Chapter 22 – The Foundations of Magical Warfare
The sky of Etheria had taken on a strange pallor that morning. In the corridors, a heavy silence reigned, as if the very air still carried the echoes of the meeting that had shaken the upper sphere of Class A. The students themselves knew nothing of it, yet a subtle tension lingered—unseen, palpable. Even the suspended crystals, usually sparkling, seemed to diffuse a dimmer light.
Day of a joint lesson between Classes B, C, and D, X545, November 28, 1:15 p.m.
In Classroom B, where Seth, Damian, Alma, and Teddy had settled, nervousness was evident. Kael, relegated to Class D, had been exceptionally invited to attend as an observer, sitting a little further back. Tara, from Class C, had managed to slip in next to them, looking feignedly detached, though her eyes glimmered with curiosity.
When the heavy wooden door creaked open, Professor Maëros entered. Tall, thin, his stern gaze framed by silver-rimmed spectacles, he wore a blue cape emblazoned with Etheria's seal. The instant he arrived, his aura imposed silence.
"Today," he said in a grave voice, "we will not discuss simple formulas. No. Today, you will learn what it truly means… to be a mage of Etheria."
A shiver ran through the assembly.
With a flick of his wand, he traced four glowing circles in the air: D, C, B, A.
The letters shone, their light reflecting on the attentive faces.
"On the battlefield," Maëros explained, "the worth of a mage is measured by far more than raw power. Discipline, control, strategy… every detail counts. A student of Class D…" He paused, the D-circle flickering weakly. "…is the equivalent of a simple soldier. Individually weak. But numerous. Their role is to support, to wear down, to obey."
Kael clenched his fists. That definition burned within him.
Maëros pressed on, implacable:
"A student of Class C is worth five of Class D. Their elemental power begins to manifest, their coordination becomes useful. They are the backbone of an army."
Tara tilted her head toward Kael and whispered:
— See? Even in C, we're still considered pawns…
Kael gave a bitter smile.
The professor lifted his staff, and the B circle glowed brilliantly.
"A student of Class B… is worth ten of Class C. These mages can alter the course of a battle by their mere presence. They lead, impose strategies, and shatter enemy lines."
Alma straightened, her expression grave.
— That's our responsibility, she murmured. Ten lives… at least.
Seth, leaning on his desk, let out a laugh.
— And if we mess up, that's ten corpses on our conscience, huh?
Damian shot him a glare.
— This isn't a joke.
Finally, the A circle flared with blinding radiance.
"And a student of Class A," declared Maëros, "is worth one hundred of Class B."
The silence that followed was as heavy as lead.
Even Seth lost his smirk. Alma drew a sharp breath, Tara's eyes widened, Teddy sat speechless. Kael, meanwhile, stared at the light with a deep, seething rage.
The professor let the weight of this truth hang in the air before striking the floor with his staff.
"One hundred! Imagine it. A single Class A mage can topple an entire kingdom. Do you now understand why Etheria exists? You are not here to play. You are being trained… as weapons."
A murmur rippled through the classroom.
— Weapons… Tara repeated, her voice icy.
— That's what we are, Teddy confirmed, forcing a smile. Not heroes, not legends. Just… weapons.
— Speak for yourself, Seth said sharply. I've no intention of being a tool to be used.
— Then you'll be destroyed, Damian answered flatly.
The professor raised his hand, silencing them once again. His gaze swept the room, pausing on Kael who, though in Class D, listened with fierce intensity.
"Remember this," Maëros concluded. "Numbers do not lie. But they are not everything. Behind every figure lies a mind, a choice… and sometimes, a rebellion."
That last phrase resonated within Kael's heart, like a silent promise.
The class ended in tense silence. One by one, the students filed out, each carrying the weight of what they had just learned.
Kingdom of Atlantis – Chamber of King Agnor .
The chamber of King Agnor Atlantis was vast and solemn. The walls were draped in blue and gold tapestries, reflecting the flickering glow of candlelight. Maps of borders and military positions littered the massive oak desk, covered in notes and ancient seals. The sea wind made the curtains flutter softly, and the air was filled with the scent of salt and old wood.
Agnor was bent over his maps, studying the positions with deep concentration. Every decision, every strategic movement, was etched into his mind. The silence in the room was near-absolute, broken only by the rustle of the wind and the faint scrape of maps shifting under his hands.
Suddenly, a shadow materialized near the window, gliding with supernatural ease. Agnor did not flinch. His cold gaze met that of the intruder.
— Who dares appear like this… unannounced? Agnor asked, his voice steady but firm.
The figure revealed itself: Loki. His presence radiated a chilling, malevolent energy, as if the very air thickened around him. The shadows in the chamber seemed to bow at his passage. His eyes glimmered with a dark light, and his very breath seemed to drain the warmth from the room. Every gesture, every inflection of his voice vibrated with an unsettling, almost unearthly power.
— The border plan is flawless. Everything is in place. Soon, we can move on to the next phase, he announced, his voice soft yet tinged with veiled menace.
Agnor narrowed his eyes, studying the man before him. Though a king and seasoned strategist, the dark aura struck him like a penetrating cold.
— Loki… he murmured. What exactly are you planning?
Loki stepped forward, almost gliding across the floor, his boots barely seeming to touch the stone. His long, slender fingers gestured subtly toward the maps on the desk, without ever touching them. The air itself seemed to contract, as though magic bent to his command.
— You know what I think… Loki said with a chilling smile. As long as you follow His instructions to the letter, no harm will come to you. But never betray Him. Never doubt His patience. Every hesitation, every mistake… could prove fatal.
Agnor studied the figure, his features impassive, though his calculating mind weighed every word. He felt the latent threat, this malignant presence capable of destabilizing even the strongest of realms. Yet he showed no fear.
— And if I refuse to blindly submit to Him? Agnor asked, his voice steady, laced with a hint of defiance.
Loki tilted his head slightly, as if amused, releasing a low, rasping laugh—barely audible, but enough to send a chill down Agnor's spine.
— Then… Loki replied slowly, each word edged with icy menace, you will swiftly discover that patience is not always a virtue He possesses…
He extended a letter toward Agnor, placing it on the desk with chilling precision. His fingers barely brushed the wood, yet the air still vibrated with his presence.
— These instructions must be followed to the letter, Loki specified. Any deviation could compromise everything we have built.
Before Agnor could reply, Loki vanished in a whirl of shadow, as though he had never been there at all—leaving behind a palpable cold and a tension that lingered in the room. The king stood still, eyes fixed on the letter, still feeling the echo of that malevolent energy.
He slowly unfolded the letter, a calculating smile spreading across his face. The news was favorable: the plan was advancing perfectly. Yet Loki's presence had left an indelible impression. Agnor knew he must obey the letter—but also prepare for the unpredictable, for Loki was no ordinary ally.
The sea wind stirred the curtains once again, as though the ocean itself whispered its warning: an ominous shadow looms over Atlantis, and its name is Loki.
To be continued…