Time, that invisible tyrant, doesn't always roar. Sometimes, its steps are soft as the rustle of dry leaves, yet constant, irreversible. For over thirty years, Dyan Halvest had walked that path without pause, consumed by duty, studies, missions, decisions. Day after day, his hours had vanished like ink in water. And now, with a weary body and a heart laden with silences, he understood that his own life—the one he dreamed of in his youth—barely filled a few messy lines in an unfinished diary.
The twilight began to fade beyond the walls of Scabia, painting the sky a melancholic amber. The last rays of the sun fell obliquely on the highest hall of the Tower of Magic, where a mana crystal floated in the center, exhaling silver glints that danced on the walls like memories suspended in the air. There, in his office, the Archmage slowly closed his diary, feeling the faint rustle of the worn leather under his fingers.
A soft knock interrupted the silence. Before Dyan could answer, a young woman in an obsidian robe with long black hair entered.
"Master, forgive my intrusion," she said respectfully.
Dyan looked up and softened his brow upon seeing her. He gestured with his hand, inviting her to approach.
"You're not interrupting, Finia. You've arrived, in fact, at the perfect moment."
He rose slowly, his tall figure, somewhat bowed by the years, silhouetted against the window that showed the city spread out at the foot of the Tower. Scabia, the capital of reason and magic, shone like a constellation of promises.
"What brings you here at this hour?"
Finia advanced with measured steps. As she crossed the hall, the reflections of the mana crystal caressed her face with ethereal glints, as if magic itself recognized her.
"New requests have arrived: the adventurers' guild requires a review of their arcane luminaries... the new Palatir tower has failed to activate its mother crystal... the Academy of Knights requests healers for an expedition to the kobold dungeons..."
The words drifted through the room, but to Dyan, they sounded distant, as if someone were reciting them underwater. The world around seemed suspended, expectant. His gaze turned to her, laden with a tenderness he rarely showed.
"Finia," he interrupted softly, "leave the list on the desk."
She did, placing the long parchment on the polished wood. But something in his voice, in his tone, in his breathing, made her pause.
"Are you all right, Master? You look more... tired than usual."
Dyan placed his hand on his apprentice's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but something gently broke within Finia. He had been her master, her guide, almost a paternal figure. And in that instant, she knew, without him having to say it, that something was coming to an end.
"I'm fine. I've just... decided it's time for you to take my place. If you wish, of course."
Finia's eyes widened in astonishment. Her chest filled with a sudden warmth, a mixture of pride, nervousness, and a slight tremor of disbelief.
"Are you serious...? Master?"
"Of course," he replied with a barely drawn but genuine smile. "I couldn't entrust this Tower to anyone else."
By pure instinct, Finia bowed. But he shook his head.
"No, please... don't bow. What I'm leaving you is not a prize, it's a burden. You don't need to answer now. Rest. Think about it."
She straightened up, her eyes shining, a trembling smile, and lips pressed together with emotion.
"I'll think about it, Master. Truly... I'll think about it a lot."
And she left, lighter than she had arrived, with steps that seemed to skim the ground, as if for a moment, the world had freed her from the weight of gravity.
Dyan watched the door close behind her. Then, he returned his gaze to the city he had loved so much, to the Tower he had served and protected, and to the crystal that still pulsed like a living heart in the center of the hall. The sunset began to die, and with it, a stage of his life came to an end.
But it wasn't sadness he felt.
It was something deeper, softer: the acceptance that a path has reached its conclusion.
That same night, in the solitude of his room in the Tower of Magic, Dyan Halvest packed his life with an oddly solemn calm. The room was surprisingly austere for someone with the title of Archmage. The walls were covered with shelves overflowing with old leather-bound books, silent witnesses to decades of study and duty. There was an oak desk darkened by years and a simple, unluxurious bed. Not a single ornament, not a portrait, not a personal memento in sight. Only the functionality of one who had always placed knowledge above himself.
That night, however, on the gray bedspread lay a rough cloth bag, already half full. He hadn't officially relinquished his position yet, but internally he felt the figure of the Archmage slowly detaching from his skin, like a coat that no longer fit. He had decided: he would leave. Not for a mission, not for an assignment, but for the first time in his life... for himself.
He wouldn't take much. Only the bare essentials. He didn't want to drag the weight of the past to wherever he was going. He wanted to leave everything behind—titles, duties, solemnity—and start anew. He longed to go to a place where no one knew him, where the name Dyan Halvest, the Sage, would not evoke reverence or requests. A place where, finally, he could just be a man.
On his desk, illuminated by the trembling light of an oil lamp, a map lay spread out. An old, coffee-stained and time-worn fold, with a small X marked in pencil in a forgotten corner of the kingdom of Willfrost. It was an unnamed region, barely a dot on the margins of the known world, at the foot of snowy mountains. He had only been there once, as a child. He was seven years old, and his master, Edictus, had taken him out of the Tower for the first time. He remembered the clean air, the tranquil fields where the wind combed the tall grass, the simple houses steaming like whispers of home. That memory—as brief as it was indelible—burned with a serene strength in his chest.
That's where he wanted to go. Not as an Archmage, not as a counselor to kings. Just as Dyan.
He put a wool jacket, new shirts he'd never had a chance to wear, and a pair of comfortable trousers into the bag. He added his diary, and two books with his own notes on unfinished magical theories: works he once dreamed of publishing, but which time had stolen from him, page by page. Then, he slowly took off his Archmage robe. He held it for a moment in his hands, feeling its weight not on his shoulders, but in his soul, before hanging it on the wrought-iron coat rack by the door.