The chamber beneath the Technizia Regiment encampment buzzed with quiet, contained energy. Cool blue light from the walls illuminated intricate mechanisms—rotating arms, levitating disks, glowing glyphs embedded into metal panels. Arnold followed General Morris with a mixture of awe and bewilderment, his boots clicking softly on the polished stone floor.
"This," Morris began, his voice deep and steady, "is the heart of the transformation."
They stopped before a towering glass panel that overlooked a rail system unlike anything Arnold had seen before. Massive tracks wound in serpent-like coils, and sleek metal trains hovered inches above them, held aloft by invisible force.
"Once upon a time," Morris continued, "our railroads ran on brute steam power. Fire, water, and will. But it was crude—inefficient, dirty, slow. Then came monocrystals."
He gestured toward a cylindrical engine, housed within a transparent containment unit. At its core pulsed a monocrystal—violet in hue, flickering with internal lightning.
"These crystals generate electromagnetic force. By manipulating polarity and mana resonance, they allow us to lift, move, and accelerate with precision. No more tracks grinding under metal. Just flow. Clean and efficient."
Arnold stepped closer, peering into the core. The energy within danced like a storm trapped in glass. "You're saying we've replaced engines... with magic?"
Morris smiled faintly. "With science. Magic, as you understand it, is simply the name for science not yet understood. The line is thinner than you think."
They moved on to the next exhibit—a vast model of the kingdom's power grid. Tiny towers hummed with energy, and simulated rivers spun crystal turbines.
"Mana-reactive water turbines. We channel natural mana streams into these, modulating the flow with arcane-circuitry. Cities run longer, brighter, better. Children read at night. Hospitals operate in every corner of the kingdom. This is more than progress. This is survival."
Arnold nodded slowly. A quiet question crept into his mind: If such wonders were possible, what else lay just beyond understanding?
---
Far above the Technizia Regiment encampment, Doster sat alone on the eastern balcony of the family estate. The horizon was painted with fading hues of gold and violet, stars just beginning to blink into existence.
He leaned on the cold stone rail, brow furrowed.
The conversation with Razdan refused to leave his thoughts. He remembered the mage's voice—not loud, not menacing—but heavy, like a weight placed on his chest.
"Every eclipse hides more than just the sun."
The words echoed, though Doster could not recall the full context. Bits and pieces danced at the edge of memory—a map, a symbol of the moon swallowing fire, a hand on his shoulder.
He planned not to speak of it to Arnold.
"What if the truth isn't meant to be understood?" he thought. "What if it's meant to be carried?"
---
It had been nearly two months since the royal twins turned eight. The halls of the city of Atheron, the capital of Loras, were alive with quiet celebration on their birthday—nothing extravagant, but deeply meaningful. With age had come new expectations. King Kaelion, ever mindful of the shifting tides of Daelion Family's future, had decided it was time for the boys to take the next step in their development.
The Hall of Disciplines stood atop a rocky promontory just beyond the city of Atheron, a half-day's journey from the regiment's core grounds. It was an imposing citadel of white marble and blueglass, flanked by twin towers that caught the sunrise and refracted it in cascading beams of color. The structure itself had once been a fortress during the Border Wars, now repurposed to serve the intellectual and arcane advancement of the nation's youth.
The decision for Arnold and Doster to attend had not been made lightly. Their father, King Kaelion, sovereign of the realm and Supreme Commander of the Royal Technizia Regiment, was often too absorbed in affairs of state and defense. But with recent changes in the kingdom's priorities—shifting more toward internal strength, innovation, and magical development—he had been asked to deliver the opening address for the Academy's new term.
The twins themselves were not strangers to formal learning. Before their enrollment at the Hall, they had been privately tutored within the royal estate. Their education had included classical literature, multiple languages, basic philosophy, and a strong foundation in mathematics and the sciences. Doster, in particular, had always shown an aptitude for abstraction—numbers came to him easily, while Arnold approached problem-solving with creativity and intuition.
It was this grounding that now prepared them—however imperfectly—for the next level of their education.
Clad in his regal navy and gold attire, Kaelion stood on the grand stage before an assembly of young minds, instructors, and dignitaries.
"There was a time," he said, his voice carrying across the great courtyard, "when wars were fought with swords. Then with guns. Then with machines, and even with the sky itself. But even in this age of airplanes and automatons, remember this—victory begins with the mind. The greatest weapon we possess is our ability to think. To imagine. To create."
He turned briefly toward his sons, seated among the incoming class. His gaze lingered.
"And that is why we are here."
---
Their first class was held in a circular room, its walls inscribed with faint glowing runes. At its center stood a tall, slender figure robed in star-stitched fabric, his silver hair tied back, his ears tapering upward with Elvian elegance.
"Welcome," he said, voice smooth and melodic. "I am Veltharion of Rosaria. Today, we forget what you think you know about magic."
He paced slowly, his eyes scanning the young faces. "Most of your kind—humans—recite spells in Vjecan like parrots. Incantations without understanding. Formulas without comprehension."
With a wave of his hand, a glowing sigil appeared in the air—geometric, pulsing with energy.
"Magic is not faith. It is not feeling. It is function. It is a branch of mathematics. Mana is raw data—floating potential. Spells are equations. Casting is problem-solving."
He snapped his fingers. The sigil changed, reconfiguring its pattern. A burst of warmth spread through the room.
"You do not shout for fire. You solve for fire."
The students looked on, baffled. Veltharion handed out mana-sensitive slates. "Modulate this pattern. Direct the energy outward."
Most failed.
Arnold stared at the slate, sweat beading on his brow. He mimicked the pattern, whispered the incantation, but nothing happened. His slate remained dull, inert.
Across from him, Doster's fingers traced the pattern almost instinctively. The glyph shimmered, then ignited in soft golden light. A wisp of fire danced at his fingertips before dissipating.
Veltharion raised an eyebrow.
He said nothing, but his gaze lingered.
Arnold, watching from the corner of his eye, felt a strange mixture of pride and something else—something like envy, or awe. He smiled faintly.
---
Later that evening, under the cool canopy of stars, the twins walked back to their quarters.
"So," Arnold said, kicking a loose stone, "magic is just math in disguise."
"It makes sense," Doster replied. "Every spell is like an equation. You input mana, follow a set pattern, and get a result."
He paused. "Do you think... thoughts themselves can be spells? Like, if you think in the right pattern, you're casting something?"
Arnold looked up at the moon. It hung full and pale, silent in its watchfulness.
"Then what are dreams," he said quietly, "if not unsolved equations?"
They walked on in silence, each turning that thought over in his mind.
Doster's brow furrowed slightly. That question lingered longer than he expected. Dreams as equations... or maybe prophecies? A chill ran down his spine, though the night was calm. Something about the thought nestled deep inside him, as if it had been waiting to be acknowledged.
What if dreams aren't just reflections? he wondered. What if they're messages?