It is no easy task to lie in front of a Collegiate Inspector, those half-meter-tall owls, specially bred by the enigmatic headmaster of the Academy of Dark Arts. These creatures, standing more formidable than even advanced magical beasts, were more than capable of adjudicating any disputes among apprentices below the level of a formal wizard.
Needless to say, the Academy of Dark Arts was a place shrouded in secrecy, with magical inscriptions and alchemical eyeballs hidden at every turn. Unraveling the truth of a matter, or even reconstructing the details of a recent skirmish, posed no issue for these beings. However, for minor conflicts between lower-level apprentices, it was clearly unnecessary for the Inspectors to employ their surveillance orbs or to recreate the scenes of the battles.
When Elandril presented the medallion signifying his status as an official Dark Sorcerer apprentice, the Inspector chose to quell the matter quietly. What's more, the words that Elandril subsequently spoke served to provide the owl with a gracious avenue for de-escalation. With a grand sweep of its massive wings, the corroded remains of the lower apprentice Yilke, now nothing more than charred residue from potent acid, were whisked away by the elemental wind to the edges of the White Raven Forest flanking the path.
These remnants would serve as rich fertilizer for the subterranean flora within the White Raven Forest. Given the frequent eruptions of disputes and combat among the apprentices at the Academy of Dark Arts, similar sources of nourishment were not uncommon in many corners of the forest.
With a respectful bow to the owl, an entity of considerable wisdom, Elandril ignored the peculiar stares from the surrounding apprentices and made his way step by step toward the dormitory building he called home. His demeanor remained undisturbed, exuding an air of solitary purpose amidst the undercurrents of rivalry and the unpredictable nature of learning within the hallowed halls of dark sorcery.The Pale Masquerade, a spoil of war, now graced the visage of Elandril, clinging to his features as though it had always belonged. Indeed, it was no ordinary adornment but a magical artifact. Upon donning it, Elandril immediately discerned a remarkable shift; his vision was clearer, broader, as if veils had lifted to reveal the world in sharper relief.
...
Within the shadow-laden halls of the Black Magic Academy in Mosobra, the number of apprentices lingered perennially between seven and eight hundred souls. Each year, inevitably, some fell, victims to various unseen catastrophes, while fresh faces emerged to fill their voids. Of these newcomers, only a scant few were children of appropriate age from Mosobra itself.
Astoundingly, over ninety percent shared Elandril's own history; they were not natives of the underground city but rather captives from the surface, seized through diverse and nefarious means by Dark Sorcerers. Each was a child snatched away to this sun-forsaken place.
Elandril himself retained only fragmented memories of his life before this darkness. His luxurious golden hair and handsome features were the legacy of his noble birth. He recalled, too, that upon his arrival in the Dark Realms, he had managed to fend for himself, securing sustenance by leveraging skills uncommon to his peers: rudimentary swordsmanship and unique breathing techniques, disciplines inaccessible to commoners.
Yet, his origins and early childhood were mostly a void in his mind. Apart from his surname and the tender image of his mother that haunted his dreams, little else could Elandril summon from the depths of his memory.
Life in the Black Magic Academy had exacted an exhaustive toll on him. The relentless rigors left scant room for dwelling on a past that seemed as distant as starlight on the surface. For Elandril, the allure of nostalgia paled in comparison to the visceral need to survive, to plant his feet firmly on the path before him and live with all the resolve he could muster.In the shadowed realm of the Black Magic Academy, over twenty dormitory buildings stood as monuments to the arcane. Each of these imposing structures boasted six levels, with eight rooms per floor, meticulously designed for the apprentices of the dark arts.
Within this hierarchical world, power dictated proximity. The stronger the apprentice, the closer their quarters were to the heart of the complex, situated on higher floors. This arrangement wasn't born from a desire for prestige but necessity. Mastery of meditation and spellcasting experiments demanded an environment where tranquility reigned supreme.
Some formidable apprentices claimed an entire floor, their dominance and solitude nothing short of expected. This very struggle for spatial supremacy led to annual clashes among newcomers, intense conflicts ignited by the scramble for desirable accommodations.
Elandril's abode was nestled on the fourth floor of the fifth building, set slightly adrift in the sea of dormitories. His status as a low-tier student belied the impressiveness of his lodgings. This privilege was not earned but bestowed, all thanks to his cohabitant and girlfriend, Lina.
Lina was more than a savior to him. She was his senior, his guide through the labyrinth of magic, and his beloved. In many respects, she served not merely as his mentor but also his muse. Elandril's burgeoning talent in fire elemental knowledge had been nurtured under her wing, honed through years of assisting with her magical experiments.
With a soft "click," Elandril activated the magical crystal lamp. Dim light fought against the darkness, revealing the confines of his room. It was a modest space, no more than seventy square meters. Cluttered with the detritus of countless experiments, stacks of arcane books, an essential washroom, and a dedicated miniature experimentation station, the room felt even more constricting.
However, the chaos was comforting. For every corner of this crowded space spoke of countless hours spent probing the secrets of the universe. Returning here, Elandril felt a genuine sense of relaxation wash over him. Amidst a world of relentless pursuit and power plays, this small sanctuary was truly his own.The air was suffused with a faint acidic tang, one that Elandril recognized immediately as the burning scent of Black Camphorweed, a low-grade magical ingredient. The pervasive odor hinted at alchemical experiments, a touch of arcane mystery lingering amidst the mundanity.
Lina, for all her qualities, was not a woman of order. In fact, during the years of their cohabitation, it had always been Elandril who attended to the tidiness of their shared abode. Her chaos was a silent whirlwind, always leaving a trail that somehow only his hands could, or would, ever rectify.
Scanning the quarters, he noted her absence, a detail that settled in with a mix of relief and an inexplicable longing. Dragging his weary frame, Elandril moved to the room's centerpiece, the substantial bed situated in the very heart of their sanctuary. It was an unusual piece, born from the union of two single beds—a testament to a certain night two years prior, a silent witness to whispered promises and shared secrets.
Perhaps it was the memory of those shared moments, tender and tempestuous, that caused a soft gurgle to rise in Elandril's throat. He shook his head slightly, as if to dispel the images that danced unbidden into his mind's eye.
He placed his recent acquisitions on the bedside desk, a small trove of treasures from his latest journey. Then, with practiced ease, he seated himself cross-legged upon the bed. Before him, he set a large bottle of the intermediate antidote potion that his new mentor, Mosido, had entrusted to him. It was a brew meant to cleanse and protect, its liquid shimmer holding promises of safeguarding against unseen perils.
As Elandril poured the antidote into his mouth, he summoned his Psychic Force, coaxing the tendrils of his power to weave into the familiar pattern of Meditation. This practice was the gentlest path to rejuvenating his Psychic Force and Mana, a sacred ritual that could sometimes even supplant the need for sleep. It was a communion with the energies that ebbed and flowed within him, a quiet pact between mortal flesh and the mystic forces that bound his world.
Gradually, as he sank deeper into the meditative state, his depleted reserves of Psychic Force and Mana began their slow resurgence. Even the venom of the Blue Moss coursing through his veins seemed to wane under the calming influence of the antidote.
Meditation knew no sun nor moon, and when Elandril's eyes once again fluttered open, the new day had already crested. The many hours he had spent in profound communion had worked their restorative magic. His spirit, once frayed and weary, had rebounded, pulsing with renewed vitality. Elandril was once again ready to weave the magic that was the very fabric of his existence.It was only when he ceased his Meditation that Elandril noticed Lina had returned.
"You're back," Elandril murmured, almost as if speaking to the quiet air itself rather than directly to her.
"Mm-hmm." Lina nodded, her response as succinct as her actions were subtle.
There, by the window, materialized a figure intriguing and out of place - a girl standing just five feet tall, her hair a blaze of red, crafting a stark contrast with her icy demeanor. She wasn't one given to many words. In fact, throughout the eight years she and Elandril had shared their lives, nesting in their shared solitude, their exchanges were often clipped, terse — laden with an intimacy not of words, but of shared silence.
In outward appearance and stature, Lina bore the deceptive likeness of a girl in her mid-teens, an eternal youth untouched by the ravages of time. However, Elandril was keenly aware that this semblance belied her true age. From the moment of their serendipitous encounter eight years prior, she had remained unaltered, an enigma defying the natural laws of change.
Whispers drifted from the halls of arcane academies, tales Elandril happened upon, painting a tragic portrait of Lina's past. A mishap during a magical experiment with her mentor many years ago had anchored her in this unchanging state. Her actual age remained a mystery to Elandril, an unasked question suspended in the space between them, much like how she never inquired about his surname or the origins that he, too, kept shrouded.
Everyone harbors their own secrets, concealed within recesses unreachable by even those closest to them. And although Elandril and Lina had known the closeness of shared whispers in the night, a certain candor still eluded their grasp, leaving uncharted territories within each other's hearts.
"Are you hurt?" Lina's gaze, usually distant, sharpened as it shifted from the magic wand and the Pale Masquerade by the bedpost, settling with palpable concern on the bloodstain that marred Elandril's chest. Her brows furrowed, the first traces of vulnerability finally piercing her usual cool detachment.