The second week at Noxspire began for Nox with the realization of a simple truth: the academy was not just a place where magic was taught. It was an entire world, governed by its own laws, with its own hierarchy, its own traditions, and its own secrets. To survive in this world, one needed not only to study but also to understand its structure.
The first lesson that morning was «Classification of Magical Forces,» taught by Master Archenius Crow, an elderly man with a long gray beard and eyes that seemed to see right through everything. He did not wear a robe like other instructors, preferring an old fashioned dark green frock coat with silver buttons, and he always smelled of old books and something sweet, like dried herbs. The students loved him, despite his strictness, because he spoke of magic as if he himself were part of it, as if each force he discussed was a living creature with its own character and destiny.
«Today we will discuss what distinguishes one mage from another,» he began, pacing between the rows without glancing at the notes on his lectern. «You are all here because magic has awakened within you. Some inherited it, some received it through a random surge, some underwent a ritual. But having magic is only the beginning. What you do with it next will determine who you become. And the first thing you must understand is that each power has its own uniqueness.»
He stopped by the board and, with a wave of his hand, drew nineteen symbols, each representing one of the basic magics. Shadow, Blood, Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Ice, Sand, Poison, Rot, Voice, Claw, Ash, Wing, Eye, Pain, Beast, Light, and Rust. The symbols were ancient, angular, and from each emanated a faint, barely perceptible glow of its own color.
«Nineteen basic forces. Each manifests differently in its bearer. Even if two mages wield the same power, say Fire, their magic will be different. One Fire will be hot and destructive, another slow and burning from within. A third will take the form of living creatures, a fourth will simply be a weapon. This depends on the mage's character, their origin, how they received their power, and how they relate to it. Remember this. There are no two identical mages, even if their tattoos look the same.»
Nox listened, barely breathing. He thought about his Shadow, about how it manifested in him. It was alive, obedient, it took the form of weapons, it sensed his emotions and reacted to them. What had it been like for his father? For the other Shadow bearers broken by the Moon Goddess? For the Harbinger that hunted them? They were all different. And all part of the same power.
«Now about the classes,» Master Crow continued, his voice growing slightly louder, drawing the attention of even those who had begun to drift off. «Each magical force has its classes. This is not an official classification used by the academies, but rather an observation made by generations of mages. The class determines exactly how a mage uses their power. The first class is Direct Impact. This is the majority of battle mages who use their power as a weapon. Fireball, ice spear, shadow blade, these are all first class. The most common and the easiest to master. The second class is Transformation. The mage changes the form of their power or, in rare cases, their own body. Shapeshifters, Claw mages, those who create living creatures from their magic, these are second class. The third class is Manipulation. The mage creates nothing new but controls what is already there. Water mages who control rivers, Earth mages who move mountains, Shadow mages who extinguish light, these are third class. The most difficult to master, but also the most powerful in skilled hands.»
Nox noted mentally that his Shadow was capable of all three classes. He created weapons, first class. He changed the form of Shadow, turning it into chains, shields, living silhouettes, second class. He controlled the shadows around him, extinguished light, became invisible, third class. Sylvana had taught him a bit of everything, and now he understood how valuable that was. Most mages spent years mastering even one class, while he, without knowing it, already wielded three.
«And finally, the most important thing,» Master Crow swept his gaze across the audience, and his eyes lingered on Nox for a fraction of a second longer than on the others. «The name. The true name of a mage.»
The room fell silent. Even Reinhart, who usually did not listen to lectures, preferring to whisper with his friends, looked up.
«The true name is not the name you were given at birth. It is the name given to you by your power. Or the name you take for yourself when you become strong enough to declare yourself to the world. A true name cannot be invented on a whim. It must be earned. Deserved. Forged in battles, in trials, in moments when you stand on the edge of life and death and choose who to be. A true name is a reflection of your essence. Of who you have become because of your power, not in spite of it.»
He paused, allowing the students to absorb his words.
«Some mages receive their true name from their power. It whispers it to them in moments of extreme tension, when the mage and the power become one. Others receive their name from the gods, if the gods favor them. A third kind, the strongest and proudest, create their own name. They say to the world: "This is who I am. This is my power. This is my name. And you will remember it." Such names become legends. They live for centuries after the mage's death, and their mere mention makes hearts beat faster.»
Nox remembered the dragon's words in the vision. «When you are ready, you will receive your true name. Not before.» He had not understood then. Now he did. His path was only beginning, and he was not yet worthy of a name that reflected his essence. But one day he would be. One day he would tell the world who he was, and the world would remember.
«Now write this down,» Master Crow said, returning to his lectern. «The nineteen forces, their classes, their manifestations. By the next lecture, you must know them by heart and be able to determine the class of any mage from a description of their abilities. And remember: knowing your enemy's power is half the victory. The other half is knowing your own power. Neglect neither.»
After the lecture, Nox walked into the corridor, still pondering what he had heard. Kane caught up with him by the stairs.
«So what do you think of old Crow? They say he is one of the oldest mages in the academy. He is over two hundred years old and has seen more than all of us combined.»
«He knows what he is talking about,» Nox answered. «And he was looking at me. During the lecture. As if he knew something.»
«Maybe he does. Lady Morvane has surely told the instructors about you. Not everything, but enough for them to keep an eye on you. That is good. It means you are protected.»
Nox was not sure that was good. He was used to staying in the shadows, unnoticed, not drawing attention. But here, at the academy, he became more noticeable every day. First the confrontation with Reinhart, now the attention of the instructors. It was dangerous. But perhaps inevitable.
