Part 2: The Wizard Tower and the Man Without Magic
The bell beneath the battlefield rang only once.
But once was enough to change the sky.
Far below the cliff, the armies of Aurethia and Dravorn stopped moving for a breath. Even from that distance, Elai saw the strange pause ripple through the valley like fear passing from one body to another.
Then the banners moved again.
Gold and white on one side.
Black and red on the other.
Spell-light shimmered over the eastern ranks. Fire glowed along the western mountains.
War had not stopped.
It had merely listened.
For one heartbeat.
Then it remembered how to march.
Czyre still had his hand against the dragon’s snout.
The creature’s eye was open now, bright gold and deep as a storm. Its breath moved warm over Czyre’s sleeve. The dragon was close enough that Elai could see the sharp ridges above its eyes and the bronze lines running beneath its dark scales like hidden fire.
“Czyre,” Elai said, careful and low, “move away from the dragon.”
Czyre did not turn. “I think his name is Rhaevor.”
Elai stared at him. “You think what?”
“I don’t know how I know.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Lyra remained on one knee, her face pale. She had not bowed to the friars.
She had bowed to the dragon.
That detail did not escape Elai, and he disliked every possible meaning of it.
The dragon — Rhaevor, if Czyre’s sudden and completely unreasonable certainty could be trusted — lowered his head farther until his brow nearly touched Czyre’s hand.
Czyre swallowed.
His voice softened. “He is afraid.”
Elai almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That creature is larger than the bell tower.”
“And still afraid.”
Elai looked at Rhaevor again.
The dragon did not look afraid.
He looked ancient.
He looked dangerous.
He looked like something carved out of night and crowned with fire.
Then the shadows inside the tunnel screamed again.
Lyra rose sharply. She pointed at the tunnel, then toward the golden city in the distance.
“Aurethia,” she said.
Then she pointed at herself.
“Lyra.”
Then at the friars.
“Elai. Sair.”
“Czyre,” Czyre corrected gently.
“Sair,” Lyra repeated with confidence.
Czyre looked at Elai. “We are close.”
“You are not.”
“We are building language.”
“You are being renamed by a wizard.”
Lyra spoke again in her own tongue, fast and urgent. The words themselves were still strange to the friars, but the meaning pressed faintly against their minds, as if the veil had begun carrying feeling before language.
Danger.
Move.
Now.
She grabbed Elai’s wrist.
Elai pulled back. “Wait.”
Lyra pointed toward the tunnel again.
The shadow beasts had begun to seep from the darkness, their limbs unfolding along the stone walls.
Elai immediately changed his mind. “Proceed.”
Czyre patted Rhaevor’s snout once, then stepped back.
The dragon watched him.
There was something in that gaze that made Elai uneasy.
Not hunger.
Not threat.
Recognition.
As if the dragon had waited for Czyre before Czyre had ever known Veyratha existed.
Lyra lifted her cracked staff and struck the ground with its end.
Blue light spilled across the cliffside, forming a circle beneath their feet.
Elai looked down. “What is that?”
Czyre looked delighted and horrified at the same time. “That looks like transportation.”
“I dislike transportation now.”
“Understandable.”
Lyra snapped a command in Aurethian.
The circle flared.
Elai had only enough time to grab Czyre’s sleeve before the cliff vanished.
For the second time that day, the world decided not to remain under their feet.
This time, they did not fall.
They were pulled.
Light wrapped around them like a cold river. The cliff, the tunnel, the dragon, the valley, and the broken moon became streaks of color. Elai felt his stomach rise to somewhere near his throat. Czyre made a sound that began as a prayer and ended suspiciously close to a laugh.
Then stone returned beneath them.
Elai dropped to one knee.
Czyre landed standing, swayed proudly for half a second, then sat down hard.
“I meant to do that,” he said.
“No one believed you,” Elai replied.
They had arrived in a tower.
Not an ordinary tower.
The chamber was circular, made of white stone veined with gold. Tall windows opened on every side, but there was no glass, only shimmering panels of pale light. Books floated along the walls in slow, obedient circles. Globes of blue fire drifted near the ceiling. A table carved from crystal stood at the center, covered in maps that moved by themselves.
Outside the windows rose the city of Aurethia.
Elai stood despite the weakness in his knees.
The city gleamed beneath the storm-colored sky, beautiful and impossible. White towers floated above bridges of light. Golden banners streamed from balconies. Water flowed upward through channels carved in the air. Scholars in long robes crossed suspended walkways as if walking through the sky were a normal civic habit.
