“Congratulations on your ascension, Sage Rhys. Your mother speaks highly of your success,” the Word Stone said in Lord Benjamin’s voice. “The reasons for requesting your aid cannot be detailed due to the lack of privacy in Word Stones. We will discuss them in person when the time comes. I will greet you myself at Elmathea’s port, and as a precaution, I urge you to be wary of those you meet during your stay. Some may seek to use you to get to me. I also ask that, until I permit otherwise, you refrain from mentioning your parents. May you travel safely and swiftly.”

  Rhys deactivated the Stone, slipped it into his pocket, and raced to his quarters. All of it rang hollow: the congratulations, the warnings… In truth, Lord Benjamin wanted only one thing: his silence. May the Creator take him! Rhys thought, furious. He would fulfill the task expected of him, within the bounds of his duties as a Scholar—no more, no less.

  Reaching his quarters, Rhys began packing his chest. His robes were already neatly folded inside. He glanced at the books scattered on his desk—some Adepts must have brought them from his dormitory locker during his meeting with the Sage Masters. He left a few behind, carefully placing others in the chest. Before leaving, he paused at the threshold, gazing at the space that had barely become his. Less than a day in this new life, and already he had to leave.

  He had half an hour left and wanted to say goodbye to Alf and Svein. At this hour, they were likely teaching young Adepts in the library. Rhys hurried there and found Alf among the shelves.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Alf exclaimed. “For how long?”

  “Silence!” snapped Sage Librarian Gawa, glaring at Alf.

  “Sorry,” Alf muttered, ashamed, as his students snickered.

  “I’m afraid I have no choice,” Rhys said. “The order comes from Alzam. Without his intervention, the Sage Masters likely wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “Hmm, I see,” Alf grumbled. “It makes sense, sending a new Scholar to serve a local lord in a war-torn country. Your mother must have painted quite a picture for the request to go straight to Alzam.”

  Rhys bit back what he truly thought of his mother.

  “When’s Svein supposed to return from his errand for Sage Avonn?” Rhys asked.

  “Not for another two hours, if you ask me. He sent him to deal with the merchants.”

  “Then I won’t get to say goodbye,” Rhys said, crestfallen. “Please tell him I’m truly sorry I couldn’t bid him farewell. But I’ll write to you both as often as I can, I promise.”

  Alf stared at him, as if weighing something, then frantically searched his robe’s pocket. He pulled out an Exchange Stone and held it out to Rhys.

  “I saved up for months to buy this,” he muttered. “I was going to send it to my family. But… if we’re not there to keep you out of trouble, what’d become of you?”

  Rhys stepped back, shaking his head.

  “I can’t take it,” he said, pushing Alf’s hand away. “You’ve waited so long to speak to them…”

  “I insist,” Alf said, offering the Stone again. “By the time it travels from New Echo to the Mugen Isles, I’ll already be a Scholar. You said it yourself: I’m next, and I don’t plan to make a liar out of you.”

  Rhys sighed, hesitated a moment, then took the Stone. Alf grinned, proud of his persistence.

  “Thank you, Alf. I promise to contact you both every day.”

  Alf burst out laughing, shaking his head.

  “Every day? We’ve got lives, you know. And with the price of Astrate outside New Echo, you’ll be broke by week’s end. Call us when you really need us—that’ll do.”

  Rhys managed a smile.

  “Alright, I promise. I really have to go now. I don’t want to keep the Vice-Admiral waiting, and I’ve got a chest to haul.”

  “Take care, and may the Creator and the Ancients guide you.”

  Rhys nodded, slipped the Exchange Stone into his pocket, and cast a final glance around the library. The shelves laden with books, the familiar murmur of students lost in their reading—it would all be missed. He gave a last wave to the students, then turned and left.

  As he descended Citadel Avenue, carrying his chest with aching arms, Rhys’s thoughts drifted to his early years as an Adept. People wrongly thought Scholars were mere wandering academics, buried in books and scrolls. But every Adept started the same way: rigorous martial training. The goal was to prepare future Sages to defend themselves, for when sent to advise nobility, dodging a dagger was often part of the job.

  In his youth, Rhys had carried loads far heavier than his chest and trekked distances far greater than from the Academy to the Port. He’d been forged in sweat and pain, learning to wield weapons, survive, and unravel impossible riddles. An Adept had to be a strategist, a diplomat, and a warrior.

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  Passing Alzam’s Residence, a nostalgic smile crossed his lips. It was here, before the grand gates, that he’d met Svein in their childhood. Young Adepts would dare each other to sneak as far as possible into the residence before being ejected—sometimes roughly—by Alzam’s guards. Back then, Svein was far more mischievous than now, always slipping through the garden. From the residence’s porch, he’d taunt his companions left behind the barriers with crude gestures of victory.

  Such antics were a rite of passage for Adepts. Rhys caught himself wondering if even the Sage Masters had played these games in their day. A bittersweet pang stirred at the thought. Leaving this city, this place etched with so many memories, was harder than he’d expected.

  He knew Svein would be disappointed not to say goodbye. But Svein would understand. He had to.

  Alf held a special place in his heart, but Svein… Svein was his first true friend. Rhys still recalled that day as if it were yesterday. Svein, standing on the porch of Alzam’s Residence, flashing obscene gestures no six-year-old should know. He laughed, cocky, until a group of older Adepts, prowling the streets, decided to make them their targets.

