---
Graymore is as old as the fairytales Grandma used to tell.
She'd always start the same way - her voice soft, her eyes distant - "Back then, child, this town was alive. The rivers whispered, the trees spoke, and magic wasn't just something you read about. It lived. It breathed. It burned."
According to her, Graymore used to glow - a town basked in the presence of the mystical and divine. She said the air shimmered with power, and even the animals carried traces of enchantment. Grandma's grandmother had told her that once, every street corner had its guardian spirit, every mountain its deity, every drop of water its tale.
But those were stories from another time.
Now, Graymore is a quiet, gray town swallowed by fog and memory. Magic, if it ever existed, has long been erased - buried beneath centuries of denial and dust. The only remnant of that ancient legacy is a place everyone in town speaks of with awe and unease: Mordsith Academy.
They say it was built three hundred years ago by aristocrats who feared the power that once ruled the world. What used to be temples and shrines were torn down, replaced by towers of stone and silence. Mordsith, they said, was to preserve the "knowledge" of the old world - to teach it safely, to control what had once been wild.
Or maybe, as Grandma always hinted, it was built to keep that power from returning.
---
The car I'm in hums softly as it speeds down the empty road - a thin, winding path that cuts through miles of forest. The trees stand tall on both sides, their branches stretching toward each other like bony fingers, their shadows swallowing the car whole. The world outside looks half-dead, painted in shades of green and gray, the occasional mist slithering across the asphalt.
The driver says nothing. Neither do I.
Not that I want to.
I lean against the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass. My reflection stares back at me - tired eyes, black hair falling over my face, the kind of expression that screams I'd rather be anywhere but here.
I still can't believe Mom actually sent me away.
---
Patricia White - my mother - has been obsessed with Mordsith for as long as I can remember. Every dinner, every conversation somehow circled back to it.
"Mordsith shapes legends," she'd say. "It's where the chosen learn the history of gods, the language of demons, and the secrets of the old magic."
Right. Six years of studying dead myths and dusty spellbooks. What could be more thrilling?
I roll my eyes just thinking about it.
If I could've chosen, I'd be on my way to forensic training in the next town, preparing to become a CSI - a dream that made sense. A dream that felt real. But according to my mother, being a "man of logic" was a waste when "magic ran through our family's blood."
I wasn't sure what was more ridiculous - her saying that or me actually sitting in this car because she pulled strings to get me admitted after I failed the entrance exam.
Yeah, I failed. Spectacularly. I didn't study, didn't care, and didn't want to. But Mom had a connection - she always does. Her "friendship" with the Superintendent of Mordsith ensured that even the unwilling got accepted.
Congratulations, Priest White. You're officially trapped.
---
The car jolts slightly as the road narrows. The forest thickens, sunlight fading behind the dense canopy. A faint fog rolls in, curling around the wheels.
Then I see it.
The gate.
Tall, black, and ancient, it looms ahead like the mouth of some waiting beast. Iron vines twist around its bars, and faded symbols are etched into the metal - words from a language long forgotten. The driver honks once, and the gate groans open, the sound echoing like a low growl across the valley.
We roll forward slowly. The road is lined with stone statues - tall, faceless figures holding staffs and swords, their features eroded by time. Between them, torches flicker faintly, though no one's around to light them.
My skin prickles.
Everything about this place feels... alive. Watching.
Then, at the end of the long path, I finally see it - Mordsith Academy.
The buildings rise high, gothic and gray, their roofs sharp and dark as knives. Dozens of towers pierce the clouds, their windows glowing faintly with amber light. The academy isn't just a school - it's a fortress. A cathedral built for secrets.
"Perfect," I mutter under my breath. "A prison with better architecture."
---
The car stops in front of the largest building - the main hall, judging by the grand staircase leading up to massive iron doors that screamed bad decisions. I step out, immediately hit by cold air that smells faintly of rain and smoke. My driver, ever silent, unloads my luggage - two oversized suitcases and one smaller bag Mom insisted on packing.
I stare up at the building. Every inch of it screams danger. The gargoyles perched above the doors seem to smirk at me.
The driver nods once and leaves, the car's taillights disappearing into the fog.
And just like that - silence.
I'm alone.
---
I should probably introduce myself before I start sounding like a complete cynic.
I'm Priest White. Twenty years old. Five foot six. A reluctant freshman at a school for wannabe magicians and ghost-chasers.
Mom says I take after her - same black hair that falls to my shoulders, same sharp features softened by the wrong genetics. I usually tie my hair half up, leaving a few braids in front, threaded with red cord. She says it makes me look "distinguished." My friends used to say it makes me look "too cute for a guy." I say it makes me look like someone who doesn't belong here.
I've never had a deep voice or an intimidating presence, which only adds to the confusion. People have mistaken me for a girl more times than I care to count. I don't correct them anymore. It's easier that way.
Anyway, I graduated high school at eighteen and planned to become a CSI - solving crimes, following logic, not legends. But here I am, two years later, standing at the gate of a school that worships mystery and bloodlines.
"God, I hate life," I mutter, dragging my luggage toward the hall.
---
Inside, it feels like stepping into another world.
The doors creak open on their own, revealing a vast corridor lit by chandeliers suspended in midair. The air hums faintly, heavy with something unseen. My shoes echo on the polished stone floor as I walk, passing portraits whose eyes seem to follow me. Some of them blink.
"Creepy," I whisper.
The main hall opens up ahead - and it's enormous. Hundreds of students are already inside, their chatter blending into a low hum. Long banners of gray and crimson hang from the ceiling, each embroidered with strange symbols that pulse faintly with light. Candles float lazily between them, dripping wax that never touches the floor.
At the center of the hall stands a marble statue - a woman cloaked in shadow, one hand raised, her eyes covered by a blindfold. Beneath her feet, an inscription reads:
All Magic Comes With a Price.
I scoff softly. "Figures."
Dragging my luggage behind me, I make my way to a quiet corner near a pillar. The floor vibrates slightly beneath my boots - or maybe that's just my nerves. The students around me look thrilled, whispering excitedly, wide-eyed and glowing. They talk about spells, mentors, classes, and destiny.
Meanwhile, I'm wondering if there's a refund policy.
---
Then, suddenly, the massive doors slam shut behind me - loud enough to silence the entire room. My heart jumps.
I freeze, turning slowly.
The candles flicker. The banners sway, though there's no wind.
A deep voice echoes through the hall.
"Welcome, students of Mordsith Academy."
The crowd shifts, murmurs fading into silence. A group of figures appears at the far end of the hall, descending a staircase. Their robes shimmer faintly, marked with silver insignias. Professors, I guess.
But in the center of them - someone else.
A young man, tall and confident, his presence almost electric. His hair glints faintly under the light, his smile sharp and knowing. Even from across the room, I can feel his gaze land on me.
I wonder who he was but again I really didn't care
And just like that, my story - the one I didn't want - finally begins.
---