Czyre walked to the nearest window. “Elai.”
“Do not lean out.”
“I was not going to.”
“You always lean.”
“I only lean toward wonder.”
“That is still leaning.”
Czyre ignored him and looked down at the city. “It’s beautiful.”
Elai joined him, more slowly.
It was beautiful.
That was the problem.
Beautiful things were easy to trust before they became dangerous.
Lyra staggered toward the crystal table and pressed a hand to her side. Her blue cloak was torn. Blood darkened the fabric near her ribs.
Elai noticed at once.
“You are injured.”
Lyra looked at him, not understanding the English words, but perhaps understanding his tone. She tried to straighten as if pride could hold a wound closed.
Czyre moved first. “Elai, she’s bleeding.”
“I can see that.”
“You have the medical kit?”
Elai gave him a flat look.
“What?” Czyre asked. “You check locks twice. I thought maybe you packed for another world.”
“I did not pack for another world.”
“That feels like an oversight now.”
Elai removed the outer black cloth from his shoulder and approached Lyra carefully. He pointed to her wound, then to the cloth, then to his own hands.
Lyra watched him suspiciously.
He spoke gently. “I am trying to help.”
She did not understand the words exactly.
But perhaps she understood the way he lowered his head slightly, not as a servant and not as a superior, but as someone asking permission.
After a moment, she nodded.
Elai folded the cloth and pressed it carefully against the wound. Lyra winced but did not pull away.
Czyre looked around the tower. “Do wizards not have doctors?”
Lyra gave him a sharp look.
Czyre raised both hands. “Friendly question.”
The doors burst open.
Several robed figures entered at once.
Their robes were white, gold, and deep blue. Some carried staffs. Others wore silver chains marked with symbols. At the center walked an older man with a narrow face, a trimmed silver beard, and eyes that seemed trained to turn people into evidence.
He looked first at Lyra.
Then at the friars.
Then at the glowing trace still fading beneath their feet.
The chamber went silent.
The older man spoke in Aurethian.
His voice was calm, but the room obeyed it.
Lyra answered quickly in the same language, gesturing toward the friars, then toward the window, then toward the direction of the ruins. The friars did not understand the words, but the emotion behind them was clear enough.
She was explaining.
Defending.
Warning.
The older man’s eyes sharpened.
He stepped closer to Elai.
Elai straightened.
Formal instinct returned again, inconvenient and useless.
“I am Fray Elias de Santo Domingo,” he said.
The robed figures murmured.
He continued, because stopping seemed worse. “You may call me Elai.”
The older man stared at him.
Czyre stepped beside Elai and placed one hand over his chest. “I am Fray Zacharias de San Andrés.”
More murmurs.
Czyre added, “Czyre is easier.”
A young scholar near the door tried the name badly.
“Sair.”
Czyre sighed. “I am beginning to accept my fate.”
The older man lifted one hand.
The murmurs stopped.
He pointed at Elai’s chest, where the cross still hung. Then he pointed at the fading golden mark on the floor. Then he spoke one word slowly.
“Vox.”
Elai froze.
That word he understood.
Voice.
The older man noticed.
He said another word, older and heavier.
“Velum.”
Veil.
Elai’s pulse quickened.
Czyre leaned closer. “Did you understand that?”
“Partly.”
“That is comforting.”
“It is not.”
The older man turned and gave an order in Aurethian.
One of the scholars rushed to the floating shelves and pulled down a large book bound in pale leather. It opened in midair. Pages turned rapidly until they stopped on a drawing.
Two figures.
A bell.
A broken moon.
A dragon.
Czyre looked at Elai.
Elai felt the room tilt slightly.
The drawing was not exact, but it was close enough to tighten every nerve in his body.
The older man pointed to the drawing, then to them.
Elai shook his head at once. “No.”
The man frowned.
Elai pointed at himself and Czyre, then made a crossing motion with both hands. “No prophecy. No weapon. No war.”
The robed figures whispered again.
The older man studied him for a long moment.
Then he placed one hand against his own chest and said a name, clearly and with authority.
“High Arcanist Merovan.”
Czyre blinked. “I think he introduced himself.”
Elai nodded. “High Arcanist Merovan.”
Merovan seemed pleased that Elai had repeated it correctly.
Then he pointed at Elai.
“Elai.”
He pointed at Czyre.
“Sair.”
Czyre closed his eyes. “It is happening.”
