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The carriage swayed gently with the rhythm of the road, the faint creak of the wheels beneath us almost soothing in its predictability. The landscape outside the window shifted with each passing moment—the familiar, sprawling grounds of the academy growing smaller, the trees and fields taking over as the road led us southward. I had spent so many years there, in the shadow of those stone walls, yet now, as they faded behind me, it felt as though I had left an entire world behind.

I sat, staring out the window, though I saw little. My mind was elsewhere, lost in the shifting thoughts of what awaited me. My belongings would be retrieved from the mage quarters soon, and the academy had made its arrangements for my arrival in the Southlands. Half a day's journey lay between me and whatever lay ahead. The unknown loomed large before me, and my heart beat with a mixture of excitement and fear. Would I find what I was looking for? Or would the Southlands only offer me more of the same confusion I had carried with me for years?

Beside me, Martha sat quietly, her presence a comfort in this uncertain moment. She had been with me for so long—more of a guide than a companion at times, but always steady, always there. But now, as the journey carried us further from the academy, I sensed a quiet finality in her. She had come this far with me, but the time for her to part ways had come.

"Aster," she spoke, her voice steady, as though she had been holding her thoughts for some time. I turned my gaze to her, startled by the softness of her tone.

"Yes?" I asked, my voice a little too sharp for the calm I sought.

Without a word, Martha reached beneath her cloak, her fingers brushing the fabric with practiced ease. When her hand emerged, it held an envelope—its edges worn, the wax seal bearing a mark I knew well, though I had not seen it in many years.

I took the letter from her hands with a careful, hesitant touch. The feel of it in my fingers sent a small chill through me. The handwriting on the front, scrawled in a hurried, familiar hand, struck me with an unexpected force. My father's. I hadn't seen his writing in years, and the sight of it now felt like an unwelcome ghost. The past, it seemed, was never far behind.

Martha's eyes met mine, her expression a mixture of kindness and something more resolute. "Promise me, Aster," she said, her voice quiet but firm, "that you will not open this until you are safe in the Southlands. Do you hear me?"

I looked at the letter again, as though its very presence challenged something within me, something I wasn't sure I was ready to face. "I promise," I said, though the words felt foreign on my tongue, as if they belonged to someone else. But I nodded, resolute, though the knot in my chest tightened at the thought of what was to come.

Martha's gaze softened just a little, and she placed a hand on mine—warm, firm, and steady. "Do not let it burden you," she added quietly. "The past is not yours to carry anymore. Trust in what you have ahead of you."

I nodded again, unable to voice the gratitude that welled up inside me. The letter—my father's letter—felt like a weight pressing down on me. But Martha was right. I couldn't allow the past to define me, not now. I slipped the envelope into the fold of my cloak, careful to hide it from view, as though doing so would somehow ease the tension that had begun to tighten around my chest.

Martha's eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, her face unreadable, before she sat back against the cushions of the carriage. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words, but it was comfortable—at least for me. In this moment, I didn't need her to speak, didn't need her to offer more wisdom. I simply needed her presence, the quiet reassurance that, even though she was about to leave me behind, she was still there, watching over me in her own way.

For a while, we traveled in silence, the rhythmic motion of the carriage lulling me into a kind of calm. But it wasn't long before I could sense the road changing beneath us, the landscape growing wilder, more open. The distant peaks of the Southlands loomed ahead, their mist-covered tops visible even from this far off. The air, too, had changed, warmer now, with a faint scent of earth and something wild that I had never truly known. It was a smell that spoke of new beginnings, of places far from the confines of the academy, far from the expectations that had bound me for so long.

Eventually, the carriage slowed, and I knew that we had arrived at the point where Martha must leave. She rose from her seat, her movements slow but certain. I stood as well, reluctant to let her go but knowing that it was inevitable. She had guided me this far, but the road ahead would be mine to walk.

"Aster," she said one last time, her voice steady, though I could see the hint of something in her eyes. "I know you have doubts, but I have seen the strength within you. Trust it. Trust yourself."

I could say nothing in reply. There was too much churning inside me—too many questions I still couldn't answer. But I could feel the weight of her words, like a promise, like a bond that tied me to her even though we would soon part.

With a final glance, she stepped down from the carriage, her figure disappearing into the shadow of the trees. I watched her for a moment longer, feeling the tightness in my chest loosen, if only slightly. She was gone, but I was not alone.

And then I turned my gaze to the letter once more. The presence of it weighed heavily upon me, but I kept my promise to Martha. I would not open it—not yet. I would carry it with me, for now, hidden beneath my cloak, but the truth it held could wait.

