(Alvron's P.O.V.)
The corridors of the Academy no longer whispered wisdom—they echoed with betrayal.
I walked alone beneath the arched halls where sunlight once cast comforting patterns through stained-glass constellations. Now, the windows had been replaced with dark obsidian panes, dull and cold, muting the morning light to a sickly blue.
They said the Academy had fallen. But I could still hear it breathing—like an ancient beast wounded, but not dead.
From the outer balconies, Karadia looked the same—silver towers catching the light, banners of house colors flapping in the high wind—but I knew better. Below that majestic calm was a fracture, and I stood on its edge.
Genfrey, that skillful palace blacksmith had started behaving odd and strange, as if he was struggling.
I'd seen it in his eyes the last time we spoke—he was handing off a torch no one wanted to carry. The resistance was now scattered, half-leaking from every crack in the Academy, and Xaldron had installed his mages to "supervise reconstruction", that was what they called it. Sometimes it felt like he wanted to blackout and then immediately he comes back to himself. Rumor has it that since he made a new sword for Xaldron, he had started behaving a bit off, I just hope the darkness on Xaldron hasn't reached to him. He seems like someone I could trust.
I was seated now in the Astral Requiem, the high observatory-turned-council chamber, where I once trained under archons whose wisdom shook empires. Now, it was little more than a gilded cage. I pressed a hand to the mosaic table, letting my fingers trace the constellation of Karethos—the Twin Blades. A symbol of balance. Of loyalty. Of brothers.
My chest tightened.
They had once been the soul of that constellation.
"Xaldron," I whispered to the wind, "do you remember what you used to be?"
Flashback: Twelve Years Ago
It was the annual Solstice Ball at the Grand Forum. I remember entering the ballroom late, draped in dusk-colored robes, and seeing the twins arrive together at the top of the stairs.
You couldn't forget their entrance. They had just clocked eighteen years, I remember vividly because I had celebrated my fourteenth birthday the day before.
Xayon stood like a flame caught mid-step—tall, broad-shouldered, with wild, raven-dark hair that refused to obey royal grooming. His smile was reckless, charismatic, dangerous. His eyes, golden like stormlight, scanned the room with amused disdain. He wore a midnight battle-coat, adorned with a single white sapphire at the collar—gifted from a grateful kingdom after he halted their civil war with a single speech and a single swing of Stormrender.
Xaldron walked beside him with mirrored grace—equally tall, but poised like a blade held in reserve. His hair was shorter, cleaner-cut, with streaks of silver forming too early from sleepless years of responsibility. (Well that was too early if I were to give my opinion. Strenuous palace work was responsible for those silver streaks.) His gaze missed nothing. Where Xayon's smile burned, Xaldron's glinted. Controlled. Tactical. Deadlier in ways even the high lords didn't yet understand.
They hadn't been in the room two breaths before Lady Marrenne of House Vyrell fainted from excitement. A pair of princesses from Sol'Karodia openly argued over who would dance first. The ballroom split like a tide parting for twin gods.
And they—those damned beautiful men—laughed like boys in an orchard.
"You take the one in emerald," Xaldron whispered with a half-grin.
"Which one's that?" Xayon chuckled.
"The one who's pretending not to look, but already imagining our wedding."
"They're all doing that, brother."
I laughed aloud that night. Genuinely. As did the rest of Karadia.
How far we've come.
---
Present:
"Lady Alvron." The voice belonged to Director Veyle, one of the last remaining voices on the Academic Council not yet bent to the crown. "The noble houses are stirring. House Fenrelin sent word—they may publicly question Xaldron's detainment of the Academy directors."
I turned from the window.
"Fenrelin?" I blinked. "They've stayed neutral since the Oathbreak Rebellion."
"Not anymore. And House Verrinth has also issued an encoded warning. They suspect this is just the beginning. If the Academy's independence is violated, it means the crown is willing to breach old accords."
The League of Mages. The House Accords. The Sanctum Treaty. All relics of balance—paper shields against the tide of tyranny.
"How long before the League responds again?" I asked.
"Hard to say. A delegate may already be en route."
I closed my eyes. That would be the spark. When the League of Mages intervenes, it means the empire's leash has grown too tight. It also means the noose begins to form—slowly, methodically—around the Emperor's neck.
But Karadia was not a land ruled by law alone. It was ruled by perception. And no one shaped perception like Xaldron.
"He's preparing," I murmured.
"Preparing what?"
"To twist this. He'll paint the League as foreign meddlers. He'll rally the noble houses still loyal to him. House Malcor will stand beside him, of course."
Director Veyle paled. "Then civil war is only a breath away."
"No," I said. "Not yet. Xaldron doesn't want war."
He wanted control.
He wanted Xayon.
---
Flashback: The War Room, Six Years Ago
It was a private strategy session. Only five of us present—myself, their father, General Craeven, and the brothers.
Xayon stood over the war map with arms crossed.
"They're not just numbers on a board," he said. "Those are farmers. Children. Sending troops through Darenth to flank the rebels means cutting through half a dozen villages."
"Which is why," Xaldron interrupted, "we send diplomatic envoys to each of the mayors ahead of the march. Warn them. Offer compensation. Keep them calm while we crush the rebellion quickly."
The king chuckled, amused. "I raised tacticians, not warmongers."
But there was tension. Xayon wanted to confront the rebellion face-to-face. Xaldron wanted them crushed before they became a symbol.
That was the beginning. Of the split. Of two philosophies diverging.
Yet later that night, I passed their chamber and heard them laughing together. Again. Just boys. Still boys.
"You were right about the compensation plan," Xayon admitted.
"And you were right to care," Xaldron replied.
It had worked, that time.
Not every time after would.
---
Present:
I passed through the southern wing where instructors once debated arcane theory over firewine. Now, soldiers lingered in corners, speaking into whisper stones, eyes watching everything.
Genfrey wasn't stable. The resistance was scattered. But I remained.
And so did memory.
I turned a corner and froze. There, flanked by a pair of Imperial guards, stood a cloaked figure—robes of grey, trimmed with starlight silver.
League of Mages.
No sigil. No name. Just presence.
The figure turned slowly toward me, as if they had already sensed I was coming.
"I seek the one called Alvron," the voice said—neither male nor female. "You have seen the truth. You have seen what Karadia risks becoming."
I swallowed. "And you are?"
"A Witness," the figure replied. "And if what I suspect is true… then the storm has only begun to whisper."
"No one is to know I was here," the figure continued.
"What about the Imperial guards?" I asked, knowing they couldn't keep their mouths shut.
The figure chucked, "they won't remember that they saw someone or something like me."
That was when it dawned on me, the person I was talking to is a Luna mage. They are very dangerous and feared in all the 5 realms, so bloody in battle and unpredictable, they could even erase a memory from someone.
I bowed showing respect and walked away like he or she was never there.