Merovan spoke to Lyra again. Lyra answered with visible impatience, gesturing at the friars as if explaining that she had nearly died and would appreciate everyone keeping up.
Merovan looked unimpressed.
Then he raised his staff.
Golden light spread through the chamber.
The doors closed by themselves.
Elai moved slightly in front of Czyre.
Czyre noticed and whispered, “I can stand beside you, not behind you.”
“Noted.”
“You are still doing it.”
“Yes.”
The light formed a ring around the friars.
Czyre looked down. “Is this a test?”
Elai watched the robed figures. “Probably.”
“Do we know how to pass?”
“No.”
“That is a poor testing environment.”
Merovan spoke one word in Aurethian.
The ring flashed.
A small flame appeared in the air before Elai.
It hovered, bright and harmless.
Merovan pointed to it, then to Elai.
Elai stared.
“Does he want you to do something?” Czyre asked.
“I believe so.”
“Can you?”
“No.”
“Try the glowing thing again.”
“I did not do that intentionally.”
“Try unintentionally, but with confidence.”
Elai ignored him and looked at Merovan. “I cannot do magic.”
Merovan frowned.
Elai repeated slowly, pointing to himself. “No magic.”
The young scholars murmured.
One of them looked disappointed.
Czyre raised a hand. “I also cannot do magic, but I am supportive.”
Lyra coughed, possibly from pain, possibly from disbelief.
Merovan made another gesture.
This time the flame became three flames. They circled Elai.
Elai stepped back.
The flames followed.
“Elai,” Czyre whispered, “the fire likes you.”
“The fire is being instructed.”
“Still concerning.”
Merovan pointed again.
Elai exhaled slowly.
He understood the expectation now. They believed he was hiding power. Or waiting for permission. Or trying to appear humble while secretly being the kind of person who could command ancient rings of light.
He had no way to explain that he was, in fact, deeply capable of being ordinary.
The flames circled closer.
Elai lifted one hand.
Nothing happened.
The scholars leaned in.
Nothing continued to happen.
Czyre whispered, “Maybe say something in Latin.”
“That is not a trick for every occasion.”
“It worked last time.”
“Last time there were monsters.”
“There is fire.”
Elai shot him a look.
Czyre gave an encouraging nod.
Elai faced the flame again, feeling profoundly ridiculous.
“Pax vobiscum,” he said.
Peace be with you.
The flame turned blue.
Everyone in the chamber gasped.
Elai stared at it.
Czyre slapped a hand over his own mouth.
Merovan’s eyes widened with terrible satisfaction.
“No,” Elai said immediately. “No, that was not magic.”
The blue flame split into seven smaller lights and arranged itself into a crown above the crystal table.
The scholars began speaking all at once.
Czyre leaned close. “Elai.”
“I know.”
“You did it again.”
“I said peace.”
“And peace became a crown.”
“That is not usually the result.”
Merovan stepped forward, reverent now.
Elai hated that more than suspicion.
The High Arcanist bowed.
Not fully.
But enough.
The other scholars followed.
Elai took a step back. “Please stop bowing.”
They did not.
Czyre looked at him with a slow, delighted smile.
“Do not,” Elai warned.
“I am not saying anything.”
“You are smiling something.”
“I am thinking that the man without magic has become a problem.”
Elai closed his eyes briefly. “This is exactly what I feared.”
Merovan turned sharply and gave another order.
A pair of scholars hurried out.
Lyra moved closer to the friars, her expression tense. She shook her head once, as if warning them.
Elai noticed.
“You do not like this either,” he said softly.
Lyra looked at him.
She did not understand every word, but she understood enough of his face.
She pointed to Merovan, then to the floating book, then mimed two armies clashing.
Elai’s jaw tightened.
“They want to use us.”
Czyre’s smile faded.
Merovan approached the crystal table and spread both hands over the moving map.
The map changed.
The valley appeared.
The armies.
The battlefield.
A golden marker appeared over Aurethia.
A black marker appeared over Dravorn.
Then a third mark appeared in the center of the battlefield.
A bell.
Elai stepped closer despite himself.
The bell symbol pulsed once.
From below it, dark lines spread like roots.
Czyre pointed at the map. “That looks bad.”
Elai nodded. “That is the most accurate thing said today.”
Merovan pointed to Aurethia’s army, then to Elai and Czyre, then to the center of the battlefield.
His meaning was clear even without shared language.
Come with us.
Stand with us.
Help Aurethia win.
Elai’s answer came at once. “No.”
