I can't think over the deafening roars of the crowd, their voices blending into a cacophony that overwhelms my senses. The noise is a living, breathing entity, a tidal wave of sound crashing down on me from all sides. Every cheer, every jeer, merges into a single, monstrous roar that threatens to drown out my very thoughts.
But it can't be—he's dead. He died on an excursion to hunt Rogue Mages. For a long time, I clung to the hope that he was merely captured, but it's been a year, and I've lost hope. People often tell me I'm the spitting image of my father, which I see in the mirror every day.
I can't fight him. I won't.
"This will be a fight until surrender! Let the dueling commence!"
The announcer's voice cuts through the din, but it feels distant, almost unreal.
My father wastes no time, launching a wave of energy at me. The air crackles with power, his lips never moving. How?
The wave hits me like a sledgehammer, blasting me backward several feet. The impact sends a jolt of pain through my body, and the crowd's apparent delight at my plight echoes in my ears, a cruel symphony of betrayal.
Sniveling bastards. They switched sides that fast.
I skid on the sand, the coarse grains scraping against my skin, the wind knocked out of me. The grit grinds into my wounds, intensifying the pain. My vision blurs, but I force myself to stand on shaky legs, determination fueling my every move.
Flames shoot out of his fingertips, their heat searing the air around me.
The firelight dances in his eyes, casting eerie shadows on his face.
"HLÍF!" I scream, and a glimmering blue barrier appears in front of me.
The flame rips through it, tearing into me. I feel the sizzling pain and smell the nauseatingly sweet scent of burning flesh. The agony is blinding, a searing torment that consumes my every thought.
This armor was supposed to protect me. I try to stand but collapse, my strength ebbing away. My father menacingly walks towards me, his footsteps echoing ominously in the arena, each step a death knell.
He speaks for the first time. "Yield." His voice, eerily identical to mine, chills me to the core. With the sun behind him, it's hard to see his face. I squint and immediately recoil, discovering that my own face is staring back at me. Shocked I freeze in place my mouth agape.
He, or I, or whomever chuckles with disdain "Strength is not found in the absence of fear, but in the resolve to face it."
Without ceremony, he points his hand at me, and my vision flashes red. The world spins, a chaotic blur of pain and confusion before everything fades to black.
I jolt awake in my bed, drenched in a pool of sweat, the lingering scent of lavender mingling with my fear. My chest heaves, breath coming in ragged gasps. The room is cloaked in shadows, the flickering flame of the candle casting eerie, dancing shapes on the walls. I hope I didn't wake anybody else. The candle, now a mere shadow of its former self, gutters weakly, its light barely piercing the darkness.
I glance at my analog alarm clock, the only light source in the room other than the candle. Electronics aren't allowed on campus for whatever reason, supposedly because magic interferes with devices. I have to squint to see the hands, but it's roughly 5:00 AM. It's early, but I know I won't be able to sleep after that jarring dream.
I stumble to the bathroom, hoping a shower will clear my mind. The hallways are empty and silent, the kind of silence that presses in on you from all sides. The water, hot this time, cascades over me, but it does little to wash away the lingering dread. Is this a sign that my father might still be alive? I'll have to ask Professor Frigg. She's the Seiðr professor and might know something.
"The locker room is deserted, the echoes of my footsteps bouncing off the tiled walls. It's the same unsettling feeling as walking through a supermarket at night, with only a handful of cars in the parking lot. The silence is thick, almost tangible. My wet feet slap against the cold cement floor, each step amplifying the eerie quiet.
I trace my fingers along the cool metal of my locket, my mind replaying the vivid images of my dream and my father's words on loop. The locket feels cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the warm water I just left behind. I quickly throw on my clothes for the day, gray sweats, and leave the locker room, the door creaking ominously as it closes behind me.
The hallways are abandoned, my footsteps echoing loudly in the emptiness. The air feels heavy, oppressive, as if the building itself is holding its breath. Shadows lurk in every corner, seeming to move just out of the corner of my eye. The silence is so profound it's almost deafening.
I wander the hallways, trying to kill time. The nightmare clings to me, a dark cloud I can't shake. I know I won't be able to sleep again, not after that. The eerie stillness of the school in the early morning hours only adds to the unsettling feeling that something is very, very wrong.
Often, when boredom strikes, I head to the training room. But with the Sun still shyly hidden below the horizon, it remains locked and out of reach. Instead, I retreat to my room, where I attempt to read by the soft, flickering candlelight, casting a glow across the pages in all of its lavendery glory.
Reading isn't a pastime for me; it's a pursuit of knowledge. Tonight, I delve into Runic Magic: Most Useful Spells for Combat by Bjørn Eriksson. Just as I reach for the book, a low groan from the other side of the room draws my attention. I place the book back down and peer over, my brow furrowing.
