Rising With My Mystic Power

THE LANTERN TOWER

The Academy at midnight was a different world.

The bustling halls, filled with chatter and clashing swords during the day, lay cloaked in silence. Only the wind whispered through the arches, carrying the faint rustle of enchanted banners that never aged.

Mordaine moved carefully through the shadows, heart hammering. He had slipped out of his dormitory unseen, wrapping himself in a simple cloak. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of torchlight felt like it would give him away.

The lantern tower rose at the far edge of the Academy grounds. It was ancient—older than the dormitories, older even than the dueling halls. Legends whispered it had once served as a lighthouse for ships sailing the skies when the world’s magic was wilder. Now it stood abandoned, its spiral staircase leading into darkness.

Mordaine hesitated at the base.

The note’s words echoed in his mind: Trust no one.

He clenched his fists and started up the stairs.

Each step groaned beneath his boots. Dust stirred with every movement, glowing faintly in the slivers of moonlight seeping through cracks in the stone. He counted the turns of the staircase, his breath shallow, until at last he reached the chamber at the top.

A single lantern burned in the center, though no hand seemed to tend it. The flame within shimmered silver, unnatural yet beautiful. Shadows danced along the curved walls.

And from those shadows, a voice emerged.

“You came.”

Mordaine spun, hand going to the hilt of his practice blade.

A figure stepped forward, cloaked in gray. The hood concealed their face, but their presence radiated a quiet strength, like coiled lightning waiting to strike.

“Who are you?” Mordaine demanded, his voice low but steady.

The figure tilted their head. “A messenger. Nothing more.”

“You wrote the letter?”

“Yes.” The hood shifted, and though Mordaine could not see their eyes, he felt them—piercing, knowing. “And I was not certain you would be bold—or foolish—enough to answer.”

Mordaine took a step forward. “You mentioned my parents. What do you know about them?”

The figure was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, they raised a hand. From the folds of their cloak, they drew an object—a shard of crystal, faintly glowing with the same blue fire that had erupted from Mordaine’s blade.

His breath caught.

“This belonged to your father,” the figure said softly. “Do you recognize it?”

Mordaine’s chest tightened. The crystal shimmered like the pendant his father once wore around his neck—the one Mordaine had seen glowing faintly on stormy nights. The one that had disappeared with him.

“What… what happened to them?” Mordaine’s voice cracked despite himself.

The figure lowered their hand, hiding the shard once more.

“That,” they said, “is an answer I cannot yet give. But know this—your power is not an accident. It is a legacy. And those who would rather it remain buried are already watching you.”

Mordaine’s blood ran cold.

“Who are they?” he whispered.

The figure’s head turned sharply, as though listening. A sudden gust swept through the lantern tower, extinguishing the silver flame. The chamber plunged into darkness.

The voice came one last time, urