YEAR 1: THE SPARK OF IGNISC
The morning mist clung to the pavement of the City of Valoria, thick and gray, concealing any lingering marks of the century-old war.
In the foyer of Seamo Manor, the air smelled of candle wax and old wood.
Phantsin Dawnfire stood by the front door, his hand gripping the handle of his travel trunk tightly.
He was thirteen years old, but he didn't look it. He was tall for his age, with an athletic build and broad shoulders from early training. His hair was a deep crimson red, thick and rebellious, falling over eyes of the same color that burned with intensity. He wore a stiff dark red tunic, chosen by Ellie.
"You're going to wrinkle it before you even get in the carriage, Young Master."
Ellianora—or Ellie, as he affectionately called her—materialized at his side with that silent grace inherent to her elven race. She looked like a fifteen-year-old girl, but her amethyst eyes reflected a century and a half of wisdom. Her violet hair was gathered in two perfect buns, and her black-and-white maid's uniform was immaculate.
She extended her pale fingers and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on Phantsin's shoulder.
"It doesn't matter, Ellie," Phantsin murmured, his voice wavering between childhood and adult gravity. "It's going to burn anyway."
"These are not clothes for burning, but for presenting yourself," she corrected gently. "Listen to me, Phantsin. You are going to a place where they teach you to kill monsters. But never forget that a knight is not defined by what he destroys, but by what he protects."
Ellie took his chin, forcing him to look at her.
"Do not let recklessness consume the boy inside. Ethics are the only thing separating a soldier from a murderer."
Phantsin nodded, swallowing hard. Before he could answer, small arms wrapped around his waist.
His little sister, Flower, buried her face in his tunic. At ten years old, she barely reached his chest. Her two-toned hair, a mix of orange and fiery red, was messy and smelled of lavender soap.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered against the fabric.
"I have to go, Flower," Phantsin said, resting a hand on her head. "I have to keep the promise."
"Just come back," she ordered, pulling away and looking at him with those enormous emerald-green eyes. "And bring me a story. One where you win."
"I always win," he lied, forcing a smile.
"Enough sentimentality. Time is money, and the carriage charges by the hour."
The figure of Master Seamo emerged from the shadows of the hallway.
As always, he wore clothes that this world had yet to develop: a black tailcoat with silver flecks, a crimson tie, his top hat, and those dark, opaque glasses that hid his eyes, even in the morning gloom. He moved with a predatory elegance.
Seamo stopped in front of Phantsin, studying him the way a blacksmith inspects a newly tempered sword.
"One last thing, Phantsin," Seamo said. His voice was cold, the complete opposite of Ellie's warmth. "At that Academy, everyone will wear masks. The noble's mask, the hero's, the sage's. You wear the heaviest mask of all."
Seamo leaned in, lowering his voice so only Phantsin could hear.
"The fire you carry inside... if you let them see it, you'll be executed before dinner. Filter it. Suppress it. Whatever it takes. Let them believe you are an Ignis prodigy, a brute with too much mana. Never let them see its true color. Understood?"
"Understood, Master."
"Good. Now go. Conquer or die. Both options are educational."
The Arcanum Bellator Academy looked more like a fortress than a school.
Built upon the eastern cliffs, its gothic spires and magitech-reinforced walls dominated the landscape. Military airships floated lazily around the highest towers, and the air vibrated with the constant hum of Aethite crystals.
Phantsin stepped out of the carriage into the entrance courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of other applicants.
Most were children of Valoria's nobility and visitors from other kingdoms. All were dressed in fine silks and velvets, accompanied by servants carrying their luggage.
Phantsin dragged his own trunk, feeling painfully out of place in his rough tunic.
"Well, well. Did they leave the servants' door open?"
The voice was smooth, drawling, and oozed superiority.
Phantsin turned around.
Leaning against a marble column, surrounded by a retinue of sycophants, stood a boy.
The boy appeared to be fifteen, but possessed the composure of a grown prince. He was tall, with sharp aristocratic features and perfectly styled jet-black hair. His eyes were an icy gray. He wore a black jacket with silver embroidery and the emblem of the Thorny Rose of House Blackthorn on his chest.
Solarian Blood.
The boy looked Phantsin up and down, stopping at his worn-out boots.
"I don't see any emblem on that tunic, which means you're a lowly commoner," he said, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Whose boots did you have to shine to get a letter of recommendation?"
The surrounding nobles laughed.
Phantsin felt a sudden flare of heat in the palm of his right hand. The violet fire seemed eager to respond.
Burn him, whispered the Void within him. Wipe that smile off his face.
Phantsin clenched his fist tightly. He remembered Ellie's words. Ethics.
"I have just as much right to be here as you do," Phantsin said, his voice deep.
"Rights are inherited; permission is bought," the boy replied with disdain. "We'll see how long you last when the real magic begins."
"Aspirant Vlad Blackthorn!" called a Proctor from the dais.
Vlad pushed off the column. He walked toward the center of the courtyard, where an enormous Resonance Crystal floated above a pedestal.
Vlad placed his hand on the crystal with a bored gesture.
Instantly, the crystal filled with a black and red fire, elegant and controlled. It was a flame of cold shadow that made the onlookers shiver.
"Impressive," the Proctor murmured, making a note on his clipboard. "Pure elemental affinity. Exceptional control. Ignis Faction."
Vlad withdrew his hand, wiped his palm with a silk handkerchief, and shot Phantsin a look with a raised eyebrow before joining the ranks of those wearing red sashes.
"Next! Aspirant Phantsin Dawnfire!" the Proctor called out.
Phantsin swallowed hard. It was his turn.
He walked up to the pedestal. He could feel everyone's eyes on him: the curiosity, Vlad's contempt, the instructors' indifference.
He placed his hand on the crystal. It was cold.
Do it, he thought.
The moment his skin touched the surface, the Void inside him awakened. It roared like a caged beast, a tidal wave of destructive purple energy rushing toward his arm.
NO!
Phantsin gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He built a mental wall. He visualized filters, floodgates, anything to hold back the violet hue.
He smothered the nature of the fire, twisting it, forcing it to change its frequency. It was agonizing.
The crystal began to vibrate. A high-pitched hum filled the courtyard.
"Aspirant?" the Proctor asked, taking a step back in alarm. "What is...?"
NOW!
Phantsin released the pressure, but only the rawest, hottest part of it.
It was a detonation.
A pillar of crimson fire, roaring and wild, erupted from the crystal. The force of the explosion shattered the crystal into a thousand pieces, sending glowing dust into the air and throwing the Proctor flat on his back.
The fire dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only smoke and the sharp smell of ozone.
Phantsin stood there, panting, his hand smoking.
He had managed to hide the violet color, but at the cost of unleashing an absurd amount of violence.
Whispers began to ripple through the courtyard.
The Proctor scrambled to his feet, coughing and dusting off his robes. He looked at the remnants of the crystal, then at Phantsin, his eyes wide with fear.
"R-raw... destructive... unstable," the Proctor stammered, his voice trembling. "But it is fire, nonetheless."
The man pointed toward the red ranks, not wanting to get any closer to Phantsin.
"Ignis Faction. Obviously."
Phantsin lowered his head and walked toward his new faction. Vlad Blackthorn was no longer watching him with mockery, but with a cold, calculating glare.
Phantsin looked down at his hand, still trembling from the magical detonation, and clenched it into a fist. He had made it in, and if he had to keep lying to stay, he would do it without hesitation.