The heavy rumble of iron shod wheels announced the arrival of the carriages long before the dust clouds cleared the tree line.
Three reinforced wagons, bearing the banner of Fort Vael'Zareth, rolled to a halt before the perimeter of the orc encampment, or what was left of it.
The soldiers disembarked swiftly, weapons drawn, eyes wary.
But there was no enemy. Only fire.
The entire camp was ablaze, thick, oily smoke rising in choking plumes toward the pale morning sun.
The stink of burnt flesh saturated the air. Piles of orc bodies smoldered along the western edges. On the eastern side, another more solemn line of Elven corpses, or what remained of them burned under hastily piled wood.
Nearly two hours passed before Magisters arrival. Magister Veridan stood still, his expression unreadable, as the scene unfolded before him.
Solmere and Vaelyn flanked him, their faces equally grim.
No survivors. No prisoners. No signs of an organized retreat. Only the sickening certainty of finality.
A sharp clatter of hooves drew attention as the Fort Commander himself arrived. Commander Althar Velis, a hardened veteran clad in dark green command armor, his cloak stitched with silver thread denoting his rank.
He dismounted and saluted crisply, eyes flicking from the ruined camp to the Magisters.
Veridan returned the salute with a curt nod.
Commander Velis wasted no time.
He summoned his officers, barking orders to secure the perimeter, extinguish the fires, and begin detailed forensics. No assumptions, nor easy conclusions.
This was no simple orc raid gone wrong. It was too clean, too fast, too thorough.
Veridan watched silently for a moment longer before turning to his colleagues.
"Our task here is finished," he said coldly.
Solmere nodded. "Military jurisdiction now. We have greater concerns."
Vaelyn scowled, his gaze lingering on the still burning elven bodies.
Without further ceremony, he turned away from the scene.
The Magisters and their aides mounted fresh horses, already preparing their return journey to Starlight Arcanum.
Whatever had awakened in the ruins was not only alive, It was intelligent.
And it was already moving faster than they had anticipated.
--
Far from the smoldering ruins of the orc camp, deeper within the vast, ancient tangles of the Verdant Shroud, Corvin worked.
The clearing he had chosen was isolated, shielded by towering trees and thick mist. It reminded him, in some grim way, of old training grounds on Earth. Places where mistakes were buried alongside the bodies they made.
Here, failure was simply another word for death.
Corvin stood shirtless, boots digging into the loamy soil, arms bare to the cold dawn air. Sweat gleamed on his skin from the focused exertion of true training.
He had time and he would not waste it.
He extended his left hand, gathering a thread of heat between his fingers.
Fire Magic.
A small orb of flame coalesced, swirling, flickering.
Corvin grimaced. It was crude and unstable.
He compressed the sphere tighter, willing the heat inward until it was barely the size of a fist. Then, with a thought, launched it toward a pile of loose rocks stacked twenty meters away.
The orb embedded itself silently, staying there dormant.
Until Corvin snapped his fingers.
BOOM.
A sharp, localized explosion shattered the rocks into a fine dust cloud.
He nodded in approval.
Delayed detonations, unseen traps.
Useful for laying battlefields in advance, he thought, cataloging the tactic neatly.
He turned next to the earth.
Channeling Earth Magic, he summoned a clump of hardened soil, compressing it until it fractured into needle like shards. A burst of force sent them scattering outward. A crude but effective shrapnel blast.
Primitive and messy. But in tight quarters it will be devastating.
Finally, he tested the magic he felt the strongest affinity for.
Lightning.
Corvin lifted his right hand toward a distant, rotted tree stump.
The charge built in an instant, faster than thought. Crackling arcs danced across his fingers, the air itself buzzing.
He sent the bolt to it's target.
It reached across two hundred meters in a fraction of a second, striking the stump dead center.
The impact tore the ancient wood apart, splinters flying in every direction.
Precise, fast and efficient.
