One might expect the home of the most famous Mage Soldier in the nation to be an extravagant, intricate mansion filled with mystical artifacts and hidden secrets in every corner.

  But the unsatisfying truth was that one could hardly pick it out from any other house in this quiet cul-de-sac. It was just a simple two-story home with thick white adobe walls and a red-tiled roof, no more glamorous than any of the other middle-class houses. The metal gates surrounding the property were perhaps a foot taller than the rest, but all in all, it was just a normal suburban home.

  Surprisingly, it was well maintained for a place that sat empty most of the time. A neatly trimmed lawn was bordered by vibrant green grass and decorative shrubbery, while colorful flowers hung from the patio. Though that was just because the property was maintained by a gardener and housekeeper who came by from time to time to ensure the house never fell into disrepair.

  When Damian was younger, he often wondered why their home was so plain compared to Vera’s veritable mansion, with its countless rooms and multiple servants. It certainly wasn’t due to a lack of money. When he asked, his father always told him that he had saved for the house while fighting in the First War and so it was special to him.

  Damian never quite understood that attachment, but as he grew older, he came to appreciate the home’s modest size. For just the two of them, it was more than enough space, and could already feel rather empty when alone—which was often these days.

  That didn’t mean the house was without its eccentricities. For instance, just as Damian turned the key in the front gate, a hand-sized circular brass device activated near the side of the gate’s frame. With a brief clanking of gears and the shifting of metal plates, the device opened, revealing a metal eye with a glowing silver gem embedded at its center.

  Damian was more than familiar with it. He gave a weak wave and a simple, “Hey, Dad,” before it closed up again—his entire weekly interaction with his father, done.

  A few more of these mechanical eyes were set up around the house’s exterior, ensuring his father knew of any intruders likely before anyone in the house did. Apparently, they sent an image directly to him somehow, no matter where he was. After all, this was a general’s home, and his father had an entire country of enemies to worry about.

  There was even a button inside the house that activated a lockdown state, sealing the doors and windows with a protective barrier. The only time Damian had ever seen it in action was when his father taught him how to use it. He had never needed to actually activate it himself.

  As Damian unlocked the front door and pushed it open, he was enveloped by the warm, comforting feeling that came with arriving home after a long week away. A flick of the light switch bathed the house in a soft, golden glow, accompanied by the faint buzz of magical energy humming through the walls.

  He let out a relieved sigh as he dropped his bag onto the hard foyer floor and stepped into the living room. The only movement came from the large grandfather clock, its weight ticking back and forth. An old antique rug lay on the floor, its intricate patterns worn with age, adding to the room’s quiet, lived-in feel.

  Only a handful of portraits lined the calming tan walls—mostly just landscapes. Some family homes might display portraits or even some photos these days, but there was—after all—only so many pictures of the same two guys you could hang on a wall before it started to feel weird.

  It was cozy and comforting, yet at the same time, Damian couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness that came with it. Distant memories lingered through the house like a ghost—the sound of his father’s voice calling through the halls, the smell of food as they made a mess ‘experimenting’ in the kitchen in the back, the warmth of the fireplace as his father read him stories on the couch.

  Damian went straight to the crystalwave radio and switched it on. It sparked to life with a yellow light as static gave way to the sounds of announcers and a roaring crowd—the final minutes of the prismball game he had heard in the distance earlier.

  He quickly began to tune out the exuberant announcer’s words, letting the crystalwave play in the background to keep the silence at bay. On a normal day, he might have cared about the game, but his earlier failings had dampened any excitement he might have felt. So, he did what anyone might do when feeling a bit down—he headed for the fridge.

  He opened the cold metal door, where a light blue crystal affixed to the roof, cooled everything with a light chilling mist. The fridge was stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats, along with a note detailing cooking instructions left by Mrs. Lorena, the elderly housekeeper who looked after the home and often left meals for Damian.

  She was an old-fashioned woman who preferred to use an older honorific rather than her rank. Some people seemed to care about such things, but Damian never saw the harm in it—and neither did his father.

