Elias Varden wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands shaking from exhaustion. He looked down at the half-finished sword on his anvil. It should have been alive with magic, pulsing with power. Instead, it was just cold steel.
He clenched his jaw. Every spell he tried to weave into the blade faded too quickly, slipping through his fingers like smoke. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how carefully he crafted, the magic was weaker every day.
"Is it me? Or is it the world?"
His workshop was once a place of power. The walls had absorbed centuries of magic, the air thick with the scent of burning runes and enchanted metal. Now, all he smelled was coal and iron. The forge still burned, but the blue flames that once danced with life were dim, barely holding on.
He sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. It wasn't just his forge. Across the land, magic was disappearing. Spells that once lasted for years now crumbled in days. Enchanted weapons lost their power. The great floating citadels had already fallen from the sky, their runes failing one by one.
And the world didn't care.
Outside, the city buzzed with life. Machines clanked and whirred, steam hissed from iron pipes, and the glow of electric lights drowned out the old rune-lanterns. The streets, once lined with shops selling enchanted goods, were now filled with mechanical devices—clockwork limbs, steam-powered carriages, towering factories that ran without a single spell.
Elias stepped to the window, staring out at the city of Vareth. A decade ago, this place had been a stronghold of magic. Now, it belonged to engineers and merchants. The old ways had no place here.
"Maybe it's time I move on, too."
A sharp knock at the door made him flinch.
He sighed, wiping his hands on his apron. Probably another collector hoping to buy his tools, or some historian wanting to write about the "last spellsmith." He didn't want to deal with it, but ignoring them wouldn't make them go away.
He pulled open the door.
A hooded figure stood in the rain, water dripping from their cloak. They didn't speak right away, just stared at him, as if making sure he was real. Then, in a quiet but firm voice, they asked,
"You're the last spellsmith, right?"
Elias frowned. "Who's asking?"
The stranger pulled back their hood, revealing a young woman with sharp eyes and damp, dark hair. She was younger than he expected, maybe in her early twenties, but there was something in her gaze—determination, urgency, and something else. Fear.
She stepped inside without waiting for permission.
From beneath her cloak, she unwrapped something carefully, like it was fragile. A soft blue light flickered in the dim room.
Elias sucked in a breath. His chest tightened.
It was magic. Raw, untouched magic.
He hadn't seen anything like it in years. Not in books, not in relics, not in the deepest corners of the world. And now, here it was, in this stranger's hands.
She placed it in his palm.
"Magic isn't gone," she whispered. "Someone is hiding it."
Elias stared at the glowing fragment. It pulsed, almost like a heartbeat. The energy inside was familiar but… different. It didn't hum with the warmth of old magic. It was wild, unstable. It felt like something that wasn't meant to be found.
"Where did you get this?" Elias asked, his voice quieter than he expected.
The woman hesitated. "I can't say. Not here. Not yet."
Elias narrowed his eyes. "You bring me something like this and expect me to trust you?"
"I expect you to listen." Her voice was sharp now. "Because if you think magic is just fading, you're wrong. It's being stolen."
Elias opened his mouth to reply—but he never got the chance.
The forge doors slammed open.
Armed men stormed in, their weapons gleaming—not with enchantments, but with cold, mechanical precision. They moved fast, their heavy boots shaking the floor.
Elias barely had time to react before a gun was pointed at his chest.
"Step away from the artifact," ordered the man in front.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running down his left cheek. His long coat marked him as someone important. Not a common thug. Someone official.
Elias's grip tightened around the glowing fragment. His heart pounded.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The scarred man didn't answer. His cold eyes flickered to the woman. "You shouldn't have come here."
She didn't back down. "You don't own this magic."
The man exhaled, shaking his head like he was disappointed. Then, without warning—
He fired.
Elias barely saw the movement, but he felt the heat of the shot as it passed inches from his face. The bullet struck the wall behind him, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
The woman shoved him backward.
"Run!" she shouted.
Elias didn't think. He moved.
As the gunmen raised their weapons again, Elias grabbed the fragment, tucked it into his coat, and bolted for the back door. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know who to trust—but one thing was certain.
Magic wasn't just fading.
Someone was willing to kill to make sure it disappeared.