The study at Darkrune Manor was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that soothed—the kind that echoed.
Jace sat behind the same desk where Lord-Magister Vandryl Darkrune had once lectured, corrected, and praised him. The ink on the master's final notes had barely dried when the estate grew still. The wards no longer hummed with his magic; even the quills seemed to rest in mourning.
Castile entered without a sound, as was his habit, a folded envelope held delicately on a silver tray. "A letter for you, Master Tisserand."
"Thank you, Castile."
The butler inclined his head and withdrew, the door closing with a whisper of finality.
Jace turned the envelope over in his hands. The wax bore a sigil he hadn't seen in years—a stylized A crossed with a quill. House Ariakan. His breath caught, unbidden memories surfacing: summer evenings at the villa outside Suramar, lessons shared, and a girl with silver hair who laughed too easily and looked at him like she already knew the answers.
He broke the seal.
Lucien Ariakan's handwriting was unmistakable—neat, elegant, precise as the man himself.
To Magister's Apprentice Jace Tisserand,
It is with sincere condolences that I acknowledge the passing of Lord-Magister Darkrune. His work, and those he mentored, have left a mark upon our scholarly circles that will not soon fade. In light of your proven aptitude and the commendations recorded in his final correspondences, House Ariakan would be honored to receive you as apprentice to complete your studies. Should you accept, quarters will be prepared at once.
With respect and anticipation,
Lord-Magister Lucien Ariakan
Jace read it twice, then once more, the words threading through the strange hush that had become his days.
He had received offers already—from Houses Navani, Morningstar, even Farondis. But this one… this was the only one that mattered. The only one that tugged something beneath his ribs.
House Ariakan.
Lytavis.
He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. His reply was succinct, formal, but the ink trembled slightly where the pen met the page.
Lord-Magister Ariakan,
It would be my honor to continue my studies under your guidance.
I await your instruction as to when I may take residence at the villa.
Respectfully,
Jace Tisserand
He paused at the end, quill hovering over the parchment. Darkrune's seal lay nearby, heavy with wax and authority that no longer belonged to him. For a long moment he considered using it—the last echo of his mentor's legacy—then set it aside.
No. Not his name. Not anymore.
He pressed the parchment closed without a seal. It would reach the Ariakan villa unadorned, but honest.
Summoning Castile once more, he handed him the letter. "Have this delivered to House Ariakan immediately."
Castile bowed. "Of course, Master Tisserand."
When the butler left, Jace looked around the study one last time—at the shelves, the maps, the faint dust gathering on the window ledge. Everything familiar, and nothing that still felt like home.
He drew a breath, steadying himself against the strange, sharp ache of endings.
"Goodbye, Master," he murmured. "And thank you."
Then he headed upstairs to begin packing.
Elise had just taken the morning bread from the oven when a knock sounded at the front door—brisk, polite, the rhythm of a trained courier. Wiping her hands on her apron, she opened it to find a young runner standing on the step, wind-chapped and dusted faintly with road grit.
"Message for Lord Ariakan," he said, bowing slightly. "From Master Jace Tisserand."
Elise smiled, the kind that could thaw even Suramar marble. "Come in, have some tea while I take this to him."
The runner blinked, surprised by warmth instead of dismissal. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Danyr, isn't it?"
He nodded, startled that she remembered.
"Good. Sit, Danyr. Kitchen's warmer than the hall."
He obeyed—few resisted Elise for long.
She brushed the flour from her sleeves, glanced down at the sealed letter, and carried it through the wide corridor to the study. The scent of parchment and ink met her before she reached the door. She rapped gently.
"Enter," came Lucien's voice—calm, clipped, unmistakably occupied.
"Forgive the interruption, sir, but you asked to be disturbed if a runner arrived."
He looked up from the array of open scrolls. "Yes, quite right. Thank you, Elise."
She stepped forward, placing the envelope in his waiting hand. "He's in the kitchen. I thought perhaps he might warm himself with tea while he waits."
Lucien's mouth softened—not quite a smile, but something close. "Good thinking."
He broke the seal and read, eyes moving swiftly but with clear attention. When he reached the end, a rare note of satisfaction crossed his face.
"Prompt," he murmured. "And gracious. As I expected."
He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, and wrote in his neat, deliberate script:
Apprentice Jace Tisserand,
Your letter is received with appreciation. House Ariakan is prepared to welcome you into residence and resume your apprenticeship forthwith.
Your chamber will be ready tomorrow.
We look forward to your arrival.
Lucien Ariakan
Lucien folded and sealed the reply, pressing the wax smooth with his signet ring.
"Take this back to him, please," he said, handing it to Elise. "And then see that the blue room is prepared. Fresh linens, and have Relith bring a desk and two bookshelves down from the attic. He can use the sitting room as a study."
"Yes, my lord." She inclined her head and turned to go, the envelope balanced carefully in her palm.
When she returned to the kitchen, Danyr was halfway through his second cup of tea, posture still rigid with the discipline of a messenger, but a trace of comfort in his eyes.
"Here you are," Elise said kindly, passing him the sealed letter. "Take a muffin with you."
He accepted it reverently, rose, and bowed again. "Thank you, ma'am."
Elise watched him go, then turned toward the stairs to see about the blue room—dusting, new candles, and maybe a sprig of lavender at the window.
By the time Lytavis passed through the hall an hour later, the room already smelled of fresh air and quiet welcome—the kind reserved for someone whose arrival had been hoped for, not merely expected.
By late morning, the manor had settled into its usual hush. The staff moved softly, voices low in the corridors, still mourning Lord Darkrune's absence.
Jace sat at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, carefully packing the last of his books into neat stacks. The spines gleamed in ordered rows—arcane theory, leyline analysis, magical history, half-filled journals whose ink still smelled faintly of ambition.
A knock sounded, crisp and familiar.
"Enter," he said.
Castile stepped in, immaculate as always, a blue-sealed letter resting in one gloved hand. "The runner has returned. A message from Lord Ariakan, Master Tisserand."
"Thank you, Castile."
The butler gave a short nod but did not leave. Jace broke the seal and read quickly, his expression unreadable until the faintest breath escaped him—relief, tempered by something like resolve.
"They'll receive me tomorrow," he said.
"Very good, sir." Castile's tone was approving in that quiet, paternal way only long service could earn.
"I'll need my other trunk brought down from the attic," Jace continued, slipping the letter into his satchel. "The one with the runic texts. And have the carriage readied first thing in the morning."
"Of course, Master Tisserand."
Castile bowed and departed, his steady footfalls fading down the hall. A moment later, Jace heard him call to one of the footmen below—calm, efficient, certain.
"Fetch Master Tisserand's trunk from the attic."
The echo of it drifted upward through the still air.
Jace turned back to his desk, smoothing a hand over the worn leather cover of his mentor's old ledger. Outside the window, sunlight flickered across the Darkrune estate—pale, cool, and full of quiet promise.
Tomorrow, he would walk beneath a different roof.
Tomorrow, he would begin again.