Ch.1:

  “To become the greatest, one must walk not in shadow, but where the starlight dares to fall. Greatness is not claimed—it is followed like a distant flame, until you burn with its light.”

  — Grand Elder Alliance Lady Mia Freya Frostborn

  This the story of the greatest mage who ever lived in our world. Not a tale of my triumphs, for I had a few worth telling, and not a journey of my becoming – though I did change, in ways I could never have imagined. No, this is her story.

  Mia Freya Frostborn. Grand Elder Lady. Feared as the most powerful figure of our time. She who single-handily united the Alliance under one banner, who bent flame and storm to her will, who spoke and made kings kneel – not out of duty, but out of awe.

  But let me be clear: this is not my story. I was no hero, no wielder of ancient power. I was a kid, a wanderer, a soul caught in the orbit of a rising star. And I was her first apprentice in this world.

  I stood at her side when she shattered the Sky Gate. I watched her turn back the Black Tides with nothing but a whisper. I saw her burn. I saw her rise. And now, as the world trembles in her wake, I write so that you will remember not just the legend — but the woman who became one.

  A few years ago, she left our world. She said she was going home. None of us truly understood what that meant. Some say she walked beyond the planes to another dimension. Others believe she slumbers beneath the roots of the world, waiting. And many believe she is truly dead.

  Me? I believe she is alive, somewhere, out there, in her home.

  And maybe, once you've heard her story, you will too. This is the story of how she became the legend we now dare only whisper. She appeared as suddenly in this world as she left. So where should I begin? Maybe a few days before our first encounter.

  In the early spring in the year XXV.987, around fifty years ago, I was just a little girl, living in a quiet village called Bluecreek. My father was away, fighting in the war between King Aeon and the beastkin tribes of the Emberfang Peaks, a jagged mountain range that loomed near the border of our small kingdom. So, I lived an ordinary live as a village kid. My mother was an apothecary. She kept her shop in the front room of our home, a small timber house on the outskirts of Bluecreek, where the wildflowers crept right up to our windowsills and the forest was only a stone’s throw away.

  I remember these days with my mother clearly; it was an easier, simple life.

  ?

  A few days before I met Mia, the weather began to shift. Black clouds gathered on the horizon —slowly, deliberately, like an ill omen. I was eight years old and helping my mother to deliver some orders from the village folk.

  “Thank you, Lina” the old woman in front of me said as she gently petted my head. “You’re a good girl. Give this to your mother, will you?”

  She pressed a small bundle into my hands, I smelled fresh bread and faintly honey. I nodded with an honest smile, said my goodbyes and turned around to leave the hut. I stepped out onto a narrow dirt path, to walk to my next destination. It was a quiet morning in Bluecreek, the village wasn’t large – just a few dozen homes and shops, all built in the same wooden style, faded by rain and time. Somewhere, a blackbird was singing, its call sharp and clean against the hush that lingered in the air.

  I didn’t think much of it then. Bluecreek was always quiet. But now, looking back, it felt like the world was holding its breath. Waiting.

  After a few minutes of walking, I reached my next stop, the only tavern for miles around. It stood near the village square, broad-shouldered and weather-worn, one of the largest buildings in Bluecreek. The old beams creaked when the wind pushed against them, and ivy had begun to creep along the outer walls like a lazy green serpent.

  As it was still morning, the door was closed. I set the bundle down carefully and knocked, three short raps like my mother had taught me – “never bang on a tavern door in the morning,” she used to say, “unless you want to see a half-dressed cook and hear words you shouldn’t repeat.”

  I waited. Somewhere inside, I could hear chairs scraping and the muffled clink of metal. Then footsteps. Slow. Heavy. The door creaked open, and a familiar figure leaned into the doorway, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Lina,” Tomel grunted, his voice hoarse. “Too early for your sunny face. What’ve you brought this time?”

  Tomel was the tavern owner’s son. He was around sixteen then, tough he acted older. He was lanky, always smelled a bit like smoke and yeast, and had a habit of squinting like the world was too bright for him. But he was kind, in that distracted, gruff way older boys sometimes are when they don’t want to admit they care.

  I held up the bundle. “Blue-night-shade tea and armaris oil for your mother. Mama said she shouldn’t be skipping treatments again.”

  He groaned and took the package. “She says the same about the mead, but no one listens to either of them.”

  I giggled. He gave me a half-smile, then glanced over my head, squinting at the horizon.

  “You seen the clouds today?” he asked.

  I turned and looked. The sky was still dark over the Emberfang Peaks. Maybe even darker than before.

  “They’ve been there since morning,” I said softly.

