The image of the scorching red dragon blurred in the mind of the mage, and the spell dispersed into the air.
The mage exhaled slowly.
"It seems I failed to execute the spell again."
He adjusted his stance, boots sinking slightly into the frost-hardened earth. The training grounds lay beyond the academy walls, where stone gave way to exposed rock and wind-scoured snowfields. Above, the sky was a hard, merciless blue—too clean for Caladar. Weather like this never lasted.
He raised his hand and mustered his mana, drawing it upward through his veins as if every vein were a crack igniting with molten fire, until it traveled to his fingertips.
Symbols assembled in his mind. At the center stood a lush green tree, symbolizing the elemental symbol. Around it, different sigils formed, defining the function of the spell itself. The remaining sigils resisted, pulling at the edges of his concentration.
But he forced it and faced the consequences.
His thoughts lagged, and the symbols blurred.
"Again… the cognitive backlash will follow."
The backlash was mild: a brief wave of vertigo, a mild headache in his forehead. That was acceptable. He had stopped before damage set in.
The mage lowered his hand. After some time, the world returned to normal speed.
Around him, the terrain bore the evidence of repetition. Shallow scorches marked the snow where heat had briefly existed. Hairline fractures split exposed stone.
The mage had been practicing diligently. He had been here since dawn.
Behind him, the academy rose, half-carved into the mountain itself. Dark stone, a massive entrance, austere lines—this was the city of Trost, one of the military nodes of Caladar. It was normal for a military school to be built this way; after all, its function was to discipline individuals.
That philosophy extended to magic and to the culture of Trost.
After a moment, he allowed himself to observe the surrounding land. Snow-covered mountains encircled the valley, and below them stood the city of Trost—a fortress city. Many buildings were half-carved into stone. This was essential to defend the city and the border. This city had once belonged to Varkia, an empire that ruled over the middle continent. It had been an authoritarian and brutal regime. Due to internal disputes and rebellions, Trost had separated from Varkia and joined Caladar.
He tried another symbol.
"This time, I will use a grade-two spell."
He visualized the Lord of Storms—a figure cloaked in lightning, hovering within dark skies. Then he visualized the remaining structure and gathered mana from his spirit.
Light condensed, shimmering above his palm. He rotated his wrist, and the solidified light followed precisely.
"Guess I am an expert spellcaster."
He stepped forward and released the lightning.
The light struck the stone ahead and dispersed in a controlled wave. Snow vaporized instantly, revealing bare rock beneath—untouched beyond the intended radius.
"That was efficient."
That was the standard. In Trost, excess was considered a flaw.
Satisfied, he began again.
This time, he altered the internal ordering. Instead of modifying the symbols themselves, he changed their relationship.
When he released the spell, the light anchored—binding briefly to the stone before collapsing inward. Snow around the impact site shifted, drawn toward the center, then fell still.
He frowned.
"I didn't expect this. Perhaps I should try again."
"Perhaps this time it will work."
But something unexpected happened.
A bell rang, echoing through the cold air.
From the academy walls above—
First summons.
"Guess it's time to head to the academy."
He glanced back once, toward the open training ground, then toward the distant horizon beyond the valley. From this height, the land spread outward in layered whites and grays, mountains receding into haze.
"This is indeed peaceful."
But judgments based on appearances were not synonymous with truth. Caladar's history was written in winters that arrived without warning—and wars that did the same.
He turned and walked toward the academy.
A shadow passed across the snow.
It was brief , massive and give one the sensation that it was something divine .
He stopped and looked up.
But the sky was empty again.
After pondering for a moment, he resumed walking.
Whatever had crossed the heavens had done so without disturbance. If it had meaning, it was not one meant for him—at least, not yet.
The academy gates loomed ahead.
Inside, knowledge and discipline waited.
Outside, the world pretended to be calm.
And somewhere, far beyond the mountains, something had already begun to move.