The news traveled faster than any messenger. No herald had to shout it in the courtyards, nor did a scribe need to write it in the day's records. A glance from a maid, a tense expression on the face of a guard captain, an overly loud slamming door, a carriage departing without escort—that was enough.
Dyan was gone.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the news had already blossomed and mutated like a weed in every corner of the palace.
In the kitchens, the cauldrons bubbled less vigorously. One of the cooks, flour still on her cheeks, approached the stove, murmuring:
"They say it was the queen who cast him out... that she didn't even give him a farewell kiss."
"No, no," another replied, kneading bread. "It was he who left, tired of waiting. He asked her to choose him, and she... just looked at him. Looked at him as if he were just another servant."
A third, younger one, trembled upon hearing it:
"But... she loved him, didn't she?"
"That's not something you ask in the palace, child. Here, love is a luxury, like sweet wine."
In the corridors, the guards exchanged shifts without talking much. But between rounds, one would break the silence:
"I saw Dyan leave through the east gate. He didn't look back. As if leaving was the only way to stay whole."
"I saw the queen afterward... she was still in her study. She hasn't come out. She hasn't asked for food, or a bath, or company. As if she were made of stone."
"Or guilt," added one, in a softer voice.
The maids of the north wing, those who used to arrange the queen's dresses or clean her jewel boxes, were already weaving new versions of the story. One claimed she had seen Dyan kneel, begging for something, and that Eleanor simply turned away. Another said they argued, that voices were heard, though everyone knew that an angry queen screamed. Her fury was always fiery, though her wrath was sometimes silent... and therefore more frightening.
"What if she's pregnant?" whispered a maid, almost with morbid excitement.
"Do you think so? And she sent the father away?"
"I don't know... but what if she didn't send him away? What if he left just when she needed him most?"
In the gardens, the gardeners pretended to prune while muttering. Some thought it was divine punishment, that love should not flourish among the stones of power. Others believed that the queen, in her still intact youth, was becoming more and more like her mother. A woman who had loved... and who had also lost.
By late afternoon, the rumor was no longer news. It was a legend.
Some said Dyan had left weeping, that he left a letter sealed with his blood. Others, that he rode off on a black horse, without a word. That he only said goodbye to Silvania, or perhaps to the sky. That he looked at the palace towers one last time and knew he would never return.
And the saddest part: that she, the queen, stayed all day in her study, seeing no one, speaking no words, shedding no tears. Her back straight, as if she still wore the crown, though no one could see it.
But though she appeared intact, she was truly broken. And everyone knew it. Though they couldn't point it out. Though they couldn't name it without fear.
Because the palace, more than a place, is a body. And when the heart breaks, everyone feels the echo.
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The rumor, like a whisper made of smoke, had crossed courtyards, cities, and towers. It reached Scabia, slipped through the enchanted walls of living stone, ascended stairs that would not be trodden without permission, and finally climbed to the Tower of Magic.
Finia was not immune to rumors, but this one needed no confirmation. She felt it as soon as she read the way the stars were aligned that night. As if a cycle was closing.
She entered without knocking. No one would have stopped her, but she didn't care anyway.
Dyan was leaning over the white wooden desk he liked so much. The same usual calm, the same neat handwriting, the same concentration. He was writing letters, with the dense, dark ink he only used for important matters. He didn't flinch when she entered.
"They say..." Finia began, without greeting him, "that you were expelled from the palace. That they didn't even let you walk out."
Dyan didn't look up.
"Don't believe everything the walls say."
She clenched her teeth. She walked up to him with steps that had no magic, but plenty of anger.
"This cannot stand. They have insulted the Archmage of Scabia. The Tower cannot permit such an affront. It is a disrespect to the institution, to history, to your name."
"They haven't insulted the Archmage," he replied, finally raising his gaze. "Because I am no longer the Archmage. You are."
Finia fell silent. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire study paused. Even the candles stopped flickering.
"Already?" she whispered.