Harry is tossing restlessly in his bed, the candlelight catching the glistening beads of sweat on his forehead. I briefly consider waking him, but hesitate, unsure of how he would react. Despite sharing a dorm with him for three years, I don't really know him well.
I dismiss the thought and notice the first strands of morning light piercing through the thin curtains. These golden threads seem to pull us from sleep, whispering that it's time to rise.
As if responding to my unspoken thoughts, a cacophony of alarm clocks erupts in unison, a symphony of discordant tones piercing the quiet morning. I spring from bed, already wide awake, and hurry to start my day with eagerness.
Breakfast runs from 6 to 7:30, so I make my way to the cafeteria, which, inconveniently, is on the far side of the school. I walk briskly down the hallway, my bag slung over my shoulder, and soon find myself in the nearly empty cafeteria. A few early risers linger, but most are still sleeping, showering, or preparing for the day.
The cafeteria is a grand hall that merges the modern with the ancient Norse aesthetic. The high, vaulted ceiling is supported by sturdy wooden beams, dark and polished, evoking the feeling of a traditional longhouse. Above, intricate patterns of runes and mythical creatures are hand-carved into the beams, their artistry catching the soft light of hanging lanterns that mimic the look of ancient torch sconces.
The floor is paved with cool, slate-gray tiles, interspersed with warm wooden accents that provide a sense of hearth-like comfort. Long tables, fashioned from dark oak and intricately carved with Norse motifs, stretch out like the great feasting tables of old. Their surfaces, though polished and sleek, retain the warmth of the wood.
The air is rich with the aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling meats, mingling with the subtle scent of roasted coffee, which fills the room with a sense of hearty morning indulgence. A large serving counter, shaped like a stylized dragon's head, is lined with stainless steel trays filled with an assortment of hearty fare. The clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations blend into a lively hum of activity.
Above the serving area, the menu is displayed on wooden boards etched with runic symbols, offering a glimpse into the day's fare with a touch of ancient mystique. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting legendary Norse scenes, each woven in vibrant hues that contrast with the stone-like walls.
I head to the breakfast line—unfortunately, Runic magic can't conjure food—and select a croissant sandwich. The fare here is surprisingly good for a school; otherwise, I'd have hidden a small oven in my room to cook my own meals.
I choose a small table for myself, where I am left undisturbed. Not that I'm a loser—everyone knows of my exploits in the grǫf. The Dean stands near the entrance, his crisp emerald suit mirroring the color of his piercing eyes. He watches over the room with a vigilance that makes him resemble one of the statues in the courtyard.
Our eyes meet briefly, and I quickly avert my gaze. As I look away, I catch a fleeting smirk playing across his face. I pick at my food unable to push out that dream I had earlier. I see someone approach me and I recognize the slim face, mop of black hair, and seemingly perpetually crooked glasses perched on an even more crooked nose. It's George.
I glance up at him waiting for him to start the conversation.
"Hey, I heard you breathing heavily last night. And I don't want to push any boundaries but..." I cross my arms. "...But I heard you mention your father? Are you alright?" I sigh. Everybody knows my father went missing. It was a huge news event in the world of Runic Mages, he was practically a celebrity. Similar to Liam copious amounts of theories exist to explain his disappearance.
I glare at him. "I'm fine. Had a bad dream is all."
George fidgets slightly, his crooked glasses slipping further down his nose as he adjusts them. His gaze softens, though he still carries an air of awkward concern. "Look, Jace, I didn't mean to pry. It's just... well, it's hard not to notice when someone's obviously troubled. I know how hard it must be with everything that happened. If you ever want to talk or need anything, just... let me know, okay?"
He gives a hesitant smile, trying to bridge the gap his intrusion might have created. "I might not be the best at this sort of thing, but I care. And sometimes, talking about it—even with someone who can be a bit annoying—can help. Or so they say."
I blink. My hand rises to my locket and my teeth clench.
George's attempt to lighten the mood with a small chuckle falls flat, but his genuine concern is palpable. He stands there for a moment longer, waiting for a response, hoping his sincerity might make up for his initial overreach.
Luckily, the Dean's voice, projecting across the cafeteria, diverts his attention from this awkward conversation. We all turn our heads and see the Dean standing tall, his gaze demanding our attention.
"As you know," he begins, his voice resonant, "for centuries, Runic Magic has been scorned as barbaric and simplistic, our practices deemed heathenish, our gods false. They scoff at us when we declare that our power flows directly from Odin himself! But now, we have a chance to prove them wrong. This year," he pauses for dramatic effect, "three other schools, each specializing in a different branch of magic, will compete against us and each other to determine which branch of magic—or at least which school—is the best."
Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd like a sudden gust of wind. "Nothing like this has ever been attempted before," he continues. "And we are honored that they have chosen our illustrious academy to host this historic event."
The murmurs swell into cheers. "Mimir! Mimir! Mimir!" The Dean's smirk deepens. "That is all. Return to your meals and then promptly to your classes."
George turns back to talk to me but I'm already gone having used this opportunity to escape and avoid his confrontation. Being in my 7th year, many classes I have are elective. Naturally, most of them are combative in nature, although there are still a few required courses.
My first class of the day is Rune Casting: Defense with Professor Morgan. He's the dueling instructor.
The hallways of Mimfrœði are adorned with intricate carvings of runes and mythical creatures, their details so fine that they seem to come alive in the dim lighting. These carvings, painstakingly etched into dark oak panels, tell stories of ancient battles, legendary heroes, and the gods themselves.
Modern sconces, designed to mimic the shape of traditional Norse torches, cast a warm, amber glow that dances along the walls, illuminating the runic inscriptions and creating an ambiance of mystic reverence. The floor, made of polished stone tiles inlaid with metallic rune symbols, glistens softly, reflecting the light and adding to the magical feel of the corridors.
Interspersed along the hallways are glass cases displaying relics and artifacts from various epochs of Runic Magic history. Viking helmets, ancient scrolls, and rune-engraved weapons stand as silent testimonies to the academy's rich heritage. Between these cases, sleek, minimalist benches provide places for students to rest, their simple design a nod to modern aesthetics while being carved from wood reclaimed from ancient Norse ships.
Above, the ceiling is a blend of contemporary architectural design and historical homage. Exposed wooden beams, reminiscent of a Viking longhouse, run the length of the hallways, while modern skylights allow natural light to filter in, casting ethereal patterns on the floor below.
Without functioning electronic devices within the school grounds, all announcements and schedules are conveyed through enchanted parchment scrolls that update themselves magically.
As per usual I'm one of the first people to reach Professor Morgan's classroom. He stands next to a student showing the proper form to cast a rune which I know by heart. Feet shoulder width apart, staggered, dominant in front, your preferred hand placed in front of you facing your opponent, and the other arched at an angle still facing them. But most importantly, your mind must be clear. If you cannot think straight, you cannot cast straight, he always says.
"Ah, Mr. Harding, I was waiting for you to come." His arms are wide as if prepped for a hug, but I'm on the other side of the room, his face contorted into a warming smile.
"Miss. Sterling was struggling with form and I was wondering if you could help her." I had no idea who she was but she appeared to be approximately my age. Her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail whether for convenience or preference was beyond me. She has a black shirt on, with a denim jacket thrown over and jeans on her lower half. Not a dainty outfit, that's for sure.
She waved at me in a friendly manner, turning her head to do so. I hadn't seen her face previously because she was turned away from me, but she certainly is attractive. Not that I'm attracted to her per se, but if there were general beauty standards, she certainly met them.
Her blue eyes were calming, like an ocean, and had a story to tell. Her freckles were like a sprinkle of cinnamon on her creamy complexion, adding a touch of spice and sweetness. Her full lips seem to be curved into a perpetual slight smile seemingly able to put anyone at ease.
It occurs to me that I am staring, I blink, feeling a flush of embarrassment. She smirked.
"Uh... yeah sure, I can help her." I smooth out my clothes instantly regretting my clothing choice.
"I'm Jace," I say nodding cooly.
She smiles and holds out her hand, "I know." Her grin widens on one side, "I'm Emma Sterling, but everybody calls me Em." I shake her perfectly manicured hand pausing for a second, that name sounds familiar. The nails are painted the same color as her eyes. It's soft. I let the handshake linger before pulling away.
"Alright, Em." I say walking towards the training dummies, I turn back toward her, "Let's see what you got."
The training room at Mimfrœði, designed for scholars to master the art of Runic Magic, is an impressive blend of ancient Norse heritage and modern elegance, though devoid of any electronic interference. The room is a grand hall with high ceilings supported by wooden beams intricately carved with traditional Norse patterns and runes, their details catching the light from the grand iron chandeliers hanging above.
The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting scenes from Norse mythology, each one woven with exquisite detail and vibrant colors. These tapestries serve not only as decoration but as inspiration, reminding the students of the legendary feats achievable through Runic Magic.
The floor is polished dark wood, inlaid with silver and gold runes that form intricate patterns, marking out training areas and pathways. These runes also serve practical purposes, as they can light up or shift slightly to create barriers or obstacles during training exercises.
Along one wall, there are tall, narrow windows with leaded glass, allowing streams of natural light to filter in, casting an ethereal glow on the room. In the evening, torches mounted on the walls provide a warm, flickering light, adding to the room's mystical atmosphere.
