat on the throne, and even then, he didn’t raise his head to look at her.
—Oh, seriously? —said Queen Matelda.
—Indeed, Your Majesty —Lionel replied, grinning from ear to ear.
—You do it on purpose, don’t you? —said Queen Matelda.
—I am bound by my vows, Your Majesty —said Lionel, still smiling.
—Fine. Stand, Sir Lionel —said the queen, rolling her eyes.
Lionel rose, standing at attention once more, clasping his hands behind his back and positioning himself in front of the queen without stepping on the carpet. Unlike the boy, he followed protocol to the letter.
—Is this really necessary, Lionel? We grew up together. You’re my best friend, practically, my family. We’re nearly the same age, for the Goddess’ sake —said Queen Matelda.
—Technically, I’m older than Her Majesty —said Lionel, shoulders still squared.
—And we’re alone. Can’t you stop being so… knightly, just for a moment? —she said, resting her elbow on the throne and her chin on her hand, toying with her hair.
—Is that an order, Your Majesty? —said Lionel, raising an eyebrow.
—Lionel! —she shouted, amused.
—Okay, okay, I’m sorry! —Lionel’s stance shifted, placing his hands on his hips— What did you call me for, shorty?
Queen Matelda narrowed her eyes and raised a finger toward Lionel. Light swirled around the tip, and a tiny projectile shot forth, striking the knight’s shoulder and throwing him off balance.
—Don’t push it. I’m still your queen —she said, smiling.
—My apologies, Queen Matelda of Velmardia, First of Her Name, Blessed by the Goddess, Queen of the Three Plateaus, and many more things —Lionel said with an exaggerated bow.
—Anyway —she said, rising and walking to one of the windows—. Have you been to the outer walls lately, Lionel?
Lionel didn’t answer. He knew the queen well and recognized when she was about to lay out a situation with a lengthy explanation, so he kept silent and listened. The queen sighed and extended her hands toward the open air, as if tempted to leap out.
—I had a dream, Lionel. I saw Velmardia in flames. The armies of Sylthmir and Praxoris, led by the immortal kings themselves, Valgott and Ramoja, united in an unprecedented alliance, were laying waste to our land. And… even though I awoke in my chambers, with the midmorning stillness and the breeze brushing my face, I knew, somehow, it was a premonition. And it frightens me.
The queen turned to him, wearing the solemn look she always put on when she needed to ask for something difficult.
—I need a hero —she said, simply.
—I’ll command the troops if needed, Your Majesty, but don’t ask me to leave the front. I wouldn’t want to disobey a royal order —Lionel said, troubled.
—No. I need you out there, in the front lines. There’s going to be a war, Lionel. The greatest this world has ever seen. And I fear it’s up to us to fight it. I’ve already requested… reinforcements —the queen said, motioning with a slight lift of her chin over Lionel’s shoulder.
Seated on the steps before the throne, a dark-skinned man with golden eyes, clad in silver armor trimmed with gold, waited with his hands clasped. Above his head floated a radiant, circular halo made of light.
—An archangel —said Lionel, astonished.
Angels were messengers of the Goddess Velmar, her main force of intervention and the only known way she could interact with the people of Axbryn, according to the sacred scriptures.
—Hutriel, to be exact. And you must be Lionel. I’ve heard of you —said the archangel. His voice rumbled like thunder from the darkest storms.
—You’ve heard of me? —said Lionel.
—Of course. You’re the knight of the Setting Sun, aren’t you? —said the archangel.
—Yes. The Sun is my family’s glyph —said Lionel.
—Exactly. And you are known for it —said the archangel. His gaze was cold, though his eyes held the warmest hue imaginable.
—I’ve requested Hutriel’s help for this mission, Lionel. In my dream, I held a beautiful flower that does not grow in Velmardia, a flower that allowed me to attune myself with the Goddess Velmar and wield her power. It’s called “ambrosia.” You must find it and bring it to me, Lionel —said Queen Matelda.
—Where should I start looking? —said Lionel.
—That is why I was summoned here. The Goddess Velmar herself planted the first ambrosia flower, and in any place she’s been, her light remains. So, we must go to Castle Ravidra, where, with luck, we might find one of these flowers still alive —said the archangel.
—But Ravidra is not in Velmardia. How far must we travel to reach it? —said Lionel.
