The Black Jewel of the North
Norhan was not just the capital of Farves: it was its emblem of power, its political heart, and the highest expression of its ambition. It rose like an artificial hill, reinforced by concentric rings of walls, each taller and stronger than the last. From a distance, the city looked like an ascending spiral crowned by the black stone castle known as the Ebony Crown, an unassailable colossus that dominated the horizon.
The outer walls, built from volcanic granite, stood more than fifteen meters high and were reinforced with magical watchtowers, capable of detecting large concentrations of mana. Along these defenses stood eight arcane towers, each guarded by mid-rank mages, prepared to activate shields, launch fire bursts, or summon cutting gales at the slightest hint of threat.
The city was divided into three zones:
Lower zone: closest to the outside. It included markets, inns, and humble neighborhoods inhabited by merchants, foot soldiers, and craftsmen. Though the oldest part, it was constantly being renovated thanks to the kingdom's economic growth.
Middle zone: the core of the upper class and magical knowledge. Here resided noble houses, guilds, magic academies, and luxury shops. This ring also housed the Eight Towers of Arcane Knowledge, each dedicated to a functional branch of magic:
Tower of War (offensive and destructive magic)
Tower of the Wall (defensive and barrier magic)
Tower of the Veil (illusion and deception)
Tower of the Pulse (healing, restoration, biological manipulation)
Tower of Judgment (control, paralysis, seals)
Tower of Summoning (conjuration of beasts and external entities)
Tower of Time (alteration of time flow, acceleration, deceleration)
Tower of the Void (forbidden and unknown magic)
Upper zone: the city's core. Here rose the Ebony Crown, the royal castle. Built of enchanted stone, its walls were inscribed with ancient glyphs that made it resistant to magical explosions and the passage of time. From its highest towers, one could see the sea on clear days. Black banners with the red phoenix symbol flew without rest.
In the Heart of the Kingdom
Inside the Ebony Crown, the war chamber burned with restrained tension.
Five figures stood around the central obsidian table, where magical fragments floated, projected from vision crystals. The attendees were not common courtiers, but the high magical command of the Kingdom of Farves. The reason for the meeting: to evaluate the results of the first major attack against the Kingdom of Hackal and prepare the next move.
At the head, seated on a throne forged of dark metal, was King Sirazt, bearer of a red core. Around him stood:
Vaelmon, general of the armed forces and master of the Tower of War, with a dark blue core.
Virelda, master of the Towers of Void, Veil, and Summoning, with a light blue core.
Arten Drask, economic leader of the kingdom and master of the Tower of the Wall, also with a light blue core.
Khelzar, master of the Tower of Time and Judgment, with a blue core.
"Let's begin," said Sirazt firmly. "Show the battle records."
The table projected a series of images captured during the assault on the Emerald City and Valmitor. In them, Eve and Siferv, the two mages sent to lead the offensive, could be seen deploying the Spell of External Dominion. Thousands of corpses began to move in unison under their control, marching as a single magical entity. The initial synchronization was flawless.
"Phase one was a success," noted Vaelmon. "The control over low-level corpses worked. In mass, they caused panic, broke defensive lines, and spread total confusion."
The images advanced. Collapsed zones, burning streets, soldiers cornered. Then came the first signs of instability: corpses stopping, others twitching aimlessly, some losing control.
"The weaknesses begin around the thirty-minute mark of continuous control," said Khelzar. "The energy disperses, the mana threads misalign, and influence fades if not constantly reinforced."
"And mid to high-level undead resist," added Virelda, while an image showed a deformed creature breaking free and wounding both enemy and allied soldiers.
"The spell is effective as an initial impact," Arten continued, "but unsustainable over long periods without fixed magical anchors or support mages reinforcing the network."
Sirazt observed the images calmly.
"Eve and Siferv fulfilled their roles. The chaos was enough to break through the main defenses and force retreat. They have already joined Garlia and are heading to meet Sebast Greytel for the next phase."
A brief silence fell over the room, until Arten Drask spoke:
"Do we trust Sebast? His loyalty could turn volatile if conditions change. He's not impulsive, but he is calculating."
Sirazt replied without hesitation:
"Yes, I trust him. His betrayal is not driven by greed or power, but by love. His wife suffers from an illness that no one has been able to cure. Only we have access to the medicine that can save her: a potion made from the aloe of the Golden Tree, an ancient remedy nearly impossible to obtain. Its value is incalculable."
"And he accepted the deal?" asked Vaelmon.
"He did," the king nodded. "In exchange for our help, Sebast will ally with us. He set clear conditions: his territories will not be touched, and that includes the citizens and cities within. He is an honorable man, loved by his people. He does not betray for ambition, but out of necessity."
Khelzar narrowed his eyes.
"Then he is loyal… as long as his hope lives."
"And as long as we keep our word," said Sirazt, "he will remain so."
The king stepped forward and pointed at the continent map spread across the table. A traditional map, with routes and cities drawn by hand. On it, four lines marked the upcoming movements.
"The attack will be total. Four fronts. Coordinated. Relentless."
He pointed north.
"From here, we'll advance south with light units and siege mages. We'll cut the mountain routes and force the enemy to regroup."
Then he marked the west.
"From this region, we'll send a column of heavy cavalry and destructive mages. Their role is not to seize territory, but to sow chaos, cut supplies, and break morale."
Next, he slid his finger to the south, where the Cursed Lands were marked.
