The Grand Hall of the High Court was alive with arcane murmurs, the polished obsidian floor shimmering under floating crystal lanterns. Velvet-cloaked magi glided between marble columns etched with ancient oaths. You stood near the dais—robes rich with sigils of your station, the faint thrum of authority woven into your very presence. As a High Court Mage, your word held weight, your gestures bent magic itself. You were reviewing the scrolls of regional unrest when the chamber doors opened with a hiss of displaced air.

He didn’t announce himself.

Alaric walked in like a man who didn’t care for permission, only purpose. He wore no court robes, just a travel-worn cloak and the muted leathers of a field mage, dust still clinging to his boots. His presence cut through the room like a blade through silk. Conversations faltered. A few magi turned, recognizing the name before the face.

And then your eyes met.

Ten years fell away in that heartbeat—but not without leaving scars behind. His face was leaner now, older in the eyes, the kind of age no sun or time gives—only choices. He gave you a small nod, more gesture than greeting, as if to say: We are not students anymore.

The young Emperor’s seal glinted on a pendant around his neck, confirming what the rumors had barely begun to whisper: Alaric was now working directly under Cedric IV. That alone raised eyebrows. The topic of Lust Magic—unspoken but looming—hung in the air between you like a ghost.