First Sparks

Morning came not with sunlight, but with chimes—an ethereal sound that echoed across the Arcanum like a choir of glass. Kael sat up in bed, disoriented. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Then he looked out his window and remembered: the towers, the floating platforms, the hovering runes humming in the sky.

This was no dream.

This was the Grand Arcanum.

And today, his real training began.

The Lecture Hall of Winds

The first class took place in a wide, circular amphitheater carved into the clouds themselves. No walls. No ceiling. Just open sky and a floor of floating stone. The wind whispered around the students, tugging gently at their robes, lifting loose strands of hair. The sigil of House Zephir hovered in the air above them, turning slowly in the wind.

Kael sat near the back, eyes sharp, trying to take everything in. Around him, other Zephir acolytes whispered, many casting glances in his direction.

He ignored them.

An older woman floated into the center of the arena, robes billowing like sails. Her feet never touched the stone. Her voice was crisp and clear, amplified by wind magic.

“I am Mistress Anya Vale, Second Wind of House Zephir,” she announced. “In this class, you will learn the elemental truths of air. You will learn to walk on the wind, to cut with it, to vanish within it. And when you are ready, you will duel for the right to lead.”

That last line hung in the air like a challenge.

“You are not children here. You are competitors. You are aspirants to power. The Arcanum has no use for those who cling to fear.”

Her eyes scanned the students—and settled briefly on Kael.

“The first lesson is movement,” she said, and raised her hand.

Wind coiled beneath the students like invisible serpents, lifting them slightly into the air. Several yelped, flailed, or fell flat on their faces. Kael gritted his teeth, knees bending slightly. He’d felt this sensation before—on the cliffs of the Outlands, during windstorms that could carry away full-grown men.

He reached for the wind—not with force, but with feeling.

It caught him.

He floated.

Mistress Vale raised a brow, intrigued.

The Duel Circle

Later that afternoon, the students were led to a different arena—this one enclosed by a ring of watching statues, each representing a past Champion of Zephir. In the center was a white-stone circle, no larger than a dining table.

“This is the Circle of Contest,” Mistress Vale said. “Each of you will step inside and face an opponent. Your goal is not to destroy. It is to control. Pin your opponent, disarm them, or force them from the ring.”

She pointed to Kael. “You will go first.”

Kael stiffened. “Against who?”

“Me,” said a familiar voice.

Alric Dorne stepped forward, smirking. He rolled his shoulders, a silver wand at his belt glowing faintly.

“Try not to burn down the arena, Outlander.”

Kael stepped into the ring. He had no wand. No focus. Just instinct.

Mistress Vale gave a subtle nod. “Begin.”

The wind surged.

Alric moved first—fast, faster than Kael expected. He conjured a slicing gust of wind that cracked the stone beneath Kael’s feet. Kael leapt sideways, rolling to his feet.

He didn’t counter immediately. He listened.

The wind was whispering. Shifting.

He raised his hand—and pushed.

A sudden burst of air blasted upward beneath Alric, lifting him briefly off the ground. Kael dashed forward, fists glowing faintly, and struck with his palm open. Not fire—force. A gust erupted from his hand and threw Alric backward.

The crowd gasped.

Alric recovered quickly. His face was red. Angry.

“You think that’s power?” he sneered.

He extended his wand. A stream of compressed air spiraled outward—a spear of wind meant to pierce armor.

Kael closed his eyes.

The air around him bent.

He stepped aside before the wind struck, as if the breeze itself had warned him. He dropped to a crouch, thrust his hands upward—

And the ring exploded in wind.

Alric was flung into the air, twisting mid-flight. He landed hard just outside the ring.

Silence.

Then a chime sounded. Victory.

Mistress Vale nodded once. “Controlled. Swift. Reactive. Kael wins.”

Kael stood there, breathless. The wind still swirled faintly around his hands.

Alric glared at him as he stood, but said nothing.

Mira clapped quietly from the sidelines. A few others did too. Not many.

Kael turned away before pride could twist his expression.

That Night – Beneath the Tower

Kael wandered alone through the lower halls of Zephir’s tower, past wind chimes that never stopped singing. He felt a strange ache in his chest—not physical, but emotional. Something was changing.

Not just around him.

Inside him.

He was strong. But not in control.

That last blast of wind—he hadn’t meant to create something so powerful. What if it had injured someone?

“You fight like a storm,” said a voice from the shadows.

Kael turned.

It was Rynas, again.

“You’re not here to win duels,” the old mage said. “You’re here to master the chaos inside you. Or it will consume you.”

Kael looked away. “And if I can’t?”

Rynas’s eyes glinted. “Then you’ll die before the year is out.”

He turned and walked away.

Kael stood alone under the ever-whispering sky, the wind rustling through his clothes.