  For now, though, he simply grabbed an apple and headed to his room.

  In stark contrast to his tidy dorm at the academy, Damian’s room at home was far more cluttered. Stacks of books and comics covered his desk and nightstand in what might have looked like chaos to an outsider. Stacks of worn copies of Ace Comics lay open atop a pile of mystery and adventure novels.

  A wooden shelf above his desk held remnants of past interests—a few framed displays from his abandoned coin-collecting hobby, a dusty model airobird he had built years ago, and a school project or two left to gather dust.

  In the far corner, his small workbench sat as a testament to his failings, broken gear, half-finished spell cartridges, and scattered tools.

  Though as he looked around he noted that several things had been organized and cleaned since he was last home, likely thanks to Mrs. Lorena. He might have felt guilty about leaving her a mess to deal with—but in a house that was rarely used, tidying his room was probably the only thing keeping her busy besides sweeping up dust.

  He let out a long stretch to relax before looking around for some task to do to entertain himself now that he was finally done with the mock test. He had been practicing all last weekend—not that it paid off at all—so he decided he might as well just take it easy this time.

  He first picked up an Ace Comics issue titled "The Mystery of the Emerald Enigma," the one he had saved to bring with him to school this week, but had forgotten to pack. It depicted the tale of some young soldiers following clues to an old Ace’s treasure stash he had hidden during the First Arcane War. Yet, as he flipped through the pages, an odd feeling crept in—had he read this one before? Or had he simply read so many that their plots had started to blur together?

  Setting it aside, he reached for a novel he had been attempting to get through—Beyond the Forbidden Wall—hoping a departure from the norm would pique his interest. It was technically a banned book, but that only made it more popular with the kids in the academy, and several copies had been secretly making their way around the campus, mostly amongst the girls.

  It depicted a forbidden love between a young woman and a (comically) attractive monster. Damian normally wasn’t one to read a gushy love story, but he didn’t mind a decent romance subplot in his usual picks, so curiosity led him to borrow Vera’s copy after she had finished, just to see what the fuss was about.

  But as he attempted to read the pages, his attention quickly began to waver until the words barely registered. He flipped through them absently before giving up entirely.

  Normally, he might attempt to practice with some spells, but as his gaze drifted to the collection of broken or shattered crystal shards on his desk, he felt a sickening feeling in his gut. He already knew exactly how that would turn out.

  And so, Damian lay back in his bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Barely an hour had passed since he’d come home, and he still had an entire weekend ahead of him. And yet, it had seemed he was already without anything to actually do.

  This was the true horror of loneliness.

  It wasn’t a craving for attention or a desperate need for recognition that really got to you.

  It was the endless loop of excruciating boredom—

  the kind that made you silently scream, Please, something interesting happen!

  So, it wasn’t much of a surprise that at some point as he wandered through the house, lost in his hazy melancholy, that Damian finally found himself standing in front of the locked door of his father's study, unsure of the exact steps that had led him there.

  He hadn’t exactly decided to try breaking in yet, there was no doubt curiosity about the treasures beyond that door was by far the most compelling thought on his mind.

  There was nothing remarkable about the door—just a solid wooden frame with a simple lock. Knowing his father, Damian doubted there was any kind of barrier or magical trap placed on it. He would be far more concerned about Damian getting hurt messing around with it, than anyone actually stealing his things.

  He gave the door knob a few jiggles, just to check if maybe it wasn’t quite locked, though it didn’t give.

  He inspected the lock, examining it from every angle. Even though he knew it wouldn’t work, he tried his own house keys—but none fit the hole.

  Finally, with a sigh, he gave the handle a proper jiggle before giving up for now and turning to leave.

  But just as he stepped away, and his fingers drifted off the metal handle, a sudden flash of light flared in the corner of his eye—quickly followed by a loud, bell-like chime that rang through the hall.

  Instinctively, he ducked, shielding himself as a small metal object ricocheted violently around the hallway, clanging against the walls and floor.

