The Arcadium of Echoes looked even more surreal the second time.
Massive floating platforms hovered above waterfalls that streamed sideways into glittering spellstreams. Towers curved like vines into the sky, bound together by glowing bridges of arcane energy. The great Heartspire loomed at the center, humming with a rhythm older than stone.
Caelum was practically glowing.
Darian, meanwhile, had never felt more out of place.
They arrived on foot this time—escorted not by caravan, but on a student's path. They wore matching dark robes tailored to their divisions: Caelum's hem bore the mark of the Omnimagus track, while Darian's tunic was stitched with the silver-iron glyph of the Bladeward Corps.
"Do you feel that?" Caelum asked as they crossed the first bridge.
Darian raised an eyebrow.
"The atmosphere. There's mana in the air here—stronger than anywhere else."
Darian gave a dry chuckle. "Must be nice to feel it."
Their rooms were in different towers.
Caelum was placed in Sage's Hall, reserved for high-potential mages. His room overlooked a glimmering valley of cloud-glass gardens.
Darian was assigned to Ironroot Keep, a stone barracks near the base of the Arcadium's eastern platform. It was humbler—shared rooms, communal baths, no enchantments on the beds to warm the sheets.
He didn't mind.
He was used to sleeping cold.
The Bladeward Corps orientation was brief.
A grizzled instructor named Commander Trask stood before a dozen recruits, all wearing armor in various states of polish. Most looked uneasy. A few looked smug. And all of them had at least a flicker of mana in their veins—even if barely measurable.
Darian alone had none.
Trask walked the line, passing each recruit. At every step, he paused briefly, a small glyph flaring in his palm—a standard field check to measure mana output.
When he reached Darian, the glyph didn't glow.
Trask frowned. "No reading?"
Darian didn't blink. "None."
Trask grunted. "I read low mana before. But none?" He stepped back, eyeing Darian top to bottom. "You must be the Veyne boy. The one who scored a hit on Instructor Rylos."
"Yes, sir."
"Hmph." Trask folded his arms. "You've got one shot to prove you're not a dead weight. The Corps doesn't need spectators."
A boy nearby chuckled under his breath.
Trask turned sharply. "Something funny, Recruit Meryl?"
The boy flinched. "No, sir."
"I didn't think so."
Meanwhile, Caelum's introduction to Sage's Hall was... warmer.
He was already surrounded by admirers before he'd unpacked his scrolls.
"You're the multi-type prodigy, right?"
"You cast with no gestures? That's real?"
"Can you show us a cross-elemental spell?"
Caelum smiled politely, but kept his answers short. He wasn't here to impress—he just wanted to learn.
A girl with flame tattoos across her arms gave him a respectful nod. "Name's Teyla. Pyromancer track. Let me know if you ever want to spar."
A soft-spoken boy with ink-stained fingers added, "I'm Rowan. Enchantment scholar. You're Caelum Veyne, aren't you?"
"I am," Caelum replied. "But... you can just call me Cael."
For the next few days, the brothers adjusted in different ways.
Caelum breezed through his theory classes and joined two student circles. He started crafting simple hybrid spells on his second night.
Darian spent most of his time training alone.
Sparring partners either dismissed him or took him too lightly—and often ended the match on their backs. Word spread quickly that the manaless recruit hit harder than anyone expected.
Still, he ate alone. Slept alone.
Until one morning, after drills, he found someone waiting by the practice field.
She was short, broad-shouldered, and held a wooden axe with the ease of someone used to breaking trees.
"You're the one who fought Instructor Rylos during evaluation?" she asked.
"I am."
"You fight like a spellblade without the spell," she said, grinning. "Name's Bryn. I hate lectures. Wanna spar?"
Darian blinked. "Sure."
They traded blows for nearly twenty minutes. Bryn didn't hold back—and neither did he.
Afterward, they both collapsed near the water trough, laughing breathlessly.
"You're not half bad," Bryn said. "Still not sure how you're here, but... I'm glad you are."
Darian didn't reply. But he smiled.
Later that week, Caelum visited Darian's barracks.
They found a quiet spot near the east wall, where skyflowers grew between cracks in the stone. They sat cross-legged, watching enchanted lanterns drift overhead.
"Made any friends?" Caelum asked.
Darian shrugged. "One. Maybe."
"You?"
"A few."
They didn't say much more.
But it was enough.
Far away, deep beneath the forests of Valmere, the seal pulsed.
Just once.
Then again.
A third time.
The spirals carved into its surface began to glow—faint, sickly red like coals breathing in a pit of ash.
Then—
A drop.
Small. Black. Liquid.
It welled up from the center of the seal.
It shivered. Twitched.
Then it morphed—stretching upward into a shape no larger than a man's hand. Wings unfolded. Angular. Bat-like. Its body skeletal, smoke-like, with ember-red eyes that opened into nothing.
The tiny creature screeched, though no sound left its mouth.
And it flew—darting into the sky like a silent curse freed from a lock.
Back at the Arcadium, no one noticed the way the sky briefly dimmed.
And beneath the seal, the roots grew faster.
Hungrier.
As if the earth itself had begun to remember what fear tasted like.