Sword Brother

In a secluded wing of the Academy of the Golden Tree, where few souls had the privilege to tread, stood an austere and imposing chamber, steeped in silent solemnity.

The desk, carved from ancient gnarled oak, seemed to have weathered centuries of history, its grain etched with the passage of time. Shelves, sagging beneath the weight of countless grimoires, formed an impenetrable fortress of knowledge around the room. A faint golden glow, cast by lumen-lit lanterns, sent flickering shadows dancing across the stone walls, deepening the chamber's mystic aura.

Behind that desk sat a man known to all as the Grand Druid.

His long white beard, well-kept yet free, cascaded down his chest like silken threads woven with the weight of ages, strands heavy with wisdom and resilience.

But for all who stood before him, it was his eyes that commanded true reverence.

Pale irises, almost translucent, as if time itself had drained them of color. And yet, from time to time, a prismatic light shimmered within them, like sunlight refracted through the surface of a flawless crystal. It was not merely a gaze that observed; it was a gaze that pierced, one that seemed to probe the very essence of the world.

His age was undeniable, carved into the lines of his face, but beneath the folds of his plain white robe, his body still bore the imprint of a lifetime of discipline.

His frame remained imposing, his back as straight as an ancient oak, his movements carrying the restrained strength of a man who had never ceased training.

Though he was the founding dean and head of the Academy, his place was never meant to be behind a desk. At least, that was what he told himself. And yet, the weight of his responsibilities, the tides of the world's affairs, chained him to this grand piece of furniture, a throne and a prison in equal measure.

Far too much time spent in this chair.

An Exalted of the Dawn like him… there were only a handful on the entire continent.

Even in the mighty Empire of the Sun, they numbered no more than ten.

They were the pinnacle of what a human could achieve when blessed by the sacred light. Strength. Knowledge. Longevity. Gifts that countless mortals coveted, dreaming of brushing against the divine.

But for him… there had been no joy in it for a long time.

A familiar weight settled upon his shoulders, heavier than the centuries he already carried.

His sharp gaze dimmed slightly as he lowered it to the maps and scrolls spread before him.

More than a century of progress. More than a century since the ruin unleashed by the Great Fracture. And yet, humanity had not moved an inch forward. The Umbra remained, insidious, lurking in the world's forgotten corners, resisting every attempt at the Lumen's expansion.

The war for mankind's survival had not been won.

It had stagnated.

That thought made him speak, his voice low and measured.

"What happened in Kernéval is a tragedy."

His fingers drummed lightly against the oak, his thoughts spilling into words.

"This… should never have happened."

Before him, standing straight as a spear, a woman of regal poise and unwavering eyes inclined her head respectfully.

"Yes, Exalted."

He sighed.

"I've told you before, call me Ambrosius. Or father, at least in private."

For a brief moment, his gaze softened.

"I raised you as my daughter. You could at least grant me that much?"

She didn't flinch. Not a muscle moved on her face.

"Understood, Exalted."

A weary smile flickered across the Exalted's face before vanishing just as quickly.

It was a lost cause.

Cassandre Délviane, as steadfast as a blade tempered in the flames of the Lumen, was far too rigid to break the rules she had made her own.

A flaw... or a virtue? Perhaps just the nature of those blessed by the Lumen.

Abandoning the thought, he leaned back in his chair. He had two adoptive daughters, yet neither called him father. One insisted on addressing him with titles more pompous than the last, while the other had deemed it more fitting to call him grandpa.

"How tragic..." he mused.

With a sigh, he slid a scroll across the table, an investigative report detailing the attack on the city.

"The circumstances of this attack are strange… but the way the abomination was taken down clearly indicates the presence of a swordbrother."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reaction. It didn't take long.

"I've come to the same conclusion."

The woman crossed her arms, her sharp gaze analyzing every word of the report.

"I will continue the investigation into what caused the abomination's arrival."

She paused briefly before adding in a measured tone,

"As for the swordbrother… rumors among the populace confirm our initial hypothesis."

Her fingers traced the edge of the report, hesitating for a fraction of a second before continuing.

"A body was found near the remains of the abomination, mutilated beyond recognition. Identification is impossible. We also searched for any trace of his inheritance… but there was nothing at the scene. That would support our second hypothesis."

Ambrosius remained expressionless, but his fingers drummed lightly against the wooden desk.

"Has anything unusual been detected among the new students?"

The woman glanced to her left, recalling her memories before answering.

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

A brief hesitation, almost imperceptible.

"But that's to be expected. Those who inherit from a swordbrother don't reveal their potential immediately. It will take time before they stand out."

She paused once more before adding,

"Despite the swordbrother's presence, the entire populace is convinced that the monarch was defeated thanks to the Lutech cannon… and the valor of their ardent."

Ambrosius let out a quiet grunt.

"Their ardent… an incompetent fool… but skilled with words."

His gaze drifted into the distance for a moment before he tapped a dry finger against the parchment.

"Keep a close watch on the new recruits. And if the slightest anomaly appears... I want to be informed immediately."

She inclined her head, her expression unreadable.

"It will be done."

Ambrosius Vortigern did not yet have all the answers.

But he knew one thing: something unusual was stirring in the shadows.

And he would not allow unknown variables to dictate the fate of the academy, or the world, for that matter.

A figure, seated in a massive chair in the dimly lit corner of the room, slowly straightened.

A man with sharp, severe features, clad in a dark robe embroidered with gold, stepped forward into the soft glow of the lanterns. His face, chiseled like a sculpture, betrayed a mind as keen as a blade and a calculating spirit.

"Professor Avalon?" The Grand Druid arched an inquisitive brow.

The man dipped his head slightly before speaking in a measured voice.

"If Professor Délviane permits… I have a suggestion."