Merovan frowned.
Elai pointed at the map — first to Aurethia, then to Dravorn — and shook his head. Then he placed both hands flat between the two markers.
“No war.”
Merovan’s expression hardened.
The room became colder.
Czyre stepped beside Elai again. “That part translated.”
Lyra lowered her gaze.
The young scholars looked nervous.
Merovan spoke slowly in Aurethian. The friars could not grasp the full sentence, but through the veil’s strange pressure, the meaning reached them like cold water.
Obey.
Or be contained.
Elai did not understand every word, but he understood power when it stopped pretending to be polite.
Then the floating book turned another page by itself.
This page showed words written in the same sharp, fire-shaped symbols from the archive and the ruins.
Elai’s eyes locked onto them.
He could not read all of it.
But one phrase rose from the page, not glowing, not moving, only waiting.
Duo ex campana venient.
Two shall come from the bell.
His blood went cold.
He translated under his breath.
Czyre heard him. “Two?”
Elai nodded.
Merovan watched him carefully.
Elai forced himself to read more.
The next line was damaged, but he could make out pieces.
One shall bear the voice of the veil.
Another broken line.
One shall wake the heart of wings.
Czyre looked toward the window.
Somewhere beyond the tower, far above the city, a dragon roared.
Rhaevor.
Elai knew it before anyone else reacted.
Merovan turned to the window sharply.
The scholars cried out.
Outside, the sky over Aurethia darkened.
A huge shadow passed over the tower.
Czyre moved to the window.
Elai grabbed him back. “Do not lean.”
“You must stop saying that before it becomes my final memory.”
Below them, bells began ringing across the city.
Not one bell.
Dozens.
The sound poured through Aurethia in waves.
Warning bells.
The floating bridges brightened. Shields of golden light rose around the towers. Figures in white and blue robes appeared on balconies, lifting staffs toward the sky.
Lyra spoke one word.
“Dravorn.”
From the western clouds, dark shapes emerged.
Dragons.
Not one.
Many.
Some carried riders.
Their wings beat through stormlight as they descended toward Aurethia’s outer towers.
The room erupted into movement.
Merovan barked orders in Aurethian.
Scholars ran to the windows.
The blue flames around the ceiling turned red.
Czyre stared at the approaching dragons with awe and fear tangled together. “They’re coming here.”
Elai looked at Merovan. “Because of us?”
Lyra’s face answered before her mouth could.
Yes.
A blast struck the tower.
The entire chamber shook.
Books fell from the air.
The crystal table cracked down the middle.
Czyre stumbled.
Elai caught him.
“You were supposed to be behind me,” Elai said.
“I rejected the arrangement.”
Another blast hit.
This time, the window of light shattered.
Wind tore into the chamber.
One of the scholars screamed as a dark shape swept past the opening — a dragon rider in black armor, carrying a spear tipped with fire.
Merovan lifted his staff.
Golden light exploded outward, forming a shield across the broken window.
The rider struck it and was thrown back into the storm.
For one moment, Elai saw the battlefield of the sky.
Aurethian wizards stood on floating platforms, casting shields and chains of light. Dravorn riders wheeled between towers, their dragons breathing fire that split against golden barriers. Bells rang. People shouted. Lightning flashed against scales and stone.
It was magnificent.
It was horrifying.
Czyre whispered, “Elai, this is war.”
Elai remembered Señora Amalia’s voice.
You have boxes. We have stories.
He remembered the two armies in the manuscript.
He remembered the bell beneath the battlefield.
“No,” he said. “This is only the beginning of one.”
Lyra grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a side door.
Merovan shouted at her in Aurethian.
She shouted back in the same language.
It sounded like an argument.
A serious one.
Then a spear of fire tore through the outer shield.
The tower cracked.
Stone dust rained from the ceiling.
Merovan turned away to defend the chamber.
Lyra used that moment to shove the friars into the side passage.
Czyre looked back. “Is she rescuing us or kidnapping us?”
Elai ran beside him. “At this point, those may be the same thing.”
They rushed down a spiral stairway lit by blue crystals. The tower shook above them. Through narrow windows, Elai saw dragons moving between towers like storms with wings.
Lyra led them fast, one hand pressed to her wounded side.
Elai noticed her steps slowing.
“Lyra,” he said.
She ignored him.
Another tremor struck. She nearly fell.
Czyre caught her.
She looked surprised.
He smiled despite the chaos. “You are welcome. Again.”