  When the chaos finally settled, Damian slowly looked back.

  The door handle lay on the floor, still rolling in lazy circles.

  And the door itself… was creaking open.

  "Well, I guess I’m learning how to fix a door this weekend," Damian muttered to himself as he picked himself up and moved to inspect the damage.

  The knob had been blown clean off, and scorch marks surrounded the lock.

  "Guess I was wrong about Dad not trapping it after all. Jeez, I hardly even did anything. Something must’ve been busted."

  He sighed. "Well, what’s done is done."

  With a shrug, he stepped inside, letting fate pull him into the room it apparently so clearly wanted him to enter.

  The room wasn’t large, but it was packed from wall to wall with magical trinkets, and war memorabilia.

  Shelves overflowed with strange artifacts and gadgets, some inert, others blinking with faint lights or humming with latent energy. Display cases housed a dazzling collection of medals and awards, their polished surfaces catching the dim light. Old banners and flags draped from the walls, while an intimidating array of slinger and slugger prototypes lined one side of the room like a private arsenal.

  At the center of it all sat a well-crafted desk, draped with a vibrant red-and-gold tablecloth. Old letters and military reports lay scattered across its surface. But the thing that caught Damian’s attention the most was the three framed photographs.

  The first was a picture of himself on his first day at the academy—eager, naive, and completely unaware of the disappointment ahead of him.

  The second was a photo of his father, though almost unrecognizable. He looked about eighteen, standing beside a young woman with brown hair and vibrant green eyes—a woman Damian knew to be his mother. A woman he had only ever known from photos and times his father had reminisced about his past.

  In the third, his father was even younger, around Damian’s age, grinning playfully beside another boy who bore a striking resemblance to him. Damian’s uncle, apparently. A man he would never meet, lost in the last Arcane War.

  Damian stared at the photos, seeing an entire family that had never been part of his life. It had always been just him and his father for as long as he could remember, but for a brief moment, he wondered what it would have been like in a world where his house wasn’t always so empty.

  Besides the old memories captured in the photographs, nothing on the desk interested Damian. Old reports and maps weren’t exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to a group of rowdy, partying teens, so he moved on, letting his interest wander over the rest of the room.

  It had been a while since he’d taken the time to truly appreciate the treasures stored here. He wasn’t exactly forbidden from entering—he only had to ask his father if he wanted a look—but unless his father was there to supervise, the room remained locked. And with how rarely he was around these days, it had sat empty for most of Damian’s recent memory.

  Now, though, he could clearly understand why. The last time he’d taken a good look around, he had still been new at the academy, and most of the items inside had felt like treasures from some forbidden toy store. But with the arcane knowledge he possessed now, it was easy to see just how dangerous most of this stuff really was.

  The most striking section of the room was the weapons display. Compared to the modern sluggers Damian was used to, most of the weapons mounted on the wall here looked downright primitive. Proper safety features like the gyrator stopper and feedback reflectors were nowhere to be found. There was even an ancient gunpowder musket—if he tried firing some of these, he probably blew his hands clean off.

  Still, it was fascinating to look at. The variety of slugger designs alone was staggering.

  One had an extremely long barrel and an unusually thick, telescopic sight, clearly designed for sniping. Another was short and stubby, almost as if someone had sawed it in half. Some had two, three, or even four barrels, each fitted with separate crystal slots, probably to allow them to channel multiple spells at once. Then there was the massive, heavy-looking rapid-fire chain-slugger—a beast of a weapon that looked like it could tear through just about anything—assuming it didn’t fall apart first.

  But what really caught his eye was a slugger he recognized—one that looked similar to the sluggers Vera’s brother, The Crimson Rocket, used. Instead of a conventional barrel, it had a flared muzzle, almost like the back of a rocket ship.

  This version, however, was far more basic than the sleek, modern one Ignacio wields these days. It was plain steel, lacking the flashy details and advanced modifications of the updated design. Only now did it occur to Damian that his father might have had a hand in helping Ignacio develop his own.

