"A boy opened a Gate.
A dragon knelt.And now the world will burn—not because he wants to,but because we let it happen."
—Archmage Seluin, Council Record #447, classified
The Mage Tower rose like a spike from the ocean—impossibly thin, as if the stars themselves had carved it from midnight. Storms circled its spire. Lightning often struck its highest rings, but no damage ever showed. No ships approached. No birds nested.
It was the most protected place on Earth.
Because within its walls sat the thirteen who decided humanity's fate.
The Mage Council.
And tonight, for the first time in a hundred years, every seat was filled.
The chamber was not made of stone.
It was made of memory.
Each wall bore illusionary tapestries, shifting and changing—faces, battles, spells, betrayals. History itself flowed in loops, impossible to follow unless you had permission to remember.
In the center: a round table of obsidian. No legs. It hovered. Suspended by oath and threat.
At its head sat Archmage Seluin, a woman who had not blinked in forty-seven years.
She spoke softly.
But every syllable cracked the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Amine Toku has opened the First Gate."
A murmur ran through the chamber like ice in blood.
The mage to her right—a man with no shadow, known only as Whispers—leaned forward.
"Impossible. He was untested. Barely awakened."
"He was meant to die," spat Myriane of Thorns, fingernails clinking like glass. "We erased the prophecy. I personally destroyed the Arkhiv Codex."
"And yet he lives," Seluin said calmly. "And not merely lives. He commands monsters made of forgotten thought."
The table pulsed beneath them. One of the floating chairs dimmed—acknowledging the power imbalance.
Then, another voice—old, cracked, like wind over bones.
Ephraim the Still.
He had not spoken in years.
Now, his eyes opened.
"He remembers," he whispered. "More than we do."
Silence.
Seluin nodded. "He crossed into Elyth Seran."
Murmurs.
"Impossible."
"That city devours minds—"
"He reached the Second Gate?"
"Yes," Seluin said. "And Kherys burned himself for the boy."
More silence.
More fear.
A dark-robed figure finally rose from the circle. His hood concealed everything but his mouth, which smiled without kindness.
Aven, the Warbinder.
"I warned you this would happen. You let the summoner class live. You gave him Thanor. You let the boy taste power."
Seluin's voice hardened. "We did not let him live. He broke the chains."
"And now," Aven said coldly, "he will break the world."
At the back of the room, a small mirror shimmered to life.
A live report.
A battlefield.
Dead Name-Eaters.
And Amine standing amidst them—eyes glowing, dragons circling him like stars.
Aven's voice grew venomous. "This is not a boy. This is a god-seed. The longer he breathes, the more unstable the balance becomes."
Whispers tilted his head. "You'd suggest what, then? Execution?"
"An execution won't do," Myriane sneered. "We must unmake him."
Seluin raised a hand.
The air froze.
"You forget," she said. "He was once one of us. Before this world."
Several mages turned toward her.
"You remember?" Myriane hissed.
"I remember enough. Tokyo. A tower of glass. A boy without a name. Pushed until he broke."
Ephraim nodded slowly. "The Gate remembered him because it owed him."
Another silence fell.
This one heavier.
Old.
Seluin stood.
"Council. Hear me."
The walls shivered.
"The Second Gate is open. The Third is awakening. Soon, the truth we buried will surface."
Her voice dropped.
"We made the dragons."
Gasps.
"You will not find this in any spellbook. You will not read it in any archive. But I tell you now: they were our fault. Born from our arrogance. Sculpted from stolen stars. When we could no longer control them, we erased the evidence."
Aven growled, "Lies."
"No," Ephraim said quietly. "Regret."
Seluin closed her eyes.
"Amine is not the threat. He is the consequence. If we kill him, the world will not be saved. It will forget everything it ever learned."
Then she opened her palm.
A glowing orb emerged.
A projection.
Of the Fourth Gate.
Already cracked.
Already bleeding fire.
"If we do not ally with the boy," Seluin said, "we will not survive the coming storm."
Whispers muttered, "And if we do?"
"Then we must tell him the truth."
Aven slammed his hand on the table.
"No! The truth destroys!"
"And lies," Seluin said calmly, "destroy slower."
The chamber dimmed.
Votes were cast.
Twelve voices.
Six for Amine's death.
Five for alliance.
Seluin cast the final vote.
It echoed through the tower like thunder.
"I vote for truth."
High above the clouds, the Mage Tower shuddered—not from quake, but from consequence.
Below, the Second Gate pulsed brighter.
And far away, Amine awoke from a dream he didn't know he had.
With a single word on his lips:
"Seluin."