The Southlands were still a long way off, and with each passing mile, I would learn more about what awaited me. The Mage quarters, Vae, my father, my past—they were behind me now, but I knew the road would bring me face-to-face with them again, sooner or later.

For now, though, the journey ahead was mine to claim.

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The mist hung heavy, a shroud of silver-gray that swirled and shifted as the carriage drew closer to the Southlands. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window, straining to see beyond the endless fog. The world outside was reduced to an unsettling blur, the shapes of trees and rocks distorted into shadowy specters. My heart beat a frantic rhythm as unease curled in my chest.

The letter weighed heavily in my hand, its folded edges slightly crumpled from the grip of my fingers. The wax seal, though unbroken, felt as if it burned against my palm. What would my father have written to me? What could he have known of my path? Had he understood who—or what—I truly was all along? The thought struck a chord within me, the echoes reverberating in the hollow spaces of my doubts.

The carriage jolted, its wheels striking a rut in the road, and my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. I glanced at Cyrus, seated across from me. His expression was inscrutable, his dark green eyes fixed on the horizon as though he could see what lay beyond the mist.

"The fog grows thicker," I ventured, my voice hesitant.

"It is as it always is near the Southlands," Cyrus replied without looking at me, his tone clipped and formal. "Speak less, observe more. You will need your wits about you."

I bristled at his words but held my tongue. The silence in the carriage deepened, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the sudden thud of something landing on the carriage roof. My breath caught as a familiar voice rang out, sharp and sardonic.

"Still brooding over that letter?"

I turned toward the sound, and there he was: the raven. Perched on the edge of the open carriage window, his feathers gleamed like polished obsidian, and his dark eyes sparkled with a mischief that seemed far too human. He tilted his head, his beak clicking softly. "You'll wear holes in that paper if you keep gripping it so tightly."

"Why..." I began, but the words faltered. "Why do you keep following me?"

The raven let out a low caw that sounded suspiciously like laughter. "Where else would I be? Martha enlisted me to watch over you when she could not."

Fascinating, so that is how Martha always was certain of my ever breath. "She enlisted you to be my nanny?"

"Wretched child." It spoke as how a man would scoff.

Cyrus glanced at the bird with a faint smirk. "Your feathered friend has spoken quite of you. It's rare to be bonded to a raven, most sorcerers bond with rodents or reptiles. Never birds."

"A rare treasure, indeed," the raven preened, fluffing his feathers. "Unlike some of the company you keep."

Cyrus's smirk deepened, but he said nothing. I frowned, shifting uncomfortably under the bird's piercing gaze. "Your duty is over now, why are you here?" I asked.

"Only to see how far you're willing to go," the raven replied cryptically. "I swore to your stepmother to watch over you and that duty has yet to be fulfilled on the day of your death."

Before I could respond, the raven leapt into the air, his wings slicing through the fog as he disappeared from view. The carriage rattled onward, leaving me with more questions than answers.

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The carriage slowed, the creak of wheels and the jostle of cobblestones fading into an unnatural stillness. My grip on the letter tightened as I peered out, catching sight of royal guards stationed at the edge of the mist. Their swords gleamed coldly, a stark contrast to the dim light filtering through the fog. They stood in tense formation, their faces grim, their armor bearing the marks of battle.

The carriage lurched to a halt, and the door creaked open. The headmistress stepped out with the air of someone accustomed to commanding the very ground she walked upon. Her silver-gray robes shimmered faintly, as if they had caught the light of the hidden sun. I hesitated, glancing at Cyrus, but he gave me no indication of what was to come

I stepped out after her, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The mist seemed to close in around us, muffling every sound save for the distant, haunting call of the raven. The headmistress raised her hands, her movements deliberate and precise, as though drawing an invisible pattern in the air. A shimmering golden aura began to coalesce around her fingers, taking the shape of a lyre. The instrument glowed with an ethereal light, and as she plucked its strings, a melody filled the air—haunting and hypnotic.

The guards, who had been poised for battle, faltered. Their swords wavered, and one by one, they began to collapse, not with violence but as though succumbing to an enchanted slumber. The sight was both mesmerizing and unsettling, a display of power that left no room for doubt about the headmistress's abilities

"This," she said, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction, "is but one of the many spells you will learn at the academy, should you prove yourself worthy."

"The academy," I echoed softly, my gaze lingering on the fallen guards. "And what of those who are not worthy?"

The headmistress turned her sharp gaze upon me, her lips curling into a faint smile. "They are not given the chance to fail," she said simply. "Now, step forward. The barrier awaits."

I turned my eyes toward the mist, its dense folds writhing as though alive. A shiver ran down my spine as I considered her words. "And if one is not meant to cross?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"They are reduced to ashes," the headmistress replied without hesitation. "The curse is absolute."

