"Don't use so much arcana for those lights. They should shine, not blind anyone entering the guild," Finia said firmly, raising her voice towards the apprentices climbing ladders to adjust the luminaires.
Beside her, Glasca—the director of the Adventurers' Guild in the capital—observed the scene with her arms crossed. Her imposing figure dominated the hall.
"No one informed me that you had been appointed Archmage," she commented with an arched eyebrow. "Does the Tower no longer care about the Guild?"
Finia laughed softly, though a slight hint of discomfort appeared in her expression. "The Council asked for everyone to be notified, but the apprentices in charge... forgot. And I didn't check. As an apology, I came personally to supervise the maintenance. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind. It just struck me as odd. Communication with the Tower used to be quite regular... Dyan kept me informed of everything, and I responded to him every week. We weren't friends, but his departure took me by surprise. Wasn't he still too young to retire?"
"Indeed," Finia replied. "Some would say it was too soon. But, from his perspective, he practically grew up in the Tower. He dedicated his entire life to magic."
Glasca placed a large, rough hand on Finia's shoulder, in an unexpectedly kind gesture. "I'm not saying it's strange to retire... I've considered it myself. But he was the linchpin of everything. His absence is felt, even here." She cleared her throat. "It already seemed strange to me when he came to drop off some projects... I suppose he was saying goodbye."
One of the apprentices, perched high, momentarily lost his balance. Finia reacted instantly, conjuring a precise gust of wind that stabilized him. "Pay attention, Molgrin. For all the gods." She sighed. Then, she turned to Glasca. "His absence weighs on us too," she said calmly, though in truth she meant it weighed on her, more than anyone.
"Come with me, Archmage. I have something to tell you."
Finia hesitated, glancing at the young ones still working. Her concern was evident.
"They won't sink into the earth if they fall," Glasca added with a dry smile. "Let them grow. They learn by watching, yes, but they also learn from the fall."
They went up to the second floor of the guild, which was already filling with warriors, mercenaries, and glory-seekers. Some argued fervently in front of the mission board; others were already setting off for dungeons or lands beyond the map. The Guild never slept, not even at night. It was one of the few places in Scabia with constant life.
Upon reaching Glasca's office, she offered her a seat by a window. The armchairs, worn by time and use, still retained a certain dignity. She poured her a glass of spiced wine.
"Have you received any news from the western border? With the Chinsonites?"
Finia accepted the glass. She observed the reddish liquid carefully; a clove floated at the bottom. The aroma caressed her face and settled gently in her nose.
"Only rumors. Though the Master himself intended to go before he..."
"...was thrown out of the palace," Glasca finished, bluntly. "That story reached here too."
Finia suppressed a grimace and brought the wine to her lips. She drank slowly, drowning the irritation that memory still caused her. "I suppose he considered it a risk if he intended to travel himself."
"It was. Last night we received an official request from the Crown. Mercenaries to reinforce the border." Glasca glanced at her. "I don't recall Dyan ever taking you there, but the Chinsonites are not known for their hospitality."
"No, I never went. The Master said it was too dangerous. But I know well what he did in every confrontation."
"Then I don't need to tell you that the Queen is likely to request your presence."
The words weighed more than expected. Finia tightened her grip on the glass. She knew well that these skirmishes were cyclical... and also that the battlefield was rarely a pleasant place for a mage.
"I suppose you haven't received the official palace letter yet. But we'll see each other there, I assure you," Glasca added. She looked out the window. Some carts disappeared on their way to the market. The clear sky illuminated her weathered face. "Don't send your best mages. Go yourself."
"I know. I suppose I have to earn my position." She drank the last sip of wine. "I just hope they don't doubt me my whole life."
Glasca observed her with a mix of compassion and frankness.
"It took me twenty years to fill my predecessor's seat. And he wasn't much. Don't try to make them forget Dyan. Just keep being you. Who cares if they miss him? He's gone... and he won't be back."
"You're right," Finia murmured. She swirled the empty glass. The clove swayed gently inside.
"Anyway... Where did Dyan go off to? I find it hard to believe he left everything, as much of a work fanatic as he was," Glasca added as she refilled the glass.
"He went to a place called Glavendell."
"Does that even appear on maps?" Glasca laughed, surprised.
They conversed for a good while. When the maintenance was finished, Finia supervised that everything was in order and took her leave. She was grateful for the conversation, despite Glasca not being exactly a warm person. Sometimes her bluntness made her uncomfortable... but at least she had listened. In the Tower, no one else did.