  While everyone at the party would definitely find these sluggers exciting, Damian had no intention of taking one. He was at least wise enough to know it would never make it back in one piece—probably along with a few body parts.

  Besides, these weren’t just dangerous, they looked like weapons that required an extremely skilled Mage Soldier to wield—basically the opposite of something that might help him. With that thought he moved on.

  Next, he moved on to the awards display cases. He knew he wouldn’t find what he was looking for here, but it was still an impressive collection, to say the least.

  Gold, silver, and platinum medals lined the shelves in endless rows, their polished surfaces gleaming under the backlight. Inside was a medal for nearly every honor imaginable. Medals for valor, for sacrifice, for leadership. There was even some kind of writing award tucked among the countless military distinctions.

  But the centerpiece of the collection stood in a place all its own: the Hero of Solar medal.

  A one-of-a-kind made specifically for the Silver Fox to honor his legendary defeat of the Dread General. A variation of the Home Guard’s shield insignia, crossed by two swords at the back, with a pair of wings in the back—similar to the Ace’s insignia.

  Damian had daydreamed countless times about doing something so great as to earn his own. It was just a small piece of metal, but it symbolized the special place his father held as the champion of the Solaran Dominion. Though it was obviously too audacious to wear around on the regular, his dad seemed to prefer wearing the simple winged badge of the Aces most of the time anyway.

  With a contemplative sigh, Damian turned to the next wall. Immediately, he realized this might be his best shot yet.

  Several rows of shelves stretched before him, packed with magical gadgets of all shapes and sizes—metal contraptions, intricate mechanisms, and unusual trinkets stretched before him.

  The problem was, even with his academy training in arcane engineering, Damian had no idea what most of these did.

  Unlike the standardized equipment he was familiar with, these were rare, older prototypes and obscure artifacts. None of them labeled, and many designed for purposes he could only guess at. The only ones he recognized were the few his father had shown him over the years.

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  Several of the devices looked like older versions of gadgets Damian had studied at the academy—a clunky, oversized prototype of the magic dampeners they used in school, along with a few somehow even heavier and clunky caster watches.

  But then, he spotted something he actually recognized—a hooded cloak, its fabric embedded with tiny crystals that gave it a faint, sparkly sheen.

  Damian remembered this one all too well. It was the reason the door to this room had a lock in the first place. Vera had roped him into playing in the office, and at some point, she had discovered the cloak.

  The moment she put it on, she vanished into thin air.

  They spent the entire night searching for her as she darted around, playing tricks on random people. It had been fun—for her, at least. Damian briefly considered bringing it to Vera’s party. Then he thought better of it. If he did, he’d probably never see it again.

  Another item caught his eye—a wide leather belt threaded with several wires.

  Damian knew this one well. It was the same device his father had used the time he broke his leg falling out of a second-story window—a direct consequence of believing that magic was simply a matter of willpower. Unfortunately, no amount of belief had kept him from his violent reunion with the ground.

  His father had come running out, more panicked than Damian had ever seen him, an odd look for someone who was supposedly a battle-hardened soldier. He had dashed back inside, grabbed this belt, and strapped it around Damian’s leg, letting it work its magic.

  It hadn’t done a thing for the searing pain in the moment, but it had straightened the bone and healed it up within minutes. By the next day, Damian was walking like nothing had happened.

  Then, Damian came across probably the best item yet—a small orb of brass and glass, its inner workings visible through the transparent casing. Inside, a network of tiny gears surrounded two embedded crystals—one glowing a faint purple, the other orange.

  When the button on top was pressed, the gears whirred to life, and the crystals flared, generating a large anti gravity field up to about ten meters wide.

  His father had first brought this out when Dante came over for the first time. Damian had asked him to ‘do something cool’ to impress his new friend, and his father had delivered spectacularly. They had spent hours floating weightless, spinning and laughing like they were in deep space.

  That day might have set the bar too high, though. For the next several visits, Dante had half-expected some kind of magical spectacle—only to be met with the reality that Damian’s home life was nowhere near that exciting on a regular basis.

