Magic was the most powerful of weapons—not because it could end a war, but because it could start one. It could light the spark, fuel the flames, and tear the world apart before anyone remembered what peace had ever felt like.
The sounds of battle roared endlessly. Thunderous, chaotic, and unrelenting, each blast louder and more devastating than the last. The magicians, clad in scorched armor and raw desperation, either ran for their lives or threw themselves into the fray with reckless abandon. Fire and water tangled with wind and earth, until the sky itself seemed unsure of what it was witnessing.
No one on that field could truly say what they were fighting for anymore. Not victory. Not pride. Not even survival. And yet, beyond the smoke and blood, something else loomed on the horizon.
The dawn of peace.
The dawn of a new world but perhaps even the dawn of a new chaos.
The war between the kingdoms of Kaelor and Parvana had raged for nearly a century. What had begun as a territorial dispute over resources had decayed into something far uglier—an endless clash of egos, a storm of power where neither side would kneel. Too many generations had known only the sounds of war drums and the weight of loss.
Every able person was conscripted, from the strongest magicians to those barely awakened. There was only one rule that bound them all, carved into every official edict and whispered with dread:
"All awakened individuals over the age of sixteen, at least at the Latent stage, are required on the battlefield even if they are not scar bearers and so have not undergone a second awakening."
Cristael fought among them. The old mage stood amidst the storm, her cloak tattered and bloodied, but her eyes still sharp with determination. She had been born during the early years of the war and had lived her entire life beneath its shadow. Peace had always been a dream she clung to but never expected to touch.
Though age had bent her back and silvered her hair, Cristael's spells remained among the most formidable in Kaelor. Yet it wasn't the fighting that pained her the most, it was watching the young fall before her, watching her students, her children in all but name, be consumed by this madness.
That was never why she became the head of Orpheion. She had wanted to teach them to harness their gifts. To live freely. To protect. But war teaches different lessons.
And peace never comes without a cost.
One by one, they fell.
Even Kaelor's strength, once the envy of the continent, could not stop the losses. Cristael's heart cracked with every life stolen.
A scream cut through the din:
"ADRIAN!"
A young woman collapsed beside a fallen body. Her trembling hands clutched the still form of a man. She rocked him, sobbing, pressing her face to his bloodied chest.
"Adrian... Adrian, don't leave me!"
Cristael froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that name. That face.
Adrian had been one of hers—brilliant, brave, too kind for war.
The days stretched into agonizing eternities. The sky seemed to bleed with them. Cristael, though powerful beyond most, no longer hoped for survival.
She only wished to save them. But was even a powerful magician like her even enough?
Then, unexpectedly, on a battlefield steeped in ashes and agony, something shifted.
The air buzzed with movement. A man sprinted through the chaos, face streaked with dirt and tears.
"The treaty!" he cried. "The peace treaty has been signed! We're saved! It's over!"
The silence that followed cracked into wild disbelief. Shouts of joy rose into the sky. Laughter, relief, and sobs of exhaustion mingled across the field.
Peace. Could it be real?
Cristael's heart clenched—not with joy, but with alertness.
Another sound called to her. A sharper, more fragile cry. Not from the people around her.
A baby.
She turned her head. There, amidst the wreckage and scorched ground, wrapped tightly in a soiled blanket, a child screamed and no one else seemed to notice.
The flames of war still danced faintly in the air around him, casting shadows that should never touch a child's face. And yet, he was there, untouched, fragile, crying but mostly, miraculously alive.
Where could this child have come from, abandoned in the remnants of war? Why was he alone? How could he have survived? No matter what, she couldn't leave him alone, she had to save him.
Was this the redemption of war itself?
"Devion," she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks as she took the child in her arms.
"Divine child. Devion Boëlthorn."
He was so small. So warm. A flicker of life born from a battlefield. She held him close, her heart roaring in a thousand directions. This time,the child would be protected. It was a promise. This time, she would not let anyone die anymore.
And this boy, would never see war.
The baby's cries slowed, as if soothed by her heartbeat. He had a family now. He was no longer alone. He would never be alone again.
All was well. Everything would be all right. Wouldn't it?
Cristael gently pulled back the folds of the blanket, revealing the child's face. Big green eyes stared back at her, filled with the innocence of one too new to this world. Raven-black hair curled around his temple.
And then, she saw it.
A scar. Faint, but unmistakable—trailing like a single tear from beneath his left eye to the bottom of his cheek. The mark of a second awakening.
A power no one should possess before the age of ten—when most first awakened at six, and only a rare few scar bearers reached a second awakening years later.
Cristael's breath caught. In her arms was a child who had already passed through two awakenings.
A miracle. Or something far more dangerous.
This child might mean something greater than peace. Or its undoing.