The next lesson was «Practical Artificing,» taught by Master Irene Vellan, a young woman with bright red hair and freckles on her nose. She was the complete opposite of Master Crow: energetic, fast paced, she spoke as if afraid she would not have time to say everything she knew, constantly jumping from topic to topic. But her eyes burned with such enthusiasm that even the laziest students could not help but listen.
«Artifacts are not just magical trinkets you can buy in a shop!» she said, pacing before the rows and waving her hands. «They are concentrated power, memory embedded in an object, a bridge between a mage and their magic! A good artifact can save a life. A bad one can take it away. And a great artifact can change the course of history. Who can tell me what types of artifacts there are by charging method?»
Iris raised her hand. «Active and passive. Active ones need to be charged with magic before use, passive ones work constantly until they are destroyed.»
«Correct! Five points to the Light faculty. Active artifacts are most combat amulets, protective barriers, weapons with magical properties. They require a power source, and if the mage is exhausted, the artifact is useless. Passive artifacts are rare. They are created by embedding a fragment of the mage's power and work as long as the mage lives, or until the artifact is destroyed. Your False Aura ring, Nox, is a passive artifact.»
Nox flinched. He had not expected Master Vellan to know about the ring. But on the other hand, Lady Morvane had surely warned all the instructors. He nodded, confirming her words, but said nothing.
«Artifacts are also divided by origin,» the master continued. «Created by mortal mages, created by gods, and so called wild artifacts that arise spontaneously in places of concentrated magic. The latter are the most dangerous and the most valuable. They cannot be reproduced, their properties are often unpredictable, and they can either grant incredible power or kill their owner. If you ever find such an artifact, do not touch it with your bare hands. Call me or any other instructor. We know how to handle them. Usually.»
After the lecture, Nox lingered to ask about his belt, inherited from his father. Master Vellan examined it, ran her fingers over the buckle with the Endragon crest, and her eyes lit up with professional interest.
«Very old. Very powerful. And judging by the residual trace, it was not created by a single mage but by several. Perhaps an entire coven. This is a family heirloom, passed down through generations, and each owner added something of their own. I advise you to take good care of it. Such artifacts are not mere tools. They hold the memory of a bloodline. And if you ever want to learn more about your ancestors, this belt could tell you a great deal.»
Nox thanked her and left, feeling the belt around his waist grow warmer, as if it had become alive. The memory of a bloodline. Perhaps one day he truly would learn more about those who had worn this belt before him. About his father. About his grandfather. About all the Endragons who had lived and died protecting their power from the Moon Goddess.
Lunch in the dining hall went as usual, in the company of Kane, Iris, and now Eveline, who after the incident with Reinhart tried to stay close to Nox. She was quiet, unassuming, but when she spoke, her words were always precise and thoughtful. Nox learned that her family had indeed been an ancient noble house but had been ruined after her father invested all their funds in developing a new magic rail line that ultimately failed. He started drinking, then fell ill and died, leaving his wife and four children with no means of support. Eveline was the eldest, and when her magic awakened, she saw it as her only chance to escape poverty and help her family. She sold the last family jewels to pay for her journey to Noxspire and her tuition, and now lived frugally, saving every coin, but never complaining.
«Your magic,» Nox asked one day at lunch. «What is it?»
«Wind,» Eveline answered. «Not very strong, to be honest. I can create gusts, I can somewhat control direction, I can extinguish or fan flames. But nothing impressive. Master Vellan says Wind is one of those powers that awaken late. It requires patience.»
«You have patience,» Iris said. «I can see it. You are one of those who knows how to wait.»
Eveline smiled weakly. «Life taught me. When you have nothing, all you can do is wait and hope that one day something will change.»
Nox thought of Lin, who was probably helping Marta in the tavern right now, washing dishes, cleaning, and at night training the Abyss in the basement. She too knew how to wait. And she too believed that one day everything would change. They were all like that. Broken, but undefeated. And perhaps that was what made them stronger than those who had been given everything from birth.
In the evening, after classes, Nox went down to the catacombs again. He walked the familiar path, past the old door blocked by crates, through the narrow passage, into the round chamber with the remains of an altar. But today he did not start training immediately. He sat on the stone floor, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and tried to feel what Master Crow had spoken of. His power. Not just as a tool, but as part of himself. As something that could give him a name.
Shadow responded immediately. It was there, inside, along his spine, alive and warm. But beyond it, deeper, Nox felt something else. The dragon blood. It was different. Not dark and fluid like Shadow, but hot, dense, ancient. It slept, but every day its presence grew more tangible. And somewhere there, on the boundary between Shadow and dragon blood, Nox felt a void. A place waiting to be filled. A place for a name.
He did not know how long he sat there. Time in the catacombs flowed differently. But when he opened his eyes, he felt that something had changed. Not in him. Around him. The shadows in the chamber had grown thicker, darker, and they were moving, though there was no wind, no light that could make them move. They lived their own lives, and Nox suddenly understood that they were watching him. Waiting.
«Who are you?» he asked aloud.
The shadows did not answer. But one of them, the darkest, detached itself from the wall and slowly drifted toward him. It stopped a step away, and Nox saw something familiar in its depths. A symbol. The Shadow Dragon coiled in a ring. His bloodline's crest.
«You seek a name,» the shadow whispered. Its voice was ethereal, like wind in an empty corridor. «But a name cannot be found. It can only be earned. Wait. Your time has not yet come. But it is near. Very near.»
The shadow faded, and the chamber returned to its usual abandoned, dark self. Nox remained seated, staring into the void, feeling his heart pound somewhere in his throat. He did not know what that had been. A spirit of an ancestor? An echo of power left in the catacombs? Or Shadow itself speaking to him? But he knew one thing: his path was only beginning. And somewhere ahead, a name awaited him. His true name. The one he would earn.