Martin's hand hovered over the gemstone, his voice low and deliberate as he chanted an ancient incantation, each word pulsing with raw, arcane power. The air around him shimmered, bending under the weight of the magic he poured into the ritual. But as the final phrase left his lips, the gemstone remained inert, cold and lifeless. Its surface, once vibrant with potential, was now dull and unresponsive.
A sudden heaviness pressed down on him. The magic he had drawn—power ripped from his own life force at the cost of his existence—was fading. No, worse, it was being siphoned away, drained faster than he could contain. His chest tightened as an unfamiliar panic gripped him.
This can't just be the gemstone,he thought, frustration furrowing his brow. His mind raced, grasping for understanding. There's something else at work here… something far bigger.
He stepped back from the altar, his gaze fixed on the lifeless stone, suspicion gnawing at him. Could it be? Could some unseen force—something far beyond mortal comprehension—be tampering with the very fabric of magic? His thoughts quickened as the realization struck him with chilling clarity. This wasn't accidental. It was deliberate.
The weight of the unknown pressed harder on him. He could feel his remaining magic slipping through his fingers like sand. If he lingered any longer, he would be left powerless.
Martin clenched his jaw, eyes hardening with resolve. There was no time to ponder. He needed to act. With a sharp motion, he threw his cloak over his shoulder and muttered an incantation. His body lifted from the ground, the icy wind biting at his face as he soared into the sky, heading straight for Rotengen.
The landscape blurred beneath him as he sped through the crisp air. His mind churned, grappling with questions. He needed answers. Whoever or whatever was interfering with magic—would soon reveal itself. But first, he had to return to Rotengen.
Storm clouds gathered on the horizon as he flew, dark and brooding. Martin narrowed his eyes, pushing himself harder. Time was running out, and whatever was meddling in the mortal plane had already made its move.
----
Martin landed deep in the icy forest northwest of Rotengen. His eyes surveyed the towering trees and dense underbrush—his mind already working.
He extended his arms, chanting softly. The earth trembled beneath him, the trees groaning as their roots were ripped from the soil. Martin's spell surged to life, uprooting colossal pines, sending them crashing to the ground. Branches and brambles cleared in a sweeping motion, revealing a vast, open space—a blank canvas.
In the center of the clearing, Martin closed his eyes, envisioning his designs. His mind constructed the warships in intricate detail—the sleek curves of their hulls, the positions for masts and cannons. Every plank, every nail, formed in his thoughts with precision.
His eyes snapped open. The next phase of his work began.
With a commanding gesture, the fallen timber lifted into the air. The logs aligned themselves, forming the skeletal frames of the ships. Wood twisted and fused, guided by Martin's will. Under his careful touch, the massive logs reshaped into smooth, hardened structures. The ships' frames solidified, planks interlocking to form hulls.
The ground pulsed with energy as Martin's magic wove the ships together. Every panel, every curve, fit seamlessly into place. The ships took shape at an astonishing speed, their surfaces gleaming, they faintly glowed with an otherworldly light.
But Martin's task wasn't finished. He turned his attention to the finer details—carving intricate designs into the wood, forming masts, and rigging with delicate incantations. Each ship was a masterpiece, a testament to his power and craftsmanship.
Now came the final challenge: moving the fleet.
With a deep breath, Martin summoned anti-gravity magic. A shimmering aura enveloped the ships, lifting them from the ground as though they weighed nothing. They floated, majestic and imposing, high above the snow-covered clearing.
---
Seraphina entered Rotengen, her breath forming clouds in the biting northern air. The city, once quiet and unassuming, was now bustling with energy. Streets teemed with people, the population swelling to 26,000. As she passed through the throngs, snippets of conversation caught her ear.
"Did you hear? Martin's declared himself king," a man whispered, awe in his voice. "And he took down nearly 60,000 knights! What kind of power does he wield?"
Seraphina's brow furrowed. She was shook and hadn't expected this. The scale of Martin's power was beyond anything she had imagined. Rotengen, once in disrepair, was now transformed—smooth cobblestone roads, new buildings with ornate facades, and an air of rebirth hung over the city. She made her way to an inn, then suddenly she looked up in the sky in disbelief.
Gasps filled the air as people looked up to see an incredible sight—ships, massive vessels that defied the natural order, soaring through the sky as if they were gliding on water.
Martin stood at the helm of the lead ship, his regal figure commanding attention even from far below. His sharp eyes scanned the city beneath him, the wind tugging at his cloak, but his focus remained steady. He could see the awe spreading through the crowds, their faces tilted upward, mouths open in astonishment.
"Flying ships... Is this the work of King Martin?" one man muttered, his voice filled with wonder.
"It must be! Only the king could accomplish something like this," another whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Children ran through the streets, pointing toward the sky, while elders, who had seen many marvels in their time, simply stared in silent amazement. The sails of the ships fluttered gracefully, casting long shadows across the city as they flew by, their grandeur unlike anything the people of Rotengen had ever seen.
"The king's power... it truly knows no bounds," a voice murmured in the crowd, a sentiment echoed by many as they watched the fleet glide above.
As the ships reached the coast of Rotengen, they settled gently on the ice.