  Still, this would be a hit at the party, especially with Vera. It was certainly less dangerous than most of the other options—if anything, it might actually be safer in zero gravity. Though, Damian had little interest in it for himself.

  But then, something caught Damian’s eye—a fancy wooden box with intricate, golden patterns carved into it, reminiscent of an antique jewelry box. Despite being in this room several times, he’d never actually seen what was inside. Even more curious was the faint glimmer of light peeking through the gaps of its lid.

  The thought of the party—or even how he could improve his magic—faded away, replaced by a spark of childish curiosity. He pulled the box towards him, and as he lifted the lid, a warm, magical glow illuminated his face as his eyes sparkled with excitement.

  Magic crystals!

  Lots of them.

  And not the typical zastyne kind, either.

  Normally, a zastyne crystal was a clear, colorless gem that only took on a color when activated. But these crystals were all wildly different, both in shape and color, even in their inactive state.

  They came in brilliant shades of red, blue, green, black, and white. There were cubed crystals, pyramid-shaped ones, and elongated prisms. Some were entwined with two colors twisted around each other, while others had streaks and lines running through them. One was even dark and speckled with tiny white dots—like a piece of the night sky. It was like a treasure chest of magical possibility.

  Damian had learned about other rarer types of crystals that could alter magic in a number of different ways—changing the effects of spells cast through them, enabling unique affinity fusions, or even allowing someone to wield magic they wouldn’t normally be able to use.

  It was possible that one of these crystals could help him control his magic, but Damian had no idea what any of them actually did. Trying it out on his own would likely end with a priceless crystal shattered across the floor.

  If anyone could help him, it was Dante. But he was caught up with his work at the Intelligence Corps.

  That left Vera. She might be arrogant and a bit reckless, but she was also a natural with magic. If anyone else he knew could figure out how these crystals worked, it would be her.

  But of course, the only way she’d help him was if he came through for her and showed up at her party.

  He picked up crystal after crystal, turning them over in his hands, watching as they sparkled with every shift in light. Each one felt different, their unique shapes and colors pulling him deeper into thought.

  Then—

  He heard a small creak from the door and a sudden groan as the wooden floor groaned under shifting weight.

  He wasn’t alone!

  His breath caught as he whipped around, and his stomach sank as he saw his father looming in the doorway.

  His eyes weren’t on him—not yet. Instead, he was looking down at the door, silently examining the missing handle.

  Damian’s mind raced. This looked really bad.

  “Dad, I…I didn’t know you were coming home! I...I mean—” He stumbled over his words, trying to explain before his father even said a word. “I didn’t mean to do that! It was an accident! I barely touched it and the trap just—It just went off. Blew the whole handle clear off!"

  “Trap?” his father questioned, tracing a finger over the scorch mark on the door.

  “Yeah, some sort of bright burst went off. I was going to fix it! It only happened a few moments ago, and I was just looking around since I had a chance and—”

  “It’s okay,” Dalten interrupted, his voice reassuring. “I’ll send someone to fix it.”

  His focus shifted to Damian as he moved toward him.

  An arm wrapped around Damian, pulling him into a sudden hug.

  Damian was surprised at first, but his nervousness quickly dissipated as he reciprocated, his movements carrying the unique brand of awkwardness that came with father-son physical affection.

  “It’s good to see you,” Dalten said.

  “Yeah… you too, Dad.” Damian replied as he pulled away. “Why didn’t you send word you were coming back to the city?”

  “I knew I wouldn’t really be able to stick around,” Dalten said, moving past Damian and sitting down at his desk before beginning to rummage through the drawers, flipping through papers and files. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Just had to stop by and grab some things.”

  Damian took a good look at his father. The image of The Silver Fox often conjured up in people's minds was of a gallant hero—chest puffed out proudly, exuding confidence and strength—just as he was often depicted in the posters. With his skin a rugged bronze, hair dark as the night and windswept as if caught in a perpetual gust of wind.

