The Tower of Magic.
A testament to human ambition, it pierced the skies near the Imperial Palace of the Slatemark Empire, a kilometer-tall monument to the pinnacle of magical research in the Central Continent. Its two hundred floors housed libraries, laboratories, and training halls that were the envy of the magical world.
And yet, its true brilliance lay not in its visible grandeur but in the clever manipulation of space within. Spatial runes, painstakingly inscribed by generations of the finest mages, had rendered its interior vast beyond comprehension, a labyrinth of endless possibility.
At its summit, occupying an entire floor that served as her office, home, and sanctuary, was Archmage Charlotte—the Zenith of Magic.
She was not in her element.
"Ugh," Charlotte muttered, her emerald eyes squinting at a holographic display that floated lazily before her. Her fiery red hair was pulled into a loose braid that suggested she'd stopped caring hours ago. "I didn't sign up for this," she grumbled, pushing the display aside with a wave of her hand as though shooing away an annoying mosquito.
The Archmage turned her attention to the panoramic windows surrounding her. Beyond them, the city sprawled like a living organism, its veins lit by the glow of electric lights. Her gaze wandered higher, to the night sky, where the moon hung like a beacon of untouchable promise.
"I should've gone to the moon base," she muttered, a petulant pout forming on her lips. "But no, they had to send the Deputy Tower Master instead. Too risky for me, they said. What if the spatial pathway fails? What if I'm stranded?" She threw her arms up in mock panic before slumping dramatically into her chair.
"Idiots," she concluded, drumming her fingers on the polished surface of her desk.
The moon, after all, sounded far more interesting than Earth at the moment. The idea of escaping her responsibilities for a desolate frontier where only the truly brilliant—or foolhardy—dared tread was deeply appealing.
Her sulking was interrupted by the abrupt chime of an incoming call. The holographic display reappeared, glowing insistently. With a flick of her wrist, Charlotte accepted it.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice flat with the kind of exasperation that comes only to those perpetually in demand.
"Tower Master!" her assistant's voice crackled with the kind of urgency that set alarm bells ringing. "Emergency! The princess of the Slatemark Empire is here and demanding to meet you!"
Charlotte groaned, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temples. "Send her back. She can't just waltz in here because she feels like it."
The assistant hesitated. "Tower Master… she has that letter."
Charlotte froze, her irritation dissolving like a spell undone. Slowly, she sat upright, her emerald eyes narrowing.
"You're joking," she said, though she already knew her assistant wasn't.
"No, Tower Master. She handed it over personally. It bears the Emperor's personal seal."
Charlotte's lips pressed into a thin line, her earlier laziness replaced by simmering annoyance. "Quinn," she muttered darkly, "you absolute idiot."
A favour was a precious thing, not to be squandered lightly. For him to use that letter, one of the rarest currencies of obligation, over something as mundane as a visit from his daughter? Charlotte couldn't decide whether to laugh or send a storm spell his way for wasting her time.
"Fine," she said curtly. "Send her in."
As the call disconnected, Charlotte leaned back in her chair once more, though her posture was far from relaxed. Her emerald gaze flickered toward the door, now anticipating the inevitable disruption.
"Let's see what's so important," she muttered. And with that, she prepared to meet a princess who dared to bring a letter she had no right to wield, sent by a man who absolutely should have known better.
The soft hiss of the magnetic door broke the silence as it slid open, revealing Cecilia Slatemark. The princess strode in with the kind of confidence that only a Slatemark could muster—effortless, regal, and utterly unyielding. Her blonde hair shimmered like spun gold under the ambient light, and her crimson eyes seemed to pierce the very air between them.
Charlotte leaned back in her chair, emerald eyes narrowing as she took in the younger woman. 'Not bad,' she mused. Cecilia carried herself with a poise that belied her years, but it was the sheer weight of her mana signature that drew Charlotte's attention. It was vibrant, almost wild, teetering on the edge of high Integration-rank.
The Archmage allowed herself a wry smile. 'At her age, I had just scraped into mid Integration-rank, and people couldn't stop calling me the monster of magic.' Cecilia, by comparison, was poised to surpass that legacy.
"Give," Charlotte said flatly, extending a hand.
Cecilia's crimson eyes narrowed in faint displeasure but complied, handing over the letter bearing her father's personal seal. Charlotte inspected it briefly, her expression sharpening as she confirmed its authenticity. She broke the seal with a precise flick, unfolding the letter with a languid grace.
Her eyes scanned the contents, and her brows furrowed almost immediately. "Do you know what your father wrote in this?" she asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.
"No," Cecilia replied, folding her arms across her chest in a manner that suggested she didn't particularly care.
Charlotte sighed deeply, the kind of sigh reserved for people too important to ignore but entirely too bothersome to deal with. "Of course not," she muttered, more to herself than to the princess. She tossed the letter onto her desk with a flick of her wrist, the paper settling among the scattered holographic displays.
"Well then," Charlotte said, rising from her chair with a deliberate slowness that made the air in the room feel heavier. Her emerald eyes locked onto Cecilia's, the faintest glimmer of mischief sparking in their depths. "It seems I don't have much of a choice."
Cecilia arched a delicate brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Charlotte said, her voice laced with the dry amusement of someone who had seen too much of the world, "that I've just been roped into making you my disciple. Your father's words, not mine."
A flicker of surprise crossed Cecilia's face, quickly replaced by her usual composed expression. "So you'll teach me?"
Charlotte snorted softly, a sound equal parts disdain and amusement. "Oh, I'll teach you, all right. But don't expect me to go easy on you, princess."
The air in the room shifted as Charlotte's mana flared, just for a moment—a subtle, suffocating pressure that reminded Cecilia exactly who she was dealing with. This was the Zenith of Magic, a woman whose very name sent ripples through the magical world.
"If you want to become the next Zenith of Magic," Charlotte continued, her voice dropping into a dangerous murmur, "you'll have to prove you're worth the title. I don't hand out legacies like candy, no matter how shiny your bloodline is."
Cecilia's crimson eyes gleamed, a spark of defiance flickering in their depths. "Good," she said, her voice steady. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
Charlotte smirked, a genuine, wolfish grin that transformed her usually languid demeanor into something razor-sharp. "I like your spirit," she said, turning back to her desk. "Now, let's see if your talent can match it."
And with that, the Tower of Magic gained its newest disciple—a princess with fire in her veins and ambition blazing in her heart. For better or worse, Charlotte thought, the golden generation of mages had gained yet another star ready to burn brighter than any before it.