She stared at him.
Then, as if remembering the earlier moment in the ruins, she pushed him lightly instead of harshly.
Czyre looked pleased. “Progress.”
They reached a lower chamber filled with scroll cases and hanging maps. At its center was a circular platform marked with blue stones.
Lyra ran toward it.
Before they could follow, the wall exploded inward.
A dragon rider crashed through in a storm of dust and broken stone.
He rolled to his feet with frightening speed. His armor was black leather reinforced with bronze plates. A red scarf covered the lower half of his face. In one hand, he held a curved blade. In the other, a broken Aurethian chain still smoking with magic.
Lyra lifted her staff.
The rider froze.
His eyes moved from Lyra to Elai.
Then to Czyre.
Then to the cross at Elai’s chest.
Then to the dust-covered robes.
He spoke a sharp command in the Dravorn tongue.
Lyra answered in Aurethian with equal sharpness.
Czyre leaned toward Elai. “Do you understand any of that?”
“No.”
“Guess?”
“They are not discussing dinner.”
The rider pointed his blade at the friars.
Elai stepped in front of Czyre again.
Czyre sighed. “We spoke about this.”
“We did not reach agreement.”
The rider’s gaze shifted to Czyre.
Something changed.
Outside, a dragon roared.
The chamber trembled.
Czyre’s expression changed too. His hand went to his chest, as if he had heard the sound from inside himself.
“Rhaevor,” he whispered.
The rider heard the name.
His eyes widened.
He lowered his blade a fraction.
Lyra noticed and looked sharply at Czyre.
Then everything happened at once.
Merovan’s voice thundered from somewhere above.
Golden chains of magic erupted through the ceiling, wrapping around the dragon rider’s arms and chest. He shouted and dropped to one knee.
Lyra cried out in protest.
Elai grabbed one of the chains by instinct, trying to pull it away.
The moment his hand touched the magic, the golden light turned white.
The chain snapped.
The chamber fell silent for half a breath.
Elai stared at his hand.
Czyre stared at his hand.
The rider stared at his hand.
From the stairway above, Merovan appeared, face pale with fury and awe.
He said one word.
“Vox.”
Voice.
Then another.
“Bellator.”
Warrior.
Elai understood enough to feel sick.
“No,” he said. “Not warrior.”
Merovan lifted his staff toward the friars.
Lyra stepped between them and him.
Czyre stepped between Lyra and the rider.
Elai looked at everyone and whispered, “This is an extremely poor arrangement.”
Then the outer wall broke open completely.
A massive black-and-bronze head forced through the smoke.
Rhaevor.
The dragon’s golden eye found Czyre.
The room forgot how to move.
Even Merovan froze.
Czyre stared back, breath caught between terror and wonder.
Rhaevor opened his mouth.
But he did not breathe fire.
He roared one wordless command so powerful that every flame in the tower bent away from him.
The golden chains shattered.
The blue stones on the transport platform cracked.
The maps tore from the walls.
The Dravorn rider staggered to his feet.
Lyra grabbed Elai.
Czyre reached for Elai.
Elai reached back.
But the floor split between them.
Stone dropped into empty air.
Czyre fell.
Elai lunged.
Their hands caught.
For one second, they held each other over the broken heart of the tower.
“Elai!” Czyre shouted.
“I have you!”
The tower shook again.
Elai’s grip slipped.
Rhaevor moved faster than anything that large should have been able to move.
The dragon’s snout swept beneath Czyre, lifting him away from the falling stone. Czyre landed against the ridge of scales between Rhaevor’s horns, clinging desperately.
His eyes met Elai’s.
“Elai!”
The transport platform exploded with blue light.
Lyra and Elai were thrown backward.
Merovan shouted.
The Dravorn rider leaped toward Rhaevor.
Rhaevor pulled away from the tower, carrying Czyre into the storm-filled sky.
Elai scrambled to the shattered edge.
Wind struck his face.
Below, Aurethia burned with shield-light and dragon fire.
Above, Rhaevor rose through lightning with Czyre clinging to him, the Dravorn rider reaching him a moment later and swinging onto the dragon’s neck.
Czyre looked back.
Elai reached for him, though there was nothing but storm between them now.
Then blue light swallowed the lower chamber.
Lyra shouted his name.
The tower vanished.
The last thing Elai saw was Rhaevor cutting through the clouds toward the western mountains.
Toward Dravorn.
And the last thing he heard before the light took him was Czyre calling his name from the back of a dragon.