  But the man standing before Damian gave off quite a different temperament. Far from the unwavering hero of the posters, his father looked worn and weathered, his skin paler. The years had etched themselves onto his face, deepening the lines around his once vibrant dark eyes, and his eyelids sagged with exhaustion.

  His hair—while admittedly still rather lush and vibrant for a man his age—had begun to lose its luster and notable gray stripes creeping outward from his temple lent a further meaning to his nickname. Worse, he seemed to have slimmed down a bit, more than Damian had seen the last time they met.

  “Dad, have you not been eating again?”

  “What? Oh yeah… sure. I do miss a meal here and there but I’ve been eating fine. I wouldn’t be alive otherwise,” Dalten dismissed.

  “Have you eaten yet today?”

  At this, Dalten froze and remained quiet—like a child caught in a lie.

  Damian gave a sigh and continued. “Dad, every time you come home you look worse than the last time. You need to take better care of yourself. Why don’t you stay for at least a few minutes and eat something”

  “I can't, there’s just a lot going on right now and I don’t have the time to stop.” Dalten said as he continued to sort through files.

  “There’s always a lot going on.

  "Look, I already have Mrs. Lorena’s stew cooking in the kitchen. I even was making more than I was probably going to eat. It’s pretty much done already so it won’t take long.

  "Besides, how can anyone rely on you if you are always one step away from passing out from starvation?”

  Dalten failed to come up with a decent protest to that. He simply gave a resigned sigh.

  “Okay, I’ll stay for a bite, but I have to be quick. There are still several things I need done before tomorrow.”

  A small, almost hidden smile found its way to Damian’s lips at that, and after collecting some files into a suitcase, the two moved over to the dining room area.

  Dalten pulled out a chair and dropped into it, as if it were the first time in forever he had allowed himself to rest. He removed his peaked cap and tossed it onto the wooden table while Damian went to check on the food.

  As Damian stirred, the hearty aroma of fresh meats and vegetables filled the room, mingling with a faint, lingering sweetness.

  Dalten inhaled deeply as the rich aroma filled the air.

  “That smells interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Damian replied, filling two bowls and setting them on the table alongside a pair of water glasses. “I didn’t expect you, though. So I kind of got a little creative with it. I think you’ll still like it.”

  Dalten sniffed and then took a good bite before he almost spit it through his nose at the surprise of sudden flavor.

  “Ahh, it’s spicy. Is that fireberry spice? I was wondering what that sweet smell was. Certainly a… unique choice. Although I can't say I completely hate it.” he said, taking another bite, now more prepared.

  “I’ve been trying new things while cooking. Keeps things from getting boring, and it’s a nice break from the blandness of the food they give us back at the academy.” He took a bite and his face soured. “Though maybe I got a little too creative.”

  “And how have things been going back at the school? Vera is not still giving you too much trouble is she?”

  “Well… Vera is still Vera, but I’m used to her by now. Everything’s fine,” Damian said, knowing it wasn’t true. But he wasn’t about to worry his father over something as trivial as teen drama. He had more important things on his mind. “But… I’m still not getting anywhere with my magic.”

  “Didn’t you say you were able to perform the Flicker in that last letter you sent me?”

  “Were being the keyword there. I haven’t been able to do it since, and even then it was more like blinking than a real Flicker like you can do. I know you can’t be here to teach me, but isn’t there something you can do to help me? I saw that box of crystals you had in your room, maybe one of those can help?”

  “Those aren’t for practical use. They are for research purposes only, far too unpredictable for you to be experimenting with just yet.”

  “But there’s got to be something you can do. Aren’t you supposed to be the best Mage Soldier in the world? There’s got to be some way you know of to help me break through whatever weird block I have.”

  “These things take time and practice. You have to be patient—there’s no rush.”

  “Patient?” Damian had heard that word too many times, and he was sick of it. “The rest of my class has already mastered multiple spells. Dante’s already a Captain. Meanwhile, I can barely fire a slugger half the time. Even freshmen are starting to surpass me. At this point, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to use magic properly. This isn’t about patience anymore—this is just… embarrassing. Everyone’s leaving me behind.”

