From the moment he acquired his memories he wanted to try magic since the world his current in Verya as they call it host it.From his memories magic is not just about casting spells it was multifaceted and complex , it require both hardwork and talent since inorder to advance in both power and mastery of magic one had a lot to consider and invest in.
He had no time to waste classes were about to start and he had to get into character lest people be suspicious.
Noel sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The room was still, save for the quiet creak of old wood and the soft whirring hum of the aether-lanterns floating above. His dormitory wasn't large, but every detail seemed tailor-fit for someone who once mattered. Someone who once belonged.
The walls were of obsidian stone veined with luminous threads that pulsed faintly in rhythm with his breathing. Books lined floating shelves, some ancient and bound in dragonhide, others newer, still crackling with residual enchantments. Above his bed, a rune-etched plaque shimmered with his name Alistair Vesperion—as if the world hadn't forgotten.
To his left, a writing desk stood cluttered with ink vials, half-scrawled spell diagrams, and a curious metallic feather that twitched occasionally of its own accord. An enchanted mirror leaned against the wall, but it refused to show reflections unless it was spoken to. It hadn't responded to him yet.
His bed, draped in storm-gray sheets and trimmed in silver embroidery, smelled faintly of starroot and old cedar. Beneath the pillows, he'd found a journal—empty save for the first page, which bore a single sentence in his handwriting:
"Find yourself before they do."
He had no memory of writing it.
The potion still churned in his veins. Faded memories drifted like smoke through his mind—battlefields soaked in flame, a blade that howled like a storm, and the haunting glint of a crimson eye in a mirror that wasn't his.
But this was real now. The room. The Academy. His breath.
He stood and crossed to the center of the room, where a soft indentation marked the floor—an aether circle, inscribed in ancient runes barely visible unless magic was invoked. It pulsed faintly as he stepped into it, as if recognizing its occupant.
Noel exhaled, closing his eyes. He reached inward.
There.
A spark.
Small. Dormant. But his.
His hand lifted, palm open. He didn't know the spell, not in full. But instinct guided him. A pulse of mana surged through his chest, up his arm, and into his fingers.
"Ignis."
The word came unbidden, older than speech.
A flame leapt to life in his palm—slender, coiling, elegant. Not fire as he remembered it. This was focused. Controlled. Waiting for a command. Its color wasn't red, but a deep, molten gold laced with threads of shadow.
It cast dancing lights across the stone walls. For a moment, the whole room seemed to breathe with him.
He stared into the fire. It did not flicker. It watched back.
And something deep within him stirred—an echo of a scythe's weight in his grip. A memory of divine fire and ashes.
The flame pulsed once. Then vanished.
Noel exhaled slowly.
Not bad for a first try.
But he knew—this was just the surface. The world was vast, and he had only just scratched the glass. Beneath it waited the truth of his power, his curse… and the answers Verya refused to offer freely.
Outside, the Academy bells began to toll.
Magic class was about to begin.
And for once, Noel felt ready.
The bells echoed like celestial chimes through the Academy's spires, their reverberations slipping through the narrow stained-glass windows of the dormitory. Noel rolled his shoulders once, adjusted the strap on his shoulder bag, and stepped out into the corridor.
The hall was arched and candlelit, with enchanted sconces floating above head height, humming softly with aether energy. Students passed in murmurs and laughter, some with familiars trailing behind them—foxes wreathed in smoke, serpents made of flickering runes, or feathered beasts with eyes that gleamed like moonlight.
Noel walked alone.
Down spiraling staircases, through the Hall of Echoed Names—a corridor where whispers of past graduates murmured advice to those who listened—and out into the open courtyard.
The sky overhead was a swirl of sun-dappled clouds, the academy's defensive dome shimmering faintly as it filtered ambient magic. To the left, beyond the garden hedges and elemental training circles, loomed Hall Veylor, the building reserved for introductory magical disciplines.
Noel paused outside the double doors. A moment of hesitation lingered like static in the air.
Then he pushed forward.
---
Room 5A – Arcane Theory I
The classroom was circular, constructed like an old observatory. Rows of crescent benches ringed the floor, descending toward a central platform etched with a shifting mana sigil. Transparent scrolls hovered in the air above each seat, flickering softly to life as students entered.
The instructor was already waiting at the center—a tall man with eyes like fractured crystal and robes woven from interlocking spell-glyphs. His name was etched in glowing blue letters above his heart: Professor Callus Draeven.
"Magic," he began without preamble, voice smooth as ice, "is not simply energy. It is intention manifested. Desire refined. Without control, it is chaos. With too much control, it is silence. Alistair slipped into a seat near the outer edge. His scroll blinked, then adjusted to show his name—Alistair Vesperion—and a faint readout of his magical aptitude: Stable core. Affinity Undecided.
Across the ring, a familiar voice whispered.
"You're the transfer, right?"
Alistair turned.
She was radiant in an untouchable way—graceful, with a presence like wind brushing through silk. Hair the color of sun-dappled snow, eyes a crystalline blue tinged with gold. Luciana Rookwood. His memory offered the name with surprising clarity, even if the details remained clouded.
"I'm Luciana," she said, offering a slight nod. "You flared mana before the bell even finished. Either bold or reckless."
Noel arched an eyebrow. "Or both."
Her smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—small, but not unkind. "You'll fit right in."
Before he could reply, the professor clapped once. A ring of mana flared outward from the center of the room, passing harmlessly through the students. As it struck Noel, he felt something shift—as if the magic within him stirred, momentarily exposed.
Professor Draeven's gaze flicked toward him. Just briefly.
"Today," the professor continued, "we begin with the truth most schools won't tell you: magic has memory. It remembers your intent. Your fears. Your lies."
A shimmering illusion erupted in the center of the room—images of fireballs, lightning storms, corrupted beasts, a battlefield echoing with dying spells.
"Let's see what you remember, Vesperion."
Noel froze.
All eyes turned to him. Luciana looked surprised—but not shocked. As if she expected something from him.
A challenge.
The sigils on the floor shifted, and the arena called to him.