  Tomel didn’t answer. He just stood there for a moment, silent, and then muttered, “Best get back home before the weather turns strange.”

  At that moment, a lightning bolt split the sky.

  It came without warning – no rumble, no wind. Just a blinding flash that lit the village in stark silver and cast long, jagged shadows across the ground. The crack of it followed a breath later, sharp and thunderous, loud enough to rattle the tavern windows.

  I flinched, grabbing the edge of the doorway. Tomel swore and stepped back, clutching the bundle like it might explode.

  We both turned to look – toward the mountains. Toward the storm.

  The black clouds over the Emberfang Peaks had thickened, swirling like a slow, spiraling eye. And for just a heartbeat, I thought I saw something else in the sky. But when I blinked, it was gone.

  Tomel muttered something under his breath and backed into the tavern. “Tell your mother thanks,” he said quickly. “And maybe… maybe don’t take too long out here, alright?”

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  I nodded. The door closed behind him with a soft bang, leaving me alone again on the path.

  Clutching my empty basket, the scent of honey still in the air, I set off as it began to rain.

  I walked faster to escape the rain, my boots squelching in the soft earth, eyes flicking toward the tree line at the edge of town. My mother was out there somewhere, gathering herbs.

  As I made my way home, I could smell the rain in the air, warm and mossy, like wet bark and soil stirred by the turning season. It clung to everything, soaking into my sleeves and catching in my hair.

  The path curved gently toward our house, nestled where the village began to blur into the forest.

  Before I could reach our home, I saw a horse standing in front of the house.

  Someone was waiting.

  It wasn’t unusual for strangers to show up unannounced. After all, my mother was the only woman in Bluecreek who could heal more than just broken bones – she knew herbs, roots, and how to whisper small healing spells that stitched skin and soothed pain. People came from all over the region to seek her help.

  Still, something about this visitor made me slow my steps.

  The horse was tall, dark-coated, and restless – its flanks shimmering with sweat despite the cool air and rain. It pawed at the ground and tossed its head, as if it didn’t want to be there.

  But the visitor made the decision for me.

  He turned and spotted me, raising a hand. A tall man in worn leather armor, a travel-and-rain-stained cloak hanging from his shoulders, and the king’s crest sewn boldly into the front of his coat.

  “Hey, you!” he called, his voice deep and rough-edged, like someone who wasn’t used to speaking gently. “You know where the owner of this place is? Malina the herbalist, or something like that…”

  I nodded slowly, my fingers tightening around the handle of my basket.

  “That’s my mother,” I said.

  I walked slowly past the man, careful not to look too long at the sword strapped to his side, and reached up to unlock the door to the shop. The iron key felt cold in my hand, damp from the rain.

  "Oh… could you tell me where your mother is?" he asked, his tone a little less harsh now, uncertain, maybe even awkward.

  I glanced back at him. He was big – bigger than anyone I’d ever seen up close. His boots were caked with mud, and his hair clung to his face in wet strands, but there was something alert in his eyes. Watchful. Like a wolf scanning the tree line.

  “She’s in the woods,” I said. “Looking for herbs. She’ll be back soon.”

  He nodded, but didn’t look relaxed. If anything, his jaw tightened.

  For a moment, he just stood there, glancing toward the woods as if he might see her emerging through the trees. But there was nothing, only the steady patter of rain on the roof and the distant murmur of the creek swollen by spring melt.

  Then he shifted, adjusting something beneath his cloak. A letter, maybe. Or a blade.

  "It’s important," he said finally. "That I speak with her. As soon as possible."

  He didn’t sound threatening, exactly. But there was a weight in his words that made my fingers curl tighter around the key in my hand.

  “She won't take long, she wanted to be back by noon.” I said, and pushed open the door. The shop smelled like dried herbs and smoke, familiar and safe.

  I left the door open behind me, and after a brief pause, the man stepped inside. His boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor, leaving damp prints in his wake.

  "Is it alright if I wait here, little lass?" he asked, his voice softer now – rough, but trying.

  I hesitated for half a second, then nodded.

  He gave a small, grateful grunt and sat down on the bench near the front window, his armor creaking as he settled. He didn’t take off his cloak. He didn’t even relax.

  I ignored him and went behind the counter, slowly unpacking my basket and placing the bundle from earlier beneath the shelf. The rain tapped steadily against the windows now, playing a soft, rhythmic tune across the glass.

  It was spring, and the day had only begun a few hours ago, but the temperature was already beginning to drop. I could feel it in the floorboards, in the way the air seeped into the room and wrapped around my ankles.