The weight of her words settled over me like a heavy cloak, and I glanced down at the letter in my hand. Would my father have urged me forward? Would he have stood here, at this very edge, and believed in my ability to cross? Or had he known, all along, that I was something other than what I claimed to be?

Before I could dwell further, Cyrus stepped forward, his movements unhurried. He glanced back at me, his expression calm and composed. "Do not tarry," he said. "The longer you wait, the harder it becomes."

I nodded, my throat tight, and watched as he disappeared into the mist. The headmistress's gaze shifted to me, her expression unreadable. "You possess more strength than you realize," she said softly. "Have faith in it."

The letter crinkled in my grip as I stepped forward. The mist loomed before me, cold and unyielding, a wall of uncertainty that threatened to swallow me whole. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a desperate plea for courage. With a deep breath, I took the first step, the fog closing around me like a silken shroud.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the air thick and oppressive. The sounds of the world faded, replaced by a strange, echoing silence. My thoughts turned inward, to the letter and the questions it held. What would my father have written? Would it offer comfort, guidance, or a truth I was not yet ready to face? The weight of those unspoken words pressed against me, driving me forward even as fear whispered for me to turn back.

Then, I saw it. As the mist began to thin, shapes loomed ahead. Shadows danced in the fog, faint at first, then growing clearer with each step. A procession of spectral figures appeared, their forms translucent and glowing faintly with a soft golden light. They marched solemnly, carrying instruments that shimmered like starlight—lyres, flutes, and violins—their melodies weaving together in a haunting harmony. My breath caught.

"What is this?" I whispered aloud. Their eyes glimmered, and one figure—a child, her face pale and soft—paused to gaze at me. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound reached my ears. A shiver ran through me as I instinctively reached out, but she turned and vanished into the mist. Were these the same figures I had hallucinated, omens of my future?

The mist gave way entirely, leaving me standing amidst an ocean of vibrant greenery. Acres stretched as far as the eye could see, a living tapestry of wildflowers, towering trees, and rolling hills. The sunlight was brighter here, its golden rays casting dappled patterns on the ground. Birds sang melodies that seemed to harmonize with the hum of magic in the air, and the atmosphere was alive with a sense of wonder.

"This way," Cyrus's voice called, cutting through the enchantment. I followed the sound, pushing past a curtain of hanging vines. When I stepped through, the sight that greeted me was nothing short of magnificent.

The academy stood at the heart of the clearing, a towering structure of marble and glass that seemed to reach for the heavens. Its spires were crowned with intricate carvings that caught the sunlight, and a sprawling courtyard surrounded the main building. Fountains danced with water that shimmered like liquid light, and statues of legendary mages lined the pathways, their stone faces serene and wise.

As I entered the courtyard, I caught sight of an apprentice—a boy not much older than myself—kneeling before one of the fountains. He whispered to the water, his hands outstretched as it began to rise, forming a serpent-like shape that coiled around his arm before bursting into a misty rain. His laughter rang out, clear and triumphant, and for a moment, I imagined myself in his place, wielding power so effortlessly.

"Welcome to your new home," Cyrus said as he appeared beside me, his voice tinged with a note of amusement. "At least, for the next few months."

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The gates loomed ahead, guarded by figures cloaked in black. Their faces were hidden, but their presence was unmistakable. As Cyrus approached, they stepped aside, bowing deeply. Their deference to him was clear, though its reason remained a mystery to me. He was the second born prince of the Mages, not the Sorcerers.

"Why do they bow?" I murmured, glancing at him.

Cyrus's smile held a secret I couldn't unravel. "Some secrets are best revealed in their time, Aster. Come, I'll give you a tour."

As I crossed the threshold, the buzz of activity in the courtyard enveloped me. Apprentices milled about, their robes of varying colors marking their affiliations. Some gathered in groups, their laughter ringing out in the open air. Others sat beneath the shade of trees, their noses buried in ancient tomes. The air pulsed with magic, a tangible force that made my skin tingle

A familiar caw drew my attention upward. There, perched on one of the ornate spires of the academy, was the raven. His sharp gaze locked onto mine, and I could have sworn he gave a mocking nod. "Tread carefully, Aster," his voice echoed in my mind, though his beak did not move. "This is only the beginning.

I shivered, but whether from the breeze or his words, I could not tell. A man in a tailored suit approached, his sharp eyes scanning me with an air of authority. "Name?" he asked, his tone clipped and efficient.

I hesitated, glancing at Cyrus. He gave me a small nod, his expression expectant

Drawing myself up, I met the man's gaze and spoke with as much conviction as I could muster. "Rowena Aster Craft."

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