They stepped into the heart of Castle Arkanos. Grand Mage Orthelion invited them to follow him into the great hall, where a feast awaited.
The hall was immense. Magical light crystals floated beneath the ceiling, bathing the room in a gentle, shimmering glow. Towering bookshelves—older than some kings—lined the walls. In the centre stood a long table, lavishly set: warm bread, steaming meats in golden bowls, jugs of honeyed wine, exotic fruits, and steaming dishes of spiced delicacies.
The Grand Mage seated himself first, then beckoned his guests to join him.
Xarion, Saelen, Thalandir, and King Alenion took their places. The atmosphere was tense—not hostile, but filled with unspoken thoughts.
Orthelion took a deep sip of wine, leaned back, and spoke in a soft voice:
"Avalon... he was a stubborn dog. Proud. But also the best friend one could wish for."
Alenion looked at him cautiously. "You knew him well?"
Orthelion smiled wistfully. "Like a brother. We learned together, fought together, laughed together... and eventually, we lost each other."
Saelen lowered his gaze. His voice was barely audible.
"Grand Mage... what truly happened back then?"
Orthelion closed his eyes briefly, as if sinking into memories. Then he rose slowly and began to speak:
"Six hundred, perhaps seven hundred years ago, creating portals wasn't forbidden. Few could do it, but we knew the power they held. Back then, we had alliances with many worlds: trade, alliances, mutual protection."
He smiled bitterly.
"But we were the problem. While we mages live for centuries, generations pass in other worlds. Friends died. Treaties were forgotten. Once-sacred alliances turned into simmering conflicts."
He turned around, his voice growing more serious.
"Out of fear of misuse and new wars, we decided: all portals must be closed. New gates—prohibited."
He asked his guests to follow him.
They walked through winding corridors, deeper into the palace, where rune lights flickered and the air grew noticeably cooler. Eventually, they reached a massive stone door. Orthelion opened it with a snap of his fingers.
Beyond lay a round hall—the heart of the old alliance.
In the centre rose a large stone table, surrounded by 43 high-backed chairs. Each bore the emblem of a former allied world. Faded banners hung on the walls—including the silver leaf of the Elven realm.
Orthelion stepped into the centre, let his gaze wander—and suddenly laughed out loud:
"Look at this. Our proud allies... forgotten like ghosts. Isn't it absurd?"
He ran his hand over the tabletop, as if trying to summon the past.
Then he grew quiet.
"We thought it wise to isolate ourselves. But perhaps... that was our greatest mistake."
A silent hush fell over the room.
Then something incredible happened.
Orthelion extended a hand toward the Elven throne—without runes, without words. A portal opened.
A translucent veil—and beyond: Elendur. The forests. The lake of Thalas Aelin in the morning mist.
Xarion stepped forward.
"A portal... through which one can see? Without a ritual?"
Orthelion winked. "I can also pass through."
He opened a second portal—this one led into the depths of Dunarak. One could hear smithing hammers, smell iron, see dwarves in their halls.
"Here, I drank the best wine of my life. A banquet hall carved into the rock."
Then he moved on—a third portal opened.
Celothar. The floating islands. Golden towers on clouds, beings of light, flying creatures.
"The Celothari," he murmured. "Stubborn, but with the purest hearts—and the most beautiful women."
Xarion and Saelen looked at each other. They were speechless.
Then—a hiss.
An axe flew out of the portal to Dunarak, crashed against the wall.
With a swift gesture, Orthelion closed all the portals.
Silence.
Saelen stepped forward.
"How... is that possible? Our portals take weeks. And we find the worlds only by chance..."
Orthelion nodded slowly.
"Because your magic searches. These thrones here—they know their worlds. Each seat is connected. This was once the centre of all gates. I never left it."
He raised his arms to the dome.
"A portal without charging is only possible if one maintains the connection. And to master that, one needs..."
A grin.
"...a lot of patience, a great deal of magic—and a damn strong will."
He sat heavily on one of the empty seats, closed his eyes for a moment.
"Three portals at once... I didn't think I could still do that. Maybe I'm not that old after all."
A deep, rough laugh echoed through the hall.
Then he stood up, waved dismissively.
"Enough for today. I'm tired. Tomorrow... we'll talk further."
At Night
No one slept well.
Xarion lay awake, staring at the ceiling. What if one could actually reactivate each of these portals?
Saelen pondered whether the energies could be studied and controlled. The king thought of responsibility, of power—and of his grandfather's legacy.
And somewhere deep within the walls of Arkanos, Orthelion sat—alone—before an ancient, sealed portal, his gaze lost in the past.
In the Morning
The Grand Mage summoned everyone back to the great hall. He appeared calmer, more composed—but also more serious.
"What I showed you yesterday... that was forbidden. I'm not allowed to speak of the old times. But in your eyes, Majesty, I saw Avalon."
He placed a hand on Alenion's shoulder.
"That's why I want you to know the truth. And I want to give you a choice."
He pulled out a sealed document and placed it on the table.
"One portal—only one—shall remain open. Between Elendur and our world. So that our peoples can learn to trust each other again. But no step into another world. No new portals—not without the council. Not without a joint decision."
Silence settled over the hall.
King Alenion stepped forward. He looked Orthelion in the eyes for a long time. Then he extended his hand.
"Then let this be the new first alliance. Between two old friends—and two worlds rediscovering each other."
The alliance was sealed.
A new chapter began.
And deep inside, everyone knew:
This was only the beginning.
Years Passed
Elves travelled to Azura, mages to Elendur. The study of the crystals became a joint endeavour. Orthelion also showed interest—but he remained critical.
"Those who do not carry magic within themselves should not use it," he once said. "Tools can guide the way, yes. But a true mage refrains from them. That's what sets us apart."
Then, one morning...
The entire realm of mages was summoned.
The sky was clear. The air still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Orthelion—the last Grand Mage of his line—had sensed his end.
It was time to be brought to the Stone of Knowledge.
An ancient ritual granted only to mages. For mages do not reproduce. Neither men nor women. Instead, the stone itself gives birth to a new child of magic—when one of them returns their power.
Xarion was among the last to see him once more.
They stood alone in the setting sun. Orthelion was marked by age, his hair snow-white—but his eyes still shone.
"You still want to know how I open the portals," he said softly. "But my last words to you shall not be instructions..."
He looked up.
"Be content with what you have, Xarion. Do not strive for more. Those who always want more eventually lose what they possess—and end up... alone."
A soft humming filled the air.
The Stone of Knowledge began to glow. Orthelion stepped in.
And dissolved into light.
Forty Days Passed
The sky above the stone remained still. Not a breeze stirred, no bird broke the silence. Only the gentle pulsing of the ancient runes, like a heartbeat hidden within the rock.
Then—a cry.
A newborn lay at the foot of the stone, wrapped in a blanket of light. Warm, flickering, as if woven from stars.
The Keepers of Light approached reverently. One of them bent down carefully and picked up the child.
"A great mage has departed..." she whispered. "May this be a worthy successor. Time will tell."
They carried the child to the castle—quietly, reverently, as if holding the last light of an old promise in their arms.
And they named him:
Meridion.