Upon returning to the Tower, Finia found a letter waiting for her on the Archmage's desk. It had been delivered by hand by Sir Armand Levet himself, commander of the Royal Guard. The envelope was sealed with blue wax and the royal emblem marked with implacable precision: the Willfrost seal.
She didn't need to open it to guess its contents.
Inside, with the usual sobriety of military language, it requested the best available mages to reinforce the queen's forces on the western border. No specific threats were detailed, nor were the reasons broadly explained. But Finia needed no more details. For years she had read her master Dyan's reports on the cyclical clashes with the Chinsonites: skirmishes disguised as diplomacy, bloody incursions followed by weeks of silence. War, constant and relentless, seemed like a chronic cold that the crown resigned itself to suffering every winter.
She slowly closed the letter and sank into the desk chair. The Archmage's study was bathed in the vibrant light of the mana stone, which exhaled soft pulses, as if breathing. The glow oscillated between pale silver and steely blue, filling the room with an illusory calm. That stone, which once seemed to her a symbol of wisdom and power, now seemed to observe her with cold indifference.
Finia laced her hands in her lap and noticed they were trembling.
It was the first time she would go to war.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finia remained silent, seated before the glowing mana stone, when a precise triple knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she said without rising.
The door opened cautiously, revealing Master Corven Aldair, straight as a rod, his robe perfectly folded over his shoulders and his brow marked by an almost ancient dignity. He had assumed the role of Archmaster's secretary since Dyan's departure, and though his presence was discreet, his judgment never was.
"I saw Commander Levet leave the Tower. I presumed it was more than a courtesy visit," he commented, closing the door behind him.
Finia nodded, handed him the open letter, and waited for him to read it. Corven said nothing when he finished, but his left eyebrow rose barely a few millimeters.
"It's sooner than I expected," he finally said, with a mix of regret and calculation. "But not unexpected."
"Do you think we should send mages?"
"I believe you have no alternative, Archmage," he replied, without irony. "But I also believe you should not send them alone."
Finia looked up.
"I have a list," Corven added, pulling a folded parchment from his robe. "Some of these mages fought under Dyan's command on the northern border, others are young with exceptional talent, though without combat experience. All are available... for now."
Finia took the parchment, but didn't open it. She held it between her fingers, as if it burned. "Thank you. I'll review it tonight."
Corven nodded slowly, though he didn't seem convinced. He took a couple of steps toward the door, but stopped before reaching it.
"And one more thing," he added in a measured voice. "It's time for you to choose an apprentice."
Finia sighed.
"I'll do so when I return from the front. I haven't had time to review the applicants."
It was a half-truth. The list had remained untouched for weeks, relegated among other documents that demanded her attention more urgently—or at least, that's how she justified it to herself.
Corven didn't judge her aloud, but his silence did so for him.
"Dyan took too long to choose his, and when he did, it was already too late," he said, as if speaking of another matter. "Don't make the same mistake."
"I'll keep that in mind," Finia murmured, with more respect than conviction.
"I know you will." Corven gave a slight nod and withdrew.
The door closed, and Finia was left alone with the mana stone, the unopened list, and the persistent feeling that time was slipping through her fingers like arcane water.
In the solitude of what was now her office, Finia felt for the first time, with her whole body, the weight of the office, of duty, of her own decisions. She wondered if her master had felt the same in those first nights after inheriting the Archmage's mantle. Surely yes. He, so serene and wise, must also have broken in silence at some point.
She remembered with a pang in her chest the days when she was just an apprentice, when everything seemed simpler. Days were longer, happier, and no one depended on her. Now every decision she made seemed to unleash a domino effect across the entire kingdom, and magic, her beloved magic, was barely a corner she snuck into between absurd requests, forced audiences, and letters marked with urgency seals.
As night fell upon the Tower, with its faint blue mantle over the enchanted stained glass, the desire to flee grew like a dark root inside her. To run away. To disappear. To be nobody again. But she remained there, with her back straight and her fists clenched. She repeated it to herself every day: I deserve this, I earned this. And perhaps it was true… or perhaps it was just a litany to avoid giving up.
How had her master endured so many years? And old Edictus, even more so? Would anyone judge her if she abandoned the post? Yes, they would. But not Corven. Corven would gladly take over. He would sit in her chair and reorganize the entire Tower in a week, while quietly calling her "idealist." And perhaps he would be right.
She opened the desk drawer, almost without thinking, and pulled out a sheet of paper. She took the quill, dipped it in ink, and as she placed the tip on the white surface, something loosened in her chest. She was going to write, not as Archmistress, but as the child who still lived inside her. The one who still needed someone to hold her.