"Here comes Garlia. She and her control mages will descend through the Cursed Lands. They'll dominate as many undead as possible… then launch an assault from the south, moving eastward. It will be a third wave, unexpected and devastating."
Finally, Sirazt pointed to several internal locations in the Kingdom of Hackal.
"Thanks to Sebast, the allied houses are already in position. They will not act until they receive the signal. Their uprising from within will be the fourth front. An eruption from the kingdom's core."
Virelda spoke in a soft but cutting voice:
"Four fronts. A synchronized storm."
"Exactly," confirmed Sirazt. "Hackal will fall before other kingdoms can even decide whether to intervene. They won't have time. Nor warning."
A reverent silence spread through the room.
Sirazt returned to his throne. His gaze burned with absolute determination.
"One week until everyone is in position."
A day had passed since Lavitz escaped the Emerald City.
The forest had swallowed him without resistance. There, among the damp and silence, he found refuge in the hollow of an ancient tree, cracked by years and emptied by time. It wasn't comfortable, but it shielded him from the wind.
The night before, he had managed to light a small fire with dry branches. The flame crackled faintly, just enough to give off a bit of warmth. Now only cold embers remained, gray ashes that crunched with the slightest movement.
Lavitz woke up with a stiff body. The morning chill had crept in through his boots, his collar, every seam of his clothes. His stomach growled insistently. He hadn't eaten since the day before. He couldn't even remember the last time he drank water.
He rubbed his arms, breathed deeply, and peeked outside. The light of dawn barely filtered through the bare branches. Everything seemed suspended in a cold calm. No birds. No voices. Only mist floating low over the ground covered in withered leaves.
He returned to the hollow and pulled out the book. He had kept it wrapped in cloth to protect it from the damp. Its spine was worn, the pages yellowed and fragile. But still legible.
He opened it to where he had left off the night before.
"Magic is not born from desire, nor from strength. It is born from understanding. To walk the path of mana, one must first learn to feel it."
Lavitz frowned. The sentences were simple, yet carried something more. Something he couldn't explain. He read them again softly, almost whispering, as if saying the words might activate something within him.
"Every living being is surrounded by mana. But only some can perceive it. The first step is not to master it. It is to recognize that it is there."
He turned the page.
"The human body, even without a core, can absorb mana in small amounts if it enters a receptive state. This state is reached through conscious breathing, prolonged concentration, and voluntary opening of the senses."
Lavitz rested the book on his legs and closed his eyes.
He breathed deeply.
The cold didn't help. His fingers, feet, and back ached. But still he tried what the text suggested. He stopped thinking about hunger. About the city. About death. He just breathed. Once. Again. One more time.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes.
He looked back at the book.
"To feel mana is the first breath. Only then begins the path of the mage."
With a soft sigh, he tried again.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the same position.
The cold still seeped in, but he had started to ignore it. Or maybe his body had surrendered to numbness. In front of him, the book remained open on his legs. The words repeated over and over in his mind: conscious breathing, voluntary opening of the senses, receptive state.
He tried to follow the instructions precisely. Breathe with intention. Listen to what is not heard. Feel what cannot be touched. It was difficult. Every thought —every image of the city, the bodies, the screams— interrupted him.
He failed hundreds of times.
Got distracted by hunger. By the wind. By a memory, by a sound.
But he kept trying.
Each time he closed his eyes, he let go a little more of himself. His breathing grew slower. Deeper. His awareness expanded just a bit beyond his skin.
And then, at a moment he couldn't define, he felt it.
It was a soft pressure. A current. As if something invisible slid around him, barely touching him. A breeze without temperature, a flow without clear direction. It was in the air, but also in the tree bark. In the stones. In his own exhalation.
Lavitz held his breath without meaning to. His eyes opened. Nothing had changed around him. But he had felt it. Just for a second.
He closed his eyes again.
He wanted to feel it again. Capture it once more. This time, when he breathed, he did it more carefully. He felt the air pass through his nose, down his throat. He felt the pressure of the ground beneath him, the touch of the wood on his back, the faint crackling of branches in the wind.
And then it returned.
That sensation. That silent presence.
Lavitz didn't know what to call it.
He didn't move. Didn't force his focus. He simply stayed there, breathing, while that presence brushed him like a breeze between his bones.
And when it finally faded… something inside him changed.
Lavitz opened his eyes, revealing a different color. His hazel irises had vanished: now they glowed a deep, intense red, bright like fresh blood under sunlight.
And the world, as if hidden beneath a veil, revealed itself.
Everything glowed.
The darkness that once surrounded him was gone. Now he could see the threads of mana, suspended in the air as if a northern aurora had descended upon the earth. They were soft lights, shifting in color, sliding through every corner of the landscape with impossible grace.
Mana flowed in invisible spirals around the trees, climbing their trunks as if feeding their sap. It descended from the highest leaves and merged with the ground in an invisible murmur.
From the earth, it emerged in fine filaments dancing through the cracks, like colorful vapor escaping from a subterranean world. It surrounded the stones, crossed the wind, and slid even over stagnant water with the softness of a caress.
Lavitz saw it all.
The forest was no longer just trees and shadows, but a living tapestry of lights and flows. Everything was connected by that invisible fabric he now saw clearly.
His affinity with mana had awakened.
And the world, at last, showed its true form.
Lavitz remained still, staring. Unmoving, unblinking.
It was as if he had been blind his entire life.
And only now had opened his eyes.