  “Damian, there’s more to life than being a Mage Soldier. You don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You don’t want me to be a Mage Soldier.” Damian cut him off, his voice rising. “I figured that out when I had to practically beg you to let me go to Provedencia. Gods forbid I actually follow in my father’s footsteps.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Dalten objected. “But I didn’t get a choice about becoming a Mage Soldier. I had just started as a school teacher when that conscription letter arrived. You do have a choice. You’re still young—you haven’t even seen everything the world has to offer.”

  “Yes, it’s my choice, and this is the one I’m making. But it feels like the whole world is trying to make my decision for me.” Damian’s voice sharpened with frustration. “I don’t want to just sit around safe at home while everyone else is out there fighting, doing their part. I want to be in the worst of it, fighting to keep the world safe.”

  “Damian, there are already enough people on the battlefield. I get that you’re eager, but there’s only so much one person can do. We’re already putting enough lives at risk—adding yours to the pile won’t change anything. Especially someone as young as you, who still has his whole life ahead of him.”

  “And what about you?” Damian shot back, his frustration mounting. “You say you didn’t choose this, yet you still do it anyway. Hell, when was the last time General Dominique even fired his slinger? Yet you’re still out there on the front lines, fighting and leading like you’re some young captain again. Every time I see you, you look more and more tired. More worn out."

  He clenched his fists. “Are you just going to keep fighting until there’s nothing left of you? When is someone else finally going to step up and take your place? And why can’t I at least try?”

  Dalten’s voice rose, trying to match Damian’s growing frustration. “Damian, this isn’t just about heroes and doing your part. This is war. Those comics of yours might make it seem exciting, but there’s no honor on the battlefield—only death and tragedy. No matter how much you want to make things better, most of the time, all you can do most of the time is stop things from getting worse.”

  But Damian had heard it all a million times before. “I know it’s dangerous. I know I might fail. But if it’s as bad as you keep saying, then that’s all the more reason I should be out there. I know I can die. I’m okay with that.”

  “Well, I’m not!” Dalten suddenly yelled, slamming his hand on the table.

  Damian flinched at the sudden outburst from his normally mild-mannered father. He didn’t argue back. Instead, he slumped into his chair, arms crossed, staring down at the table.

  Dalten exhaled, rubbing his temple. He knew he’d gone too far. He leaned back in his chair, letting the tension settle before speaking again, his voice calmer.

  “Damian, I’ve told you about my time as a teacher, right?”

  “Constantly,” Damian muttered, his tone quieter now. “You’ve probably told me more stories about that than your battles.”

  Dalten gave an exasperated sigh and continued to speak regardless, “One year. All that studying and preparing and I was a teacher for a single year. It’s been decades, but sometimes it feels like it was hardly a few years ago. I followed your mom, up to the northern territories. They didn’t have as many resources up there and I guess you can say she wanted to make a difference too. And well, I suppose her optimism was infectious, or perhaps I was just a lovestruck fool.”

  “I even picked up magic around that time. It started as just little tricks and illusions to impress the kids, even the older teens loved it. Magic wasn’t as accessible back then after all. I used to carry around a small wand, basically a simple handheld stick with a crystal on the end to throw out a tiny firework or use illusions to play out a little story.”

  “I had one student, Forest Potter, who really enjoyed it. He spent three whole months working a part-time job to afford his own wand, and would ask me to help teach him how to use it after class. He had a real talent for it too. He could have probably surpassed even me one day. I still remember how sad he was when I told the class I was leaving.”

  Damian interrupted, unamused, “I don’t see how this is different then all your other stories. I’ve heard them all.”

  “Yeah, well… Here’s a part I never told you. That wasn’t the last time I saw Forest. Two years later, I was a captain in the Home Guard. Then, one day, who do I find among our new replacements but Forest—eager and ready to do his part? He told me he’d heard about my exploits back home and was inspired to join up. He even requested to be assigned to my company because he looked up to me.”

