It began with silence—the kind that presses against your ribs like a vice, not absence of sound, but a stillness too deliberate to be natural.
From my perch in the smithing wing's high tower, I could see the first movements before the rest of the palace caught wind. Shadowcloaked formations of imperial soldiers funneled toward the Academy gates, their pace measured, their armor glinting with warding sigils that drank the sun. Smoke from the forges clung to the palace eaves as if afraid of what was to come.
I'd known something was stirring.
Two nights ago, while mending a cracked vambrace in the southern halls, I passed an open door—one that should've been sealed—and heard Thane's voice through the torchlit sliver. "...a formal audience with the Emperor. The League's envoy arrives soon. Keep the illusion tight. They suspect nothing. Yet."
The League of Mages. A storm behind a diplomatic mask. If they were on the move, the game was no longer subtle.
But the Academy was no longer a game. It was a target.
I gripped the stone sill now, watching as the first volley erupted.
The Academy gates—ancient oak overlaid with iron veins enchanted during the Founding—shuddered under the initial impact of Xaldron's siegecraft. Purple fire coiled around their hinges, eating through sigils designed by wiser, older minds. From within, the defenses bloomed in turn.
A barrier of golden light pulsed outward, forming a dome over the main courtyard. I saw students—robes fluttering, staffs aglow—raising their hands in unison. Elemental surges streaked the air: fire, wind, crystal, lightning. Professors in ceremonial robes stepped forward, summoning runes with gestures honed over lifetimes. One conjured a massive serpent of skyglass and thunder, which arced over the battlements and smashed into the front line of the invaders.
It didn't matter. Not in the end.
Xaldron hadn't come unprepared.
Behind his shock troops came the Black Arbiters, elite magi-warriors clad in obsidian armor infused with Soulstone dust. Their very presence disrupted leylines. I watched in horror as one lifted a fist and drank the golden dome into his armor—turning the Academy's own protection into fuel for the assault.
The serpent shattered.
The wards collapsed.
And then chaos followed.
I had witnessed war before. Fought beside Xayon during the Thorn Rebellions when his father, Xagon asked that I accompany him and provide guidance for a young prince he was then. I'd seen blood on snow and the madness in a dying man's eyes. But this—this was a massacre dressed as strategy.
Lightning detonated across the east wing. Screams rippled through the air like broken bells. Students who should've been studying planar theory were instead casting lethal spells at shadows that moved too fast to track. The grounds were soaked in energy—burned grass and shattered cobblestone giving way to arcane sinkholes that pulled soldiers into the earth, only to collapse again in brutal tremors.
But the Empire kept coming. With every magical defense, they adapted. Counterspells woven in real-time. Enchantment breakers laced into the frontline units. Even the very air turned against the defenders, enchanted by Thane's war-chant to carry whispering dread that made young minds falter.
I saw her then—Seraphina, barely recognizable in full battle garb, twin daggers glowing white-hot. She leapt from a balcony, slashing through a group of Nerd enforcers like a blade through parchment. She moved like vengeance incarnate, cutting down anyone who threatened her fellow students, her comrades.
I whispered a prayer for her. For all of them.
But even vengeance has limits.
An hour into the siege, the western tower crumbled. Not collapsed—disintegrated. A singularity spell, forbidden since the Time Wars, bloomed in its heart and swallowed stone, bone, and magic alike. And that's when the tide truly turned.
The Academy began to fall—not just physically, but symbolically. A bastion of independence, of free thought and magical equilibrium, brought to its knees by overwhelming force and sovereign decree. I saw resistance falter not from lack of will, but from the sheer weight of inevitability.
Some students dropped their weapons. Others tried to flee—only to be bound midair by spectral chains that dragged them back toward waiting Black Arbiters. Professors fought to the bitter end, some activating soul-bound runes that vaporized their bodies rather than allow capture.
Sacrifice after sacrifice. Spell after spell. Ash clouded the horizon.
And in the heart of it all, I saw Xaldron—standing tall on the obsidian steps he had conjured into the courtyard, Soulrend sheathed at his side like a dark promise.
He watched the battle not with bloodlust, but with surgical detachment. This wasn't conquest. It was annexation by precision. The breaking of a symbol. The taming of an idea.
The Academy was his now.
By sundown, the ivory tower bore scorch marks. Its banners lay in trampled ruin. Survivors were marched under guard to holding circles—magic-dampening wards encasing them. Seraphina was among them, bloodied but unbowed. Her eyes found mine across the courtyard before she was forced to kneel.
I couldn't save them. Not today.
But I could remember.
And remembering, I could resist.
That night, the palace was quieter than usual. No revels. No boasts. Even Thane's voice held less venom as he delivered his report to Xaldron in the throne hall.
"The remaining defenders have been detained. Resistance is functionally neutralized. The Academy is now under crown stewardship."
"And the League?" Xaldron asked, polishing Soulrend with a cloth that shimmered like star-dust.
Thane hesitated. "We received word. They've dispatched a representative."
"When?"
"Tonight."
I knew better than to linger, but my curiosity pulled me toward the upper corridors. Toward the glass atrium where high-level envoys were usually received. And I wasn't disappointed.
Just as the first bell of the new moon struck, a figure stepped through the gate carved in pure opaline—a gate that only responded to League authority.
She wore robes like starlight on snow. Her face was hidden beneath a veil of shimmering glass, but her presence was unmistakable: powerful, composed, and not the least bit intimidated.
Xaldron rose to greet her, arms wide in mock-welcome. "Archon of the League. How gracious of you to visit. I trust your journey was... enlightening?"
The representative said nothing at first, merely stepped closer until the air between them crackled with held potential. Then, in a voice layered with power and warning:
"You have trespassed against neutrality, Emperor. The Academy was not yours to touch."
Xaldron's smile didn't falter. "And yet, touch it I did."
"We are not pleased."
"And yet, here you are," he replied softly. "No army. No decree. Just words."
She studied him—then the blade at his side. Her head tilted, as though recognizing something hidden within its edge.
"What have you done, Xaldron?"
He chuckled. "Why don't you stay a while and find out?"
I watched from the shadows, unseen, heart pounding. The League had arrived. The balance was about to shift again. But toward what, I couldn't say.
All I knew was that my time at the palace could be nearing its end. I have played my part well as Genfrey the blacksmith, but could I continue at this rate? Whatever came next would demand more cunningness than disguise and craft.
The storm had broken.
And somewhere out there, I prayed Xayon was still listening.