—It’s a week’s ride under open skies, or an uncertain amount of time if we go on foot through the catacombs —said the archangel.
—Through which biome? —asked Lionel.
—Fumaroles of Infernal Bloodlava —said Queen Matelda.
Lionel nodded solemnly. It was one of the most dangerous biomes in the catacombs: a burning trap from which almost no one emerged alive. But venturing under open skies alongside an archangel was far more dangerous.
—How many soldiers do you command, knight of the Setting Sun? —asked the archangel.
—None that I would lead to a certain death —said Lionel.
—Then have we failed before our quest has even begun? —asked the archangel.
—No. I won’t bring soldiers on a mission like this. To succeed, I don’t need soldiers. I need friends —said Lionel—. And I know just people who’ll be thrilled by the idea of a journey through the catacombs.
—Then it is decided. We depart at dawn —said the archangel—. Your Majesty.
The archangel leapt through one of the tall windows, spread his wings, and dove away from them.
—He’s impressive —said Queen Matelda.
—He is. And he commands great respect —said Lionel.
—Do you agree with this mission, Lionel? —said Queen Matelda.
—I do. This is why we Velmardians join the army: to keep our people safe —said Lionel.
—Is there anything you want? For accepting this mission, I’ll give you whatever you desire, my friend —said Queen Matelda.
—Another sunset. That’s all I ask: to live to see another one —said Lionel.
Few months BEFORE the encounter with Varkuzhal — Sylthmir
It rained over the Raven’s Order Academy. It wasn’t a natural storm, but a magical one. The sky was dark and overcast, as always, but there, in that specific spot of Sylthmir, the storm never ceased. Purple lightning streaked across the sky like serpents hunting for something to devour. The wind howled, and the three-eyed ravens cawed, heralding imminent death, or, at the very least, inevitable misfortune.
But under the spells of the academy’s headmaster, the sky was normal. Cloudy, but free from storm, silent and still. False.
Professor Morgana stood before her window and raised her wand. She hated the still sky. She loved the storm: seeing death and hatred converge in nature to perform a miracle of destruction, one that, for no apparent reason, kept the world in perfect harmony.
—It’s abhorrent, don’t you think? —said a creepy voice behind her.
Professor Morgana ignored the voice. With a flick of her wrist, the sky outside her window changed. Lightning cast eerie shadows across her room, drawing a faint smile from her. The thunder and the rain against the glass, both were physical signs of change, of the end of what could not be moved.
—Much better —the voice behind her said again.
Using a small mirror, Morgana glanced over her shoulder. It was a demon. She knew him well, both his name and his powers. But she didn’t say it. She never did.
She wouldn’t give him that pleasure.
—What do you want now? —said Professor Morgana— I’m busy.
—I want nothing. But tell me: what do you desire? —said the demon, conjuring a book into the air before him. The demon unfurled enormous raven wings and hid his beak behind the tome. On its cover, a circular, sinister-looking gem began to glow.
Desire. Another word Professor Morgana refused to even think about. Demons always offered what you craved most… in exchange for something horrific. And she wasn’t willing to trade anything. Everything she wanted, she took, without permission, without apology. And, certainly, without help.
—You cannot give me what I want. Don’t bother me —said Professor Morgana.
—Of course I can. All
you have to do is ask —said the demon, spreading his wings even wider.
The lights in the room flickered and went out. Professor Morgana cursed
silently. She shouldn’t have started the conversation. She had thought of him, and
of his name. That had been enough to grant him power, even if only a little.
Quickly, she placed the tip of her wand, a faceted purple amethyst, against the mirror, right where the demon was reflected. If she turned around, even for the briefest instant, he would change position and leap onto her back. But she wasn’t a professor of glyphology by chance.
Without breaking eye contact with the demon, she traced a magic circle onto the mirror with her wand, while her other hand, hidden from the demon’s view, conjured the true glyph that would bind him: a rune of motionless freeze. She had learned it during her travels through the Tar Swamp, while studying the petrification magic used by gorgons to trap the foolish who entered their territory.
When she was ready, she channeled magic through the wand and turned around, putting the mirror to her back. It was a calculated misstep, a meticulously executed move meant to give the illusion of vulnerability the demon was waiting for.
The demon howled and lunged into the mirror, emerging in a burst. But the trap had already been sprung, and the glyph from Morgana’s hidden hand froze him mid-air, petrifying him rapidly. When only the demon’s head remained unfrozen, Professor Morgana closed her fist, locking the glyph within.
—You’re the best
warlock I’ve ever met, Morgana. And that’s saying something —said another
voice. This one was much darker than the voice of the demon. She lowered her
wand, for as much as she wished otherwise, this was not an enemy she could face
with ordinary magic.
To defeat him, if she ever dared to try, she would need to be as
creative as she had been in the past.
—My lord Valgott, your divine majesty and malevolence, your presence is a gift —said Morgana, without moving.
The demon, upon hearing the name of the Immortal King of Sylthmir, began to tremble.
On the other side of the window stood King Valgott, wearing his tattered robe, his hands marked with open wounds, and accompanied by his demonic jester, a greenish creature he often toyed with, forever trapped by Valgott’s magical power.
—How are the preparations going, Morgana? Have you found him yet? —asked King Valgott. He floated effortlessly, rain soaking him, his long silver hair sticking to his body.
—The students’ graduation is in two days, my lord. And with it, we’ll finally discover who the prodigious student mentioned in the letter truly is —said Professor Morgana.
—Have you discovered who sent it? —asked King Valgott. His face showed no expression, save for a slight, amiable smirk.
—No. Neither the headmaster nor the other professors know anything. But there’s no doubt: I checked the records, and the message was sent from here, using a very complex kind of magic, one I’ve been unable to replicate —said Professor Morgana.
—Complex runic magic, impossible to replicate. Unique glyphs are heritage from a family —said King Valgott, suddenly intrigued.
—Exactly. That’s what makes it undetectable. I’ve investigated the families, and none appear to possess that glyph. There are still many records left to examine, but now that graduation is approaching, I’ve allowed myself a brief pause. I want to have a little fun with the students —said Professor Morgana—. Some of them are quite… interesting.
King Valgott nodded slowly, repeatedly. Then, his right arm broke through the window, shattering the glass, and even the metal, into pieces. He grabbed Professor Morgana by the front of her robes and yanked her toward him.
The glass hadn’t simply shattered; the fragments were frozen in time and space. Morgana’s face passed through the shards, slicing her skin in countless places. But she couldn’t move. Valgott’s magic wouldn’t allow it.
—I didn’t bring you here to have fun, woman. I brought you here because I want answers, and I didn’t want to deal with it myself. Tell me: was it a mistake? Did I, an immortal, commit some petty error? —said King Valgott. His arm was strong, but the glass had pierced him, and he was bleeding from multiple wounds, though he didn’t seem to notice.
Professor Morgana didn’t respond. If she opened her mouth, she risked the shards entering her throat, causing immense pain, or worse, death. So, she did what she did best: she stared straight back into the eyes of the most powerful warlock in all Sylthmir, without blinking. Not even a flicker of doubt crossed her heart.
Professor Morgana knew she was the best in her field, and that she was doing exactly what needed to be done.
After several agonizingly long seconds, King Valgott released her.
—Find the student, Morgana. I want to drain their magic and take their power. If you fail… the one I will drain will be you. I’ll be back soon —said Valgott, and vanished, dissolving into a cloud of purple smoke.
Morgana took a breath and cursed. The glass and iron frame of the window were back in place. There was no sign that King Valgott had ever been there.
She touched her face. No wounds, no scars: nothing. It had all been reversed, as if it had been no more than an illusion.
—You’re screwed —said the demon suddenly, letting out a laugh that sounded like a harsh, crow-like caw.
Morgana blew his head off with a flick of her wand. That wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt enough to keep him quiet for a few days.
She needed time to think, without distractions.
King Valgott had received a letter at the start of the scholar year, sealed with the sigil of the Raven’s Order Academy and containing a unique kind of magic. The letter spoke of a prodigious student, one so powerful that their magic might finally shatter the protective runes of the Goddess Velmar once and for all.
And if there was one thing King Valgott longed for more than crossing the Sea of Blood toward Kathora, the other continent of Yomidgard, a continent shrouded in complete mystery, it was to conquer Velmardia, one of the two kingdoms still outside his control.
So, Professor Morgana composed herself, cleaned up the mess caused by the demon’s exploded head, and left her chamber.
She had classes to teach.