  “Now, I knew Forrest's birthday. I knew he wasn’t old enough to enlist—he was still only seventeen at the time.”

  “He begged me not to say anything, and with the manpower shortage at the time, the higher-ups were more than willing to look the other way. I wasn’t sure at first, but he swore he’d prove he could handle himself.”

  “And he did. He became one of my most reliable soldiers. His magic skills had only improved since I last saw him.”

  For a brief moment, a small, proud smile crossed Dalten’s face—only to fade just as quickly.

  “Then, one day, we were tasked with taking a hill. Nothing special about it—just another patch of dirt on the way to our overall goal. I trusted Forest, so I gave him the job of leading a squad to flank the enemy. They completed the mission, but…”

  Dalten’s voice faltered. He swallowed, as if forcing the words out. “Forest never came back. He was buried in a landslide when they ran into an ambush—never even had time to react.”

  “We were never able to recover his body. He’s still out there somewhere, buried under the dirt on some nameless hill.”

  Damian remained silent. He was still unconvinced, but the way his father spoke made it clear how much this story meant to him, so he listened.

  “I wish I could say he was the only one of my students who died under my command, but he was just the first.

  Thomas Welur, Sasha Grace, Manuel Venuel—they followed after him, and none of them ever made it home.

  Cindy Falder didn’t even enlist to fight; she became a nurse, working behind the lines. But that didn’t stop the bombs from falling on her and the rest of the field hospital.

  Samantha Howard wasn’t even in the army—she was safe at home, fresh off her honeymoon. But they turned her entire town into an inferno anyway.”

  Dalten’s voice dropped lower, the weight of it pressing into the silence.

  “I had twenty kids in that class. Less than half lived to see the end of the First Arcane War. So, Damian, believe me when I tell you—I don’t want this war to take you, too. Enough innocent kids have already died.”

  Silence hung between them. Damian wasn’t sure how to respond at first. It was a sad story, and he felt bad for what his father had been through. But at the end of the day, it changed nothing. His resolve—his dreams—were stronger than a sad story.

  “I get it—I get that war isn’t a game. I get that I’d be putting my life on the line, and I understand that other people’s lives are at risk too. But that’s all the more reason to want to help. Because if the choice is between sitting back and watching everyone else sacrifice or dying while actually trying to do something, I’ll choose to die knowing I at least tried to make a difference. I’m okay with that.”

  Dalten exhaled, slow and heavy.

  “I know… I know. But like I said, I’m not.” His voice was calmer this time, softer, but just as firm. “You’re brave. Too brave for your own good. Probably take after me a little too much in that regard. And maybe one day, you’ll find your war. Sadly, wars seem to have a way of popping up again, no matter how many times it’s snuffed out.”

  He stood, retrieving his overcoat and tossing his cap on.

  “But this war is mine. And I intend to end it before you ever have the chance to step onto that battlefield.”

  “Are you leaving already?” Damian asked.

  “Yup, duty calls. But I heard your class is attending the rally, right?”

  “Yeah, they’re basically forcing us to go.”

  Dalten gave a small, warm smile. “Good. That means we don’t have to say goodbye just yet. I’d hate for this to be how we left things.

  How about we go see the prismball game the day after? I have a little time before I have to head back, and I’d like to spend it with you if possible.”

  For perhaps the first time since he was sprinting through slug fire earlier, Damian felt a small glimmer of hope. But then, he remembered there was one more person who made that same promise.

  “Yeah, um…Is it okay if Dante comes with us? He asked me to go too.”

  Dalten looked at him for a moment, surprised, then smiled softly. “Of course. It’s been a while since all three of us have been together.”

  “So, see you later, then?”

  Dalten opened the door, his form silhouetted by the light of the lamp posts outside. He glanced back, gave a slow affectionate nod.

  “Yeah. See you later.”

  And just like that, Damian watched his father’s silhouette disappear beyond the closing door once more.