At one end of the room is a raised platform for instructors, with a large, ornately carved wooden chair that resembles a throne. The platform is flanked by massive stone statues of ancient Norse warriors, their stern faces watching over the training activities below.
The training equipment is neatly organized along the walls, and each piece meticulously maintained and stored. Wooden racks hold a variety of practice weapons, including swords, axes, and shields, all adorned with runes. In another corner, there are shelves filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, containing knowledge on Runic Magic and combat techniques.
Despite the room's elegance and order, there's an undeniable sense of raw power and potential within its walls, a testament to the formidable magic being harnessed here. The juxtaposition of the room's sophisticated design with the rugged, primal nature of Runic Magic training creates a dynamic and inspiring environment for the students.
This organized and elegant training hall stands in stark contrast to Mr. Morgan's outward appearance, highlighting the depth and complexity of the institution and those who lead it.
Charred straw training dummies line the farmost wall. They've been beaten, electrocuted, charged, drenched, blown up, and who knows what else. If they could speak they would be wise, they are magically enchanted to be indestructible.
Charred straw training dummies line the farthest wall, their once-sturdy forms now a testament to countless battles. Scorched and blackened from lightning strikes, their straw bodies are singed and frayed, evidence of violent electric discharges. Some are doused in water, their tattered straw clinging together like soggy rags, while others bear the marks of explosive impacts, their once uniform shapes now twisted and deformed. Each dummy stands as a mute witness to relentless training sessions, bearing the scars of fire, ice, and forceful impacts. If these resilient figures could speak, they would whisper tales of fierce magical clashes and rigorous practice. Enchanted to be indestructible, their magic-imbued fibers withstand every assault, serving as an ever-durable, if battered, canvas for the scholars' relentless pursuit of mastery.
She assumes her stance—proper but lacking grace. "BRIM!" she cries, and a torrent of water erupts from her hands. Despite her efforts to control the deluge, she stumbles backward, losing her grip. The heavy stream of water cascades uncontrollably, drenching Professor Morgan from head to toe.
Em and I exchange wide-eyed glances, her face a mask of mortification. Professor Morgan blinks in surprise before bursting into hearty laughter, his mirth echoing through the room. Em's confusion gives way to a raised eyebrow, and soon enough, I join in the laughter. The room fills with our shared amusement as we wipe tears from our eyes.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Professor Morgan dries himself instantly. So there is a spell that can dry me. "Jace, do you know what she did wrong?" he asks, his gaze expectant.
I respond with a nod, "Her feet weren't planted firmly, and her arms lacked steadiness. Also, I suspect her mind wasn't clear; she got distracted, which led to the blast being more powerful than intended." What distracted her I didn't say aloud, although I had my theories.
Em bites her lip, struggling to suppress a laugh, but a small, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Professor Morgan nods approvingly. "Correct. Miss Sterling, were you aware of your mistakes?"
She shakes her head, her cheeks flushed. "But now I am, thanks!" she replies, her smile genuine.
"Now, please take your seats. It's time for class."
Three rows of desks line the back of the classroom. I choose a spot at the front, eager to absorb every lesson from Professor Morgan. Em sits a few rows away, presumably in her usual place. As the classroom gradually fills with students, I settle in, anticipation bubbling.
Professor Morgan stands at the front, his presence commanding immediate attention. "I'm sure you've all heard the news by now," he begins. "We will be hosting a tournament, and I will be training you all for it." He pauses, exhaling deeply. "Unfortunately, not everyone will be able to participate."
A murmur of apprehension ripples through the room. "There will be qualifying matches. Only ten scholars from each school will be selected."
The buzz of conversation grows louder but fades as he continues. "We have three months to prepare—one month for the qualifying matches and two months for specialized training."
He glances towards the door. "We will have three judges from each participating school overseeing the tournament. Please come in."
At his cue, the door swings open. The first to enter is the Dean, whose presence causes the lights to dim, the air to thicken, and a weight to settle heavily in the chest of every student. His entrance is always accompanied by an almost tangible gravity. Rumors swirl about his true identity, with some claiming he is a direct descendant of Odin himself. He stands to the right of Morgan.
Moving to the left of him is a woman, advanced in years but commanding respect with her stern demeanor. She is the Runic Professor. Always draped in elegant red, or green, robes. It's fitting given how those are the school colors. Every step she takes is followed by the click of her heels. Every breath she takes is bathed in extravagance. Whispers suggest she wields ancient runes with power far beyond the common magic we practice. Although we call our spells "runes," they are merely a form of Old Norse Magic. True Runic Magic is much more intricate and potent, reserved for only the most prestigious families. She's said to use true Runic Magic.
Her name, Tabitha Sterling, is both respected and feared in equal measure.