Corvin smiled coldly.
Lightning was lethal at range. Minimal collateral damage. No warning signs until it was too late.
It was perfect for him as he was lacking ranged attacks.
He spent the next few hours refining each technique: Delayed fire charges planted beneath leaves and dirt.
Earth shrapnel timed to snap upward from roots and trails.
Rapid succession lightning strikes, shifting angles, minimizing exposure.
Every move, every casting, was controlled, deliberate.
There was no shouting. No grandstanding.
Magic, like firearms once were, was simply another extension of his will.
Another weapon to be wielded.
Corvin stood alone in the clearing, a faint mist curling around his boots, the first hints of dawn barely touching the sky.
He let the crackling remnants of his last lightning bolt fade from his fingertips, and exhaled slowly.
Lightning was his weapon of choice.
But it wasn't enough.
Not yet.
He needed versatility. Subtlety.
Magic, he realized, wasn't simply about throwing bigger fireballs or smashing bigger rocks.
It was about control.
Refinement.
Dominance.
Corvin paused for a moment, letting the memories he had absorbed unfold inside his mind. Thousands of hours of practice, discipline, frustration.
The natives of this world didn't grow strong overnight. There were no 'system hacks', no miraculous breakthroughs gifted by fate. No 'Pills of hunder year cultivation'. Only brutal, relentless practice.
A child began with a flicker. A Novice learned to light a candle without setting the table on fire. An Adept spent years mastering simple battlefield spells. An Arcanist could control complex interactions, combining multiple elemental threads without collapse.
And above them, the Magisters, they had turned mastery into art and warfare, commanding power on a scale that shaped battlefields.
Based on everything Corvin had siphoned, absorbed, and pieced together. He was now somewhere between a strong Adept and a young Arcanist.
His physical stats, B-. His magic control, still rough around the edges, but growing sharper by the hour.
"Magisters," he thought to himself. Those arrogant beings?
They were at minimum B-, and often hovering around A- in core attributes.
Still vulnerable, Corvin thought coldly. Still weak.
With a smirk, he moved into his next series of drills.
First, Telekinesis.
He lifted a handful of loose pebbles, letting them hover with delicate strands of psychic force.
At first, they jittered wildly, slipping from his grasp like unruly fish.
But he adapted quickly, refining the touch, focusing not on brute force but fine control.
He practiced throwing them like bullets. Snapping them through the mist with silent, deadly force.
Second, Air Magic.
Corvin conjured thin blades of pressurized air, invisible slicing winds that could shred cloth and flesh if directed properly.
He shaped gusts to shield his movement, mask footfalls, and confuse scent trails. Critical for future ambushes and escapes.
Third, Dark Magic.
He wove subtle veils of shadow around himself. Minor cloaking illusions, bending light and sound just slightly enough to fool distant observers.
Primitive, but deadly when layered with his natural stealth.
He grunted softly in approval. Though he couldn't understand why shadow or illusion magic was under the banner of Dark magic. He was hoping for Necromany to be honest. Still he smiled bitterly. There were still to many things he does not know.
Piece by piece, his arsenal grew.
Each element was another tool. Each spell another blade to slip into the ribs of this world.
He wasn't just a predator now.
He was a silent storm, sharpening itself in preparation for the true hunt ahead.
Corvin sat cross legged beneath the massive root arch of an ancient ironwood tree, deep within the Verdant Shroud. He thought himself to combine water and fire to have a relaxing shower. Above him, morning light filtered weakly through the mist, casting the world in muted grays and greens.
It was quiet here. Safe enough, at least for now.
He focused on the storage ring he had looted from the Battlemage.
The air shimmered briefly, and the contents of the ring unfolded in his mind. A small, well organized vault of supplies. Several sealed scroll cases, military orders, maps, and tactical assessments.
Spare uniforms bearing the sigils of Fort Vael'Zareth.
Some compressed bread, dried fruit, preserved meats.
A trio of minor enchanted trinkets, a healing charm, a flare pendant, and a binding cuff, likely for prisoners.
A satchel of spare mage crystals, depleted, but easily refilled.
Corvin sorted the items mentally, tagging their locations for quick retrieval later.
He selected a less formal uniform. A travel set used for non battlefield operations.
Better to have a civilian guise ready.
Then, folding his legs more comfortably, he started to sift through the military vault of memories he had stolen.
It was a library. A treasure trove.
Maps of the region from the high spires of Vaelyndor's citadels to the winding trade routes that skirted the edges of the Verdant Shroud.
Knowledge of checkpoints, patrol schedules, border defenses.
The faces and names of noble houses, battalions, merchant guilds.
And beyond the ordered lands of the High Elves... Lurking across the ragged southern borders...
The darkness of Umbraveyn.
The Umbral Synod ruled there, cloaked, secretive, and deadly.
The Dark Elves had turned stealth and psychic warfare into an art form. Their assassins moved unseen. Their mages struck from beyond sight and sound.
Corvin traced the borders mentally, rivers, crags, forests where the boundary grew thin and law faded into mere survival.
If I want true growth, he thought coldly, I need smarter prey.
The High Elves were strong, yes.
But their society was rigid, predictable, armored by tradition and arrogance.
The Dark Elves...They would be more dangerous. More aware.
Their minds would sharpen his own. Their magic would temper his growing arsenal.
Corvin rose smoothly, slipping the storage ring back onto his finger.
The path was set.
He turned southward, deeper into the Verdant Shroud, where the light began to fade and the shadows grew thicker.
Toward the waiting embrace of Umbraveyn.
The farther Corvin moved south, the heavier the air seemed to grow.
The great trees of the Verdant Shroud thickened, their trunks blackened with ancient age, their branches tangled in webs of mist.
Here, the sunlight struggled to pierce the dense canopy. Here, the neat patrols of the High Elven border ceased. Here, civilization ended and survival began.
Corvin moved through the undergrowth silently, senses extended outward like a hunting spider's.
Each step took him closer to the invisible frontier where Vaelyndor's orderly reach ended, and the broken, feral edges of Umbraveyn began.
He had studied the memories, the maps, the warnings. The contrast between the two realms was striking.
In Vaelyndor, magic was regimented, stratified, and controlled. Every apprentice learned under strict supervision. Every spell categorized, licensed, and monitored.
In Umbraveyn, magic was wild. It was a birthright, a curse, a weapon. Dark Elves pushed their bodies and minds beyond natural limits, fusing sorcery and psychic arts into terrifying hybrids.
No central academy. No binding oaths. No safe wards.
Only the strong, the cunning, and the silent survived.
It was said, even in the high towers of Vaelyndor, that the Umbral Synod had perfected assassination to a sacrament.
Dark Elven "scouts" a polite euphemism, had ended more High Elven lives in the last two centuries than all open wars combined.
They whispered of the Night of Glass Tears, when a full Grand Council of High Elven archmagus' had been wiped out in a single evening. By a dozen silent blades and minds twisted into weapons.
Gates were not breached, there were no exchanged spells. Corvin smiled faintly at the thought. He could respect that.
--
The stone spires of Starlight Arcanum loomed overhead as the Magisters dismounted, their travel worn cloaks heavy with road dust.
They climbed the grand marble stairs in silence, the silver gates opening without a touch.
Within, the academy bustled. Apprentices and Adepts hurried between classes, Spellwrights debated theory at open air balconies, the great banners of the Five Continents fluttered in the crystalline wind.
At the pinnacle of the central spire, they were ushered into a solemn chamber. The private audience hall of the Rector.
Magus Anareth Vaelisar stood awaiting them.
He was tall, silver haired, his deep violet robes stitched with sigils that seemed to shift if stared at too long. The air around him hummed faintly. A sign of his command over magic itself.
The Magisters bowed deeply.
"Report," Anareth said, voice smooth and ageless.
Veridan stepped forward, crisp and efficient.
He described the discovery of the fossil site, the strange magic that had unsettled even seasoned mages, the burning of the orc camp, and the complete disappearance of the scouting team.
As Veridan spoke, Solmere shifted slightly, his voice cutting in with a grim observation.
"Whatever it was, it affected the lower ranked mages first. Those without strong dominant affinities."
Anareth raised an eyebrow, inviting elaboration.
Solmere continued, choosing his words carefully. "Most beings, as we know, are born with four affinities. One dominant, one strong, and two lesser. If any were less fortunate... their elemental grasp would be thin, vulnerable."
"A weak affinity network could have allowed this... force to take root faster," Vaelyn added, his tone clipped.
The Rector nodded slowly, fingertips tapping against his staff.
"In the old bloodlines," he mused, "there was greater balance. True mastery over two, sometimes even three elements. Now, it is rare. The best our Academies can produce are specialists barely able to ascend beyond two domains."
He turned his eyes upon the Magisters, sharp as polished steel.
"And what you have found," he said softly, "a relic of an era when balance was... different, perhaps."
An uneasy silence settled in the chamber.
Veridan straightened. "Do we pursue it further, Rector?"
Anareth paused, considering.
"No," he said at last. "The site is contained alrready. The resy is with the army. Spread no rumors. Strengthen the planar wards around Fort Vael'Zareth and monitor the Verdant Shroud. I will send Inspectors when I deem it necessary."
They bowed again, accepting the unspoken dismissal.
As they left the chamber, Solmere muttered under his breath.
"Whatever it is, I hope it will be found soon."
Veridan said nothing.
Some things were meant to be left in the dark.
--
When the heavy doors sealed behind the departing Magisters, silence reclaimed the chamber.
Rector Anareth Vaelisar remained still for a long moment, gazing at the intricate patterns etched into the floor beneath his boots.
Only after several breaths did he allow himself to exhale. Slow, measured, almost weary.
He turned and moved deeper into the tower, past veiled wards and hidden sigils, into a private corridor unseen by the masses of Starlight Arcanum.
At its end stood a door of living wood and blackened steel, guarded not by sentries, but by ancient magic.
It opened at his presence, recognizing him alone.
Beyond lay the Primarch's Archive. The true library of the Academy, reserved solely for the Rectors who bore the title before him.
A record of knowledge too dangerous for the public, too damning for official history.
Anareth moved to the center of the circular room, where a single pedestal stood under muted golden light.
Upon it, a single tome rested: bound in scaled hide.
He placed his hand upon it, and the magic yielded.
Pages turned themselves.
Revealing not formulas or battle spells.
But history.
The secret history.
This world, Valtheris had suffered once. Long ago, before the Five Continents were neatly divided, before planar travel was considered a science.
Ambitious researchers, blind with pride, had breached planes not meant to be touched. They had reached into places beyond comprehension. And something or many things had reached back.
The official histories spoke of the Great Sundering as a natural disaster. But the truth, known to the higher echalon of each race, whispered otherwise.
It was not the earth that had broken first. It was the barrier between sanity and madness.
Whole continents twisted, races broken. Magic itself nearly devoured.
The surviving leaders, desperate to contain the knowledge, chose silence.
They erased the truth, buried the records, to never be seen.
Every planar war, every new ancient ruin unearthed, every unexplained phenomenon, It sent shivers through the hearts of those who knew. And Anareth Vaelisar was one of the few who did.
He closed the tome carefully, the weight of memory pressing against his shoulders.
Whatever had stirred beneath the Verdant Shroud was not simply old magic. It was a tremor, a whisper from the time when nightmares had worn flesh and walked freely.
And if it was awakening again.
Valtheris was not ready. Not by a long shot.