They called it the Tower of Silence, though it was never truly quiet.
Wind scraped its stone walls like a thousand whispers clawing to get in. Lanterns flickered even when there was no breeze. And the books—those ancient, iron-bound books stacked floor to ceiling—hummed when no one touched them, as if the knowledge inside could barely contain itself.
Qin sat cross-legged in the chamber's center, back straight despite the ache creeping through his spine. A single candle floated in front of him, suspended midair by sheer will. Sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers trembled. He dared not blink.
"Again," said the voice behind him.
It was low, firm, and heavy with the weight of a thousand years. Master Narin did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. Power like his didn't shout—it waited, curled like a serpent, and only struck when it was time.
Qin exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Focused.
With a flick of his left hand and a whisper of a spell, the candle spun clockwise. The flame fluttered but held. His right hand guided its rise—slow, steady, until it hovered above his head like a small sun.
"Good," Narin said. "But remember, control is not obedience. Flame can serve or destroy. It is your soul that decides."
Qin let the candle drop back into his palm. "Yes, Master."
He turned. Narin stood near the far wall, a silhouette draped in robes the color of coal and sky. His hair, white as winter, was tied back with a leather cord. His eyes were gold—literally. The gift of the old blood.
"There's more to being a wizard than bending light and wind," Narin said, stepping closer. "More than incantations and symbols. It's conduct. Discipline. Mercy when anger is easier. Restraint when temptation is loud."
Qin nodded again, silently, even though he felt like arguing. He had been disciplined. He trained harder than the others. Studied longer. He hadn't spoken to anyone outside the Tower in months.
Narin must've seen the unrest in his eyes. He crouched before him, setting one heavy hand on Qin's shoulder.
"Remember this, boy," he said, his voice softer now. "Power will find you. All of it—magic, strength, even the darkness. But what you do when it arrives, that's what makes you worthy."
Then, for the first time, he said the words that would follow Qin like a shadow:
"Conduct crowns the soul. You forget that, and all the power in the world won't save you from yourself."
Qin didn't know it then, but the phrase would return to him in blood and ruin.
Later that night, Qin stood on the upper terrace of the tower, wind tousling his dark hair, stars spread like scattered runes above his head.
He looked out over the forest below, toward the wild lands beyond the cliffs. The world he wasn't yet allowed to touch. The world full of danger and legends—the ones that whispered of werewolves and creatures of the night, of cursed bloodlines and ancient pacts.
"Do you think I'm ready?" he asked aloud, though he knew Narin wasn't there.
A voice answered anyway—his own, from within. A whisper, barely a breath:
Not yet. But you will be. When you bleed. When you lose. When you choose.
He shook the chill off his shoulders.
By morning, the Tower was no longer silent.
The alarms howled first—an old enchantment that made the very stones groan. Qin stumbled out of bed, robe half on, staff in hand. From the window, he saw it: smoke. Rising from the library wing.
By the time he reached the lower hall, the fire had devoured two levels. Books exploded in bursts of magic as their bindings snapped. One of the elder apprentices lay slumped against a wall, his robes charred, eyes wide in death.
Qin choked down panic and whispered a barrier spell. It flickered around him like a shell of ice.
Then came the scream.
He ran toward it.
Narin was there—standing amidst the fire like a statue. His robes burned but did not catch. His arms were outstretched, holding back a creature unlike anything Qin had ever seen.
It was made of shadow and bone, taller than any man, its form shifting like smoke. It clawed and writhed, unable to pass the sigils etched into the stone floor beneath them.
"Qin," Narin said without looking. "Go. Run."
Qin didn't move.
"What is it?" he whispered, horrified.
"A mistake. One I made long before you were born."
The creature lunged. Narin struck it back with a word of power. The tower shook.
"You said power would come," Qin said, stepping forward. "Well, I'm not running from it."
Narin turned to him, and something in his expression changed—sorrow, pride, and a terrible, inevitable goodbye.
"Then take this," he said, tossing a small object toward him.
Qin caught it—a ring. Black metal, carved with three overlapping symbols: a flame, a fang, and a full moon.
"What—?"
"The path ahead is not magic alone. You will change. You will suffer. But never forget…"
"Conduct crowns the soul. If you lose that, you lose everything."
The creature broke through.
Light exploded.
And the world went black.
When Qin woke, the tower was gone.
Ash fell like snow. The sky was gray. He could barely breathe.
He stood up slowly, clutching the ring. Around him, nothing moved—no bodies, no voices. Just silence.
He slipped the ring onto his finger.
And for the first time in his life, he realized he was truly alone.
He did not know what step to take next or what the creature that attacked was? For the first time he had more questions than answers, why wasn't his master strong enough to defeat that mighty creature, alot raced through his mind while he wonder about think about all the people that just lost their life and he vowed he would seeks answers for himself and the people that lost their lives today and he would hold his masters word to heart.
"Conduct crowns the soul.