  Outside, the light had dimmed – clouds thick and heavy, pressing down over Bluecreek like a blanket soaked through.

  I should heat the fire; I thought, and stepped away from the counter toward the back room, where we kept a pile of dry firewood stacked beneath the herbs hung to dry.

  It wasn’t easy – after all, I was only eight years old – but I managed to gather most of the pile into my arms and carry it, piece by awkward piece, back into the salesroom.

  As I stumbled in with the last load, the stranger stirred. He stood without a word, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor, and crossed the room to meet me.

  He didn’t ask. He just crouched down and took half the wood from my arms, his gloved hands moving carefully, almost gently, and helped me carry it to the iron oven beside the front window.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, surprised.

  He gave the faintest nod. Then he whispers a word.

  At the time, I couldn’t understand him – but later I would learn it was the runic word for fire: ????? (Zhaek).

  I looked up in surprise as the fire sprang to life in the iron oven. No flint, no tinder. Just that word. Within seconds, the room was bathed in soft orange light, and the oven radiated a steady, comforting heat that chased the chill from the air.

  “You are a mage?” I asked wide-eyed.

  He glanced at me, then looked back toward the window. For a moment, I thought he might not answer. But then, quietly, he said,

  “Not anymore.”

  I had never seen anyone do magic besides my mother, so I was in awe.

  Many questions bubbled just beneath the surface…

  But I didn’t dare say too much to this strange man. He was a bit scary to me – not in the way monsters are scary, but in the way thunderstorms are. Quiet, heavy, and unpredictable.

  So, I sat back down on the stool behind the counter, clutching my apron in my lap, and said nothing.

  Outside, the rain thickened into a steady downpour, drumming softly against the roof. Inside, the fire crackled, and the room glowed with warmth.

  The man began to look worried. His brow furrowed as he glanced once more toward the window, where the rain now blurred the world beyond into shifting shadows. It should soon be noon, but the day was now as dark as the deepest night.

  “So, your mother is in the woods during this storm?” he asked, his voice low but tight.

  I nodded slowly. “She said she’d be back by noon. She always knows when the weather’s about to turn.”

  He didn’t seem reassured. His eyes lingered on the tree line, then flicked briefly toward the oven – toward the fire he’d lit with a word. Then he stood. Not quickly, but with a quiet urgency that made my stomach twist.

  "What part of the woods does she usually go to?" he asked.

  The man turned to look at me fully then, and for a few heartbeats, he didn’t say a word.

  His grey eyes, sharp and cold like stones, met mine, and stayed there. Not unkind, but focused. Searching. Like he was trying to see something behind my words. It was as if he was looking straight into my soul.

  I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Not because I was brave – because I was too afraid to move.

  Then, just as suddenly, he blinked and the weight of his gaze lifted. He looked back toward the door.

  “If she’s not back soon,” he said quietly, mostly to himself, “I have to go… Sadly I have no time to search without any hints”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose, like someone carrying the weight of a task they didn’t want but couldn’t walk away from. Then he turned and paced once across the shop, his boots tapping softly against the wooden floor, before stopping in front of the window again. The fire crackled behind him, casting his shadow long and flickering against the shelves.

  Around half an hour later, he spoke again to me.

  "You're Malina’s child..."

  His voice was softer now. He reached into his cloak and placed a thick envelope on the counter, its edges sealed with dark wax.

  "Give this to her when she appears out of the woods. If she doesn’t reappear within one week..."

  He paused, then set a small sack beside the envelope. I heard the clink of coins inside.

  "Take this money and travel south to Ravenwood. Go to the inn, just ask for the innkeeper. Give him this coin," he pulled a single silver piece from his pocket, different from any I’d ever seen, and laid it gently beside the sack, "and ask about Thomas. Don’t forget to bring the envelope with you. Do you understand?"

  I nodded, but my hands trembled. I didn’t know who Thomas was. I didn’t even know this man’s name.

  But I understood enough to be afraid.

  I nodded, though my fingers were still curled tight in my lap.

  The man studied me for a moment longer, then gave a short, almost solemn nod. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say goodbye.

  He turned, pulled his hood back up over his damp hair, and stepped to the door. The hinges creaked as he opened it, and a gust of cold air swept into the shop, snuffing the edge of the fire’s warmth.

  Rain pattered against his cloak as he stepped outside.

  And just like that – he was gone.

  The door drifted shut behind him with a soft click.

  I sat alone in the shop, staring at the envelope, the coin, and the small sack of money. The fire still crackled in the oven, the scent of herbs clinging to the air, but the room suddenly felt much too big.

  And for the first time that day, I felt truly alone.