Dawn's first light found Arin trudging back toward the Academy's gates, the weight of the fragment nestled against his side and the Codex of the First Binding safely stowed. Behind him lay the Valley of Whispering Pines, sealed once more and silent under twin moons now drifting apart. The wyrm's roar was a memory, its power bound. He thought of Lireya's steady hand, of Kalem's guiding path, and of Drayven's proud nod as the seal flared into being.
He crossed the courtyard toward the Celestial Library—heart still thrumming from the ritual's climax—intent on entrusting the fragment to Merial's care. The marble steps gleamed where torchlight met dawn, and for a heartbeat, his coursing triumph seemed as solid as the stone beneath his boots.
But the grand oak doors swung open to reveal a single, low-ceilinged chamber of plain wood shelves and a single lantern-lit desk. The stained-glass constellations, the vaulted ceiling, even the marble floors dissolved into rough planks and chipped stone. Confusion seized him: where was the Atrium? The banners proclaiming Dual-Core mastery?
Behind the desk sat the librarian—an austere woman in plain gray robes whose disapproval cut deeper than any trial. She tapped a stubby finger on a stack of ledgers. "Back again, boy?" Her voice was brittle. "Another fragment to misplace?"
Arin's throat went dry. The Headmaster's office, the Valley expedition, the Twin Eclipse—every soaring victory, every clash of wind-blade and earth-ward, every whispered legend of Althé's sacrifice… it fell away like mist. He stood in rough-spun tunic and patched breeches, bare of gauntlets or blade, holding nothing more than two trembling cores of magic he could scarcely control.
She leaned forward, eyes glittering. "You have two cores, don't you? A white light for wind and black for earth, a freak's gift that can't even buy you respect."
Shame and shock ignited in Arin's chest. He looked down at his calloused hands, remembering the intricate dances of power he'd woven in the Valley—and now seeing only the raw, unshaped forces roiling between his fingers. Without thinking, he formed the thought like a blade in his mind:
May your musty books crumble, and your voice vanish among these shelves.
The librarian's lip curled, but she dared not reply. Arin spun on his heel and strode from the room, the doors clattering shut behind him.
—
The dawn air tasted of regret as Arin crossed the cobblestones toward home. No triumphant procession awaited him, no whispers of "Hero of the Eclipse." Only the steady throb at his temples: the twin pulses of his white and black cores, now jangling against each other like feral beasts.
In his attic room, he lit a single candle and set two glass orbs on the floor—one swirling with white mist, the other with black. He knelt and reached out. The orbs answered, rising into the air as shimmering ribbons of magic.
He willed them to flow together—earth and wind in harmony as he had imagined in that grand illusion—but instead they recoiled. The white core surged forward, forcing the black back; the black writhed, seeking to collapse into shadow. Each clash sent shockwaves through his marrow, leaving him breathless.
Arin staggered back. The orbs rattled in midair, then plummeted to the floor with cracking thuds. His gauntlets and wind blade lay forgotten at the foot of his cot—gifts from a life that never was.
He sank onto the wooden floor, hands pressed to his ears to block the storm within. This was the truth: no Headmaster's guidance, no loyal companions at his side, only the brutal conflict of two primal forces he could not yet master.
Yet in the hush of that small, crooked room, resolve flickered to life. He closed his eyes and drew a long, steadying breath. I will master you both, he vowed to the silent cores. I will forge harmony from this conflict—or be broken trying.
The orbs stilled, their swirls dimming to a gentle pulse. And though he was still a peasant's son—disdained by the librarian and unknown to the world—the real journey beckoned. Beyond shattered illusions, beyond dreams of glory, lay the true test: to command the storm within and to claim his destiny from the crucible of his own making.
Only then would the tale begin anew.