"Everything is prepared. The letters are signed. The Council awaits you at dawn. They already know. They always knew."
"I don't want... not like this. Not this way. Not with your name stained. Not when it looks like you're leaving defeated."
Dyan offered a small, tired smile.
"I am not defeated, Finia. I am... finished. There's a difference. My time is done. It's your turn now. Don't let sadness cloud what you've gained with your own talent."
He rose slowly. His body no longer responded as it once did, though his mind remained as sharp as an obsidian dagger.
From the corner of the room, he picked up his staff. Tall, elegant, topped with a dark blue mana stone like a moonless sky. It was ancient, even by Scabia's standards. A symbol as much as an artifact of power.
"This..." he said, placing it in her hands, "is not just an instrument. It's a living memory. It has passed from hand to hand for a thousand years. From the first Archmage, when the Tower was still a promise. Now it is yours."
Finia held it with both hands. The weight was strange, more emotional than physical. As if all of history pressed down on her shoulders.
"I have left three letters," Dyan added. "One for Silvania, one for Eleanor... and one for you. Deliver the first two after I've gone. You cannot open yours until you turn twenty-eight. Not before."
She wanted to ask why that age. But she didn't. She knew the answer was in the letter.
"One last piece of advice," Dyan added, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Strive, but with prudence. Learn from the other mages, because one never stops learning. And don't let them underestimate you for your youth. I love you very much, my young apprentice."
Then they embraced. Long, tight, sincere. She closed her eyes and let a single tear escape down her cheek, though she wasn't prone to crying.
She wanted to tell him she loved him like a father. That he had been more than a master, that his laughter and his silences had shaped her more than any spellbook. But she didn't dare. Not aloud. Not when he seemed so at peace with leaving.
And she regretted, silently, two things:
That she hadn't been able to tell him.
And that his departure happened in the middle of the night, amidst ominous rumors and closed doors, when Dyan's legacy deserved a celebration.
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The silence of the Tower of Scabia was not like that of other places. It was dense, almost physical. As if the stones themselves contained centuries of thoughts and memories. There was no wind that night, no visible stars; only an overcast sky, profoundly dark, as if the whole world held its breath.
Finia, still in her ceremonial robe, stood alone on the highest overlook, the one facing the old road that descended towards the hills of Salther and beyond, to the world.
From there, she saw him.
Dyan Halvest.
He wore no robe. He carried no staff.
Only a common wooden walking stick and a travel cloak that said nothing about what he had been. The symbol of the Archmage was no longer on his back. Nor in his steps. Only in the memory of those who had known him. And that—Finia understood then—would also fade with time.
He didn't look back.
His steps were firm, though slow. He no longer had disciples following him, nor crowds awaiting him. Only the earth beneath his feet and the cold of the night embracing him like a stranger.
Finia pressed her fingers against the stone of the balcony.
"This is how the great ones leave..." she whispered. "Not with applause, but with shadow."
She felt the weight of the Archmages' staff leaning beside her. It was no longer his. Now it was hers. And though she didn't fully understand it yet, she sensed that the staff was more than power: it was a test. A witness. A silent promise.
Dyan disappeared among the trees on the path like a figure merging with myth. Like a comet falling silently.
And Finia felt her insides tremble. Not just because of the departure, but because of the way it happened: without justice, without ceremony, without the gratitude he deserved.
She wanted to run after him, to shout his name. To tell him yes, that she loved him like a father. That he shouldn't leave like this, just like that.
But she didn't.
Because now she was the Archmage.
And Archmages don't cry from balconies.
They only silently guard what remains unsaid.
She lowered her gaze and allowed herself a single gesture of weakness: she placed her forehead against the cold marble, as if the stone could absorb her sorrow.
"Forgive me..." she said, barely audible, "for letting you go like this."
Then, from deep within the Tower, a subtle sound: the astral clock struck midnight.
The old Archmage's time had ended.
And hers had just begun.