  The younger boys stood no chance. The seniors threw them to the ground, raining blows. Svein could have stayed safe on his perch, but no. He charged across the garden, launching himself at their attackers without a thought. He bit, clawed, kicked, and punched—a raging demon. Even Sage Scholar Folka, a feared man, still bore scars from that day.

  Of course, the seniors quickly overpowered him. They beat him in return, but Svein, head bowed and jaw clenched, fought on like a caged Ruzhak. Only when the guards, alerted by the commotion, intervened did the chaos end.

  Since then, Rhys had been captivated by the raw ferocity burning in Svein, like a fire ready to consume everything. Yet Svein remained an enigma. Tight-lipped about his past, he always dodged questions. Fifteen years later, Rhys still knew little about him.

  Perhaps, if he ever returned to Celshore, he’d finally ask Svein outright.

  His thoughts halted as he reached the port. It had been years since he’d set foot here, and the place felt both familiar and strangely new. The mingled scents of ?ldave spices, fresh fish, and damp wood filled the air, stirring a whirlwind of memories.

  The buildings lining the docks were a blend of stone and timber, adorned with colorful stained-glass windows and topped with red-tiled roofs. Ships’ sails swayed in the breeze, while sailors’ shouts echoed through the salty air. Fishermen loaded crates brimming with fresh catch onto wooden carts, while others, brows slick with sweat, hustled to load and unload barrels on the slippery docks.

  Nearby stood a towering three-masted ship, its dark red hull bearing the name The Boreal Sparrowhawk in delicately painted blue letters. At its base, Vice-Admiral Parmanil waited, upright and regal in his black uniform, adorned with matching embroidery on the collar and cuffs. His salt-and-pepper hair, swept back impeccably, and his neatly trimmed beard added to his stern demeanor. His deep green eyes seemed to pierce Rhys’s soul, making him feel small in his presence.

  “Sage Scholar Rhys,” he said, more a statement than a question.

  “Vice-Admiral Parmanil, it’s an honor to accompany you on this journey,” Rhys replied courteously.

  The Vice-Admiral inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  “We depart shortly. I’ll show you to your cabin and introduce you to the crew accompanying you,” he said firmly.

  Rhys nodded and followed, his chest growing heavy in his hands.

  The air buzzed with raw energy as Rhys boarded the ship. Sailors bustled on deck, hoisting sails and adjusting ropes under the Vice-Admiral’s sharp orders. Rhys watched in awe. He’d heard tales of life at sea, but never experienced it so closely. The constant clamor of sailors, the second’s shouts, the whistle of wind in the sails—it was exhilarating.

  He followed Parmanil to his cabin. The room was small but comfortable, with a narrow bed, a small table, and a porthole overlooking the ocean. Rhys set his chest at the bed’s foot and turned to the Vice-Admiral, who waited politely by the door.

  “It’s a fine cabin, thank you,” he said.

  “It’s the best we can offer our guests,” Parmanil replied with an apologetic smile.

  Rhys returned the smile and followed him back to the deck. There, he met the crew. Each man was engrossed in his tasks with an efficiency that left Rhys speechless. Every sailor was an expert in his field, their teamwork a seamless spectacle.

  Suddenly, the burliest men hoisted massive sails, their muscles bulging under sun-and-salt-bronzed skin. The creak of taut ropes echoed through the air.

  Meanwhile, nimbler sailors climbed the rigging, gripping the masts. They secured each sail, adjusting tension with a master artisan’s precision, as if tuning a delicate instrument. Their bare feet danced on rough ropes, as if one with the ship itself.

  Those who seemed to be novices scurried about the ropes, hauling barrels of provisions and fresh water to the lower decks.

  The second oversaw the entire ballet. His piercing gaze missed no flaw, no lapse in the crew’s coordination. Every move, every decision was scrutinized.

  The journey began.

  Rhys spent the first two hours exploring the ship, poking into every corner with curiosity, before heading to the Vice-Admiral’s quarters.

  Parmanil sat at his desk, surrounded by nautical charts and reports. He looked up as Rhys entered, fatigue evident in his eyes.

  “Sage Rhys, sit. We have much to discuss.”

  Rhys took a seat, ready to listen.

  “What do you know of the ongoing war between the Empire and the Free Imperial Kingdom?”

  “Recently, very little,” Rhys admitted. “The Academy doesn’t focus on immediate history—it’s too volatile. All I know is the war began nearly three hundred years ago, when the Empire ruled most of the known world. What started as a minor revolt grew into the current state.”

  “Recently, the Kingdom’s forces won a significant victory in the Empire’s south, costing them over three-quarters of their lands.”

  Rhys nodded.

  “Yet the Empire holds the advantage. Their forces are far larger and better equipped than the Kingdom’s. Even diminished, the Empire remains a formidable foe.”

  “How could the Kingdom turn the tide?” Rhys asked.

  Parmanil gave an ironic smile.

  “Between us, I still wonder how the Kingdom’s held on this long. The Emperor’s a vile bastard, but he’s endured three centuries, no small feat. If you ask me, it’s time to strike the Kapital once and for all.”

  Rhys frowned.

  “Surely there are less bloody alternatives, diplomatic solutions…”

  Parmanil’s ironic smirk turned into a hearty laugh.

  “If you know a way to win a war without spilling blood, do let me know.”