The first light of dawn spilled like melted gold across the turrets of Arcanem Academy, casting long shadows that danced over the silver-veined stones of its central courtyard. Built at the heart of the ancient magical realms, the academy stood not just as a school, but as a symbol—of power, tradition, and the delicate balance between the elements that shaped the world.
Kaelira Stormborn stood at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden beneath the hood of her deep blue cloak, watching. The courtyard was packed—students in robes of every hue, whispering, jostling, brimming with nerves and excitement. The younger ones—first years, like her—clutched schedules or polished rings or family crests. Some bore names carved into history. Others had magic blooming in their very footsteps.
Kaelira had none of that.
But she did have a name—one that many knew, even if no one had spoken to her directly.
Stormborn.
A name spoken like a warning. Or worse, a prophecy.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her satchel as students glanced her way and then quickly away. The name Stormborn hadn't been heard in noble halls since the Northern Wars, when the last bearer of thunder magic had vanished in flame and storm. Since then, thunder itself had become myth—too rare to even be counted among the standard elemental schools.
A group of girls near the center of the courtyard were laughing quietly, whispering behind perfect braids and silken sleeves. Kaelira lowered her gaze, as if to shrink herself out of sight.
Let them talk. Let them believe what they wanted. The truth was more complicated. And far more dangerous.
The magical world was built on six elemental forces, though only four were commonly taught at Arcanem: Air, the art of swiftness, clarity, and communication. It lived in wind and song, and those who wielded it could vanish into the sky like birds. Water, the power of emotion, memory, and healing. Calm on the surface, but deadly in its depths. Earth, rooted in endurance and growth, granting strength, patience, and unshakable will. Fire, volatile and fierce, the element of passion, rage, and raw energy.
These four formed the foundation of magic in the Five Kingdoms. Children were tested young, their affinities detected early. It was said the elements chose them, not the other way around.
But there were two more.
Rare. Feared. Revered.
The first was Thunder, often mistaken as a variant of fire or air, but it was neither. It was born of storms, both sky-bound and soul-deep. Thunder magic was volatile and ungoverned, its wielders often marked by loneliness and power too wild for most schools to contain. Only one known thunder wielder had survived long enough to be named Master. That was over a hundred years ago.
The second—spoken only in hushed tones—was Shadow, or dark magic. Not evil, necessarily, but hidden. Cunning. Magic born of secrets, reflection, and illusions. It did not burst forth like flame or flood like water—it crept in. It waited. And when it struck, it left no trace.
Those with Shadow magic were either exiled… or hidden.
The murmur of voices stilled as a warm breeze swept the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of lavender and lightning. Then, a sound—like the ringing of a thousand bells, but distant, as if heard across realms.
A figure appeared atop the main steps of the Hall of Echoes.
Draped in emerald robes that shimmered like leaves in moonlight, the man's presence silenced the crowd not by command, but by gravity. His beard flowed with silver threads, braided in runes that glowed faintly as he spoke. Upon his brow floated a silver diadem shaped like intertwined antlers, pulsing with power.
Headmaster Dareth Valemir.
He raised one hand. The wind stilled. The clouds parted, allowing a shaft of golden light to crown him.
When he spoke, his voice came not only through the air but through the stones beneath their feet, the trees beyond the walls, and even their own breath.
"Welcome, heirs of power. Welcome, children of sky, sea, soil, and flame. Welcome... to Arcanem."
Gasps echoed through the courtyard. Even the older students had never heard him use his full voice. Magic laced his every word, weaving a subtle enchantment that lifted hearts and calmed nerves.
Kaelira felt it vibrate through her chest. Her fingers tingled.
"I stand before you not to teach, but to awaken. Magic cannot be given. It must be uncovered. Beneath your skin. Behind your name. Deep in your bones."
He gestured, and with a low hum, a massive crystal orb floated into the air above the dais.
The Prism Sphere.
A relic older than the Academy itself. Forged from soulglass, bound in eternal starlight, and enchanted to draw forth the true element within each student's spirit.
"The Sphere will reveal what stirs in your essence. Some of you already know. Others will be surprised. But all will be seen. All truth begins here."
Names were called, one by one, in a voice without source—neither male nor female, not quite human. The calling magic.
"Selene Darralyn."
A girl stepped forward with pale blonde hair and trembling fingers. She reached toward the Sphere. When she touched it, a warm breeze rose, and green feathers spiraled into the air.
Air.
"Brenin Talvek."
A tall, red-robed boy with a crooked smile. He smirked, touched the Sphere—foom!—and a gout of flame roared upward.
Fire.
The crowd clapped for each display. Some cheered loudly; others, more reserved. Some children cried in frustration. One boy ran from the courtyard in shame when the Sphere only pulsed gray.
"Alarion Kaelthorn."
The courtyard fell silent. The boy in the multicolored robe stepped forward, each movement elegant and assured. His hand touched the Sphere—
It exploded in light. Blue waves crashed. Earth shook beneath the stones. Fire arced through the sky. Wind howled.
Four colors, woven into a storm around him.
All four elements.
A collective gasp.
"No one's had all four in two hundred years!"
"He's a Kaelthorn! Of course he did."
Alarion stepped back into the crowd without a word. His expression was calm—but Kaelira saw the tightness in his jaw. Power wasn't always a blessing.
"Valyne Virellan."
The girl with glasses walked forward in complete silence. Her black robes shimmered faintly at the edges, like smoke clinging to moonlight.
She touched the Sphere.
It dimmed.
For a moment, there was… nothing.
Then a flicker of violet-black shadow passed over her hand. Barely visible.
The Sphere glowed faintly… then reset itself.
The crowd erupted in whispers.
"She's a null?"
"No. Did you see the shimmer? That was—"
"Dark magic…"
"She's dangerous."
The air thickened with unease.
Headmaster Valemir raised both hands.
"Enough."
His voice struck the ground like thunder. "Magic is not always loud. Nor is it always light. What sleeps now may one day rise with purpose. Do not judge what you do not understand."
Valyne walked calmly back into the crowd. Her expression unreadable. But Kaelira saw her hands trembling.
"Kaelira Stormborn."
This time, there were no gasps—only a long, heavy silence.
As she stepped forward, the wind changed.
Some students leaned in to see. Others instinctively backed away.
Her name carried weight. Stories. Warnings. Her House had once ruled entire regions, known for their unmatched command of the skies—until thunder betrayed them.
She reached the Sphere.
The moment her fingertips brushed it, a spark snapped.
Blue lightning crackled up her arm.
The Sphere darkened. Then flared.
A bolt of pure white-blue energy shot into the clouds, splitting the sky with a crack. The ground trembled. Static surged through the crowd. Some shrieked. A few fell backward. Kaelira's hair lifted in an invisible wind.
The Prism Sphere glowed electric indigo.
Thunder.
Rare. Ancient. Untamed.
When she stepped back, her hands were still trembling. Her pulse echoed with the sky. No one clapped. No one moved.
Even Headmaster Valemir took a breath before he spoke again.
"The storm has returned," he said. "Let us hope it brings rain, not ruin."