Dear Master,
My last letter I wrote as Archmistress. This one I write as your eternal apprentice, wounded, tired, dragged down by the difficulties of an office for which I believed myself prepared, but which I have found impossible to inhabit with comfort. Perhaps it is too soon to say, but these weeks have felt like years. I suppose I was naive, and emotion made me leap into the abyss without looking at the bottom. Today I felt small, and I missed your hand.
I remember when I arrived at the Tower and you greeted me with a smile. Back then I believed everything would be that kind and comforting. Studying with you was such a warm privilege, that I thought the whole world operated under that same light. You made the position of Archmage seem like a fascinating task, a constant flame… and now I see how wrong I was. I miss your voice, your calm, your hand on my head. I miss having you near so I could complain without guilt. Now I feel alone, and I understand that you never complained to anyone… not even to me.
Forgive me for faltering. I didn't want this weight to bend me, but it has hurt more than I imagined. I am also writing to you because I don't know who else to turn to. You are the closest thing to a father I have ever had, and it pains me to say it: I feel defeated. I know you would understand this moment of weakness. I know you would not judge me. If magic could carry my thoughts to you, you would be by my side now, holding me as you did so many times.
I miss you. I am crying as I write this, and it's hard for me to admit it, but why should I lie to you? I don't want you to think I'm a rock. I am simply Finia. Despite the title and the golden seals, I am still, often, the child you carried in your arms to see the stars… the one who ran through the wheat fields believing every ear was an enchantment.
Could you carry me again?
If you saw me now, you would laugh. My eyes are swollen and my nose is red. I look like an apprentice after failing an exam.
I await your reply… though I haven't even sent this letter. I write it out of desperation. Not a little. A lot.
Your apprentice misses you terribly, your little one… your daughter? I wish I could believe so.
Finia.
---------------------------------------------------
The next morning, before Finia had even gathered the courage to seal and send her letter, someone knocked at her office door. It was a timid knock, two dry and hesitant taps, as if fearing to disturb.
"Come in," she said, thinking it would be another urgent document, another demand, another dilemma.
The door opened cautiously, and through it peeked a young man in a blue robe, his cheeks flushed with effort and his hair disheveled by the wind from the stairs. He was breathing heavily, a letter extended in his trembling hand.
"Sorry..." he said, trying to compose his expression. "They told me to bring it myself. It's from the Archmaster... from... from Dyan."
The young man hesitated on the name, as if naming Dyan without a title felt disrespectful, or simply incorrect.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what to call him now," he added quickly, lowering his gaze. "He doesn't live here anymore... and there's no new title, right?"
Finia offered a faint smile. She stroked the unopened letter and looked at the young man with something between tenderness and melancholy. "Don't worry. Call him whatever you like. He doesn't get angry about such things," she replied softly.
The apprentice nodded, still breathless. Finia observed him more closely. There was something in his posture, in the way his emotion escaped through his eyes and hands, that felt familiar. She saw herself reflected in him, years ago, climbing those same stairs with the letter of some spell in her fingers and her heart about to burst with the excitement of a personal task.
"What's your name?" she asked, her voice warm.
"Lucen, ma'am... well, Archmistress," he replied with a nervous smile, giving a brief, clumsy bow. "I've been on the second floor of the Tower for five years. I study runic invocation and elemental transmutation... though I struggle more with the astral calculation part," he added without knowing why, as if every extra word served to justify his presence there.
Finia suppressed a laugh. Her lips curved into a genuine smile, the first in days. "Lucen. Nice to meet you. You did well," she said, taking the letter with both hands, as if it were something sacred.
Lucen seemed to light up. He bid farewell with a final quick bow and ran out of the office with the same energy with which he had arrived.
Finia, alone again, looked at the letter. She didn't open it immediately. She held it against her chest for a few seconds, closed her eyes... and couldn't help but think that Dyan, as always, had anticipated her. That, even without having read her words yet, he already knew she needed him.
With steady hands, she broke the seal. As soon as she pulled the parchment from the envelope, a silver coin with arcane symbols fell onto her desk. She looked at it for a few moments and tried to decipher the inscriptions, but she didn't recognize them... except for a vague sensation, an echo that took her to another time.
She opened the letter in a hurry. Her fingers seemed clumsy as she unfolded it before her eyes.
Dear Finia, now my favorite Archmage:
I write to you excited. What you hold in your hands is the first advancement of one of my works forgotten for years. I am sure it intrigues you as much as it does me.
Here in Glavendell, in Edictus's house—which I now want to believe is mine—the old master left inscriptions in the foundations. Now that I have begun to reconstruct it and study them, I discovered that he thought the same as I did. Coincidence? Perhaps. Or perhaps he saw further than I ever did. I don't know, but I'm beginning to understand that Edictus kept many secrets.
Surely you remember one of my abandoned projects: temporal-spatial magic. Well, Edictus worked on it here. It was little, but enough to advance a part I had never managed to solve. I like to think it's his last gift.
With his help and what I already had, I created that coin you hold in your hands. It's just a first step. I keep another identical one here, in Glavendell. If you imbue it with your magic, it will record a phrase that will resonate here. For now, it only supports up to five words and needs a full day to recharge.
But... to hear your voice would be a wonderful gift.
Try it. I'm sure you'll be as amazed as I am. Because magic is like that: it always surprises us, especially when we think we've seen everything.
I wrote this in a hurry, out of excitement. I hope you'll excuse the brevity.
You know I miss you very much. Perhaps it's too soon for a vacation, but I'm sure you'd love Glavendell. Do you remember when we used to walk through the wheat fields? You'd run happily among the ears... sometimes you'd hide, and my heart would pound to the point of delirium.
I suppose you are the closest thing to a daughter to me. You know I adore you. Maybe I didn't say it enough... but it's never too late to do so.
My little Finia, my sweet girl... You brought me more joy than I deserved. I hope you share this one with me too. That's why you're the first I'm telling.
He loves you more than you know.
Simply,
Dyan
Upon finishing reading, Finia felt her chest heave strongly, as if her heart were trying to escape between her ribs. She picked up the coin, imbued it with her arcane magic, and the silver piece glowed with a subtle radiance.
"I miss you so much, Dad..."
She said it without thinking too much, but it was what her heart had pushed her to utter, her chest swelling and her eyes heavy with tears that refused to fall. She held the coin before her, pressing her lips together, waiting for a response.
Then the coin glowed again... and her master's pristine, affectionate voice filled the office.
"Me too, my little one. Courage."
Finia squeezed the coin tightly in her hand. She leaned on the desk and imbued it with her magic again. Once more, Dyan's voice resonated in the room.
"Me too, my little one. Courage."
She listened to it several times, as she cried with a smile on her face. It was exactly what she needed. Dyan had always thought of her, had always supported her... even now.
Why had she doubted?
She wiped away her tears without letting go of the coin and prepared to continue.
She wasn't alone. She never had been. She smiled, because that precious memory resonated clearly again...
...The sun gilded the fields like an ocean of living wheat. On the outskirts of Scabia, far from the Tower's white marble and the corridors filled with spells and adult voices, the wheat fields stretched in a calm sway. It was a clear day, with hardly any clouds, and the wind caressed the grass with a tenderness that seemed magical.
Dyan, then a young wizard of twenty-four, walked the path with Finia on his shoulders. She was eight years old and laughed as if every breath of wind were a secret caress from the world.
"Are you going to let me run, or are you going to carry me the whole way, Archmage Dyan?" she said, in a challenging tone.
"Archmage, huh? You're already inventing titles," he replied, laughing. "If I let you run, you'll disappear among the wheat stalks. You're shorter than a wheat stem."
Finia pouted, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, she ran off. The wheat stalks immediately enveloped her, leaving barely a trace of the red ribbon in her hair.
"Finia!" he shouted, still smiling. "Don't go too far!"
But she didn't answer. Silence. Only the whisper of the wind in the fields.
Dyan walked among the tall plants, parting them with his hands, attentive to the slightest movement. He knew she was close, but not having her in sight made his heart feel like it stopped.
"Very funny, eh?" he murmured. "Now you're playing at giving me a heart attack?"
A slight rustle to his right alerted him, but when he turned, Finia emerged from another direction, running towards him with open arms and overflowing laughter.
"I scared you! I scared you!"
"Of course, you did!" he said, catching her in his arms and lifting her from the ground as if she were a feather. "Little rascal, you're going to kill me."
She snuggled against his chest, still laughing, as he spun with her in his arms, under the clear sky. The world was all golden wheat, wind, and sky.
Then, as he held her carefully and the smile softened on his face, Dyan looked into her eyes and said:
"My little girl, you are a sun to this poor wizard."
Finia stayed still. She didn't know why those words filled her with such a strange, sweet warmth. As if she had just received an invisible gift, a bond no one else could see. She said nothing, just rested her head on Dyan's shoulder, feeling his heart beat strong and steady, like a drum marking the world's pace.
Years later, Finia still remembered that day. She remembered the smell of the wheat, the laughter caught in her throat, Dyan's arms around her, and that simple, so-his phrase.
"My little girl."
She remembered it clearly... though, sometimes, those memories hid from her. As if they, too, played at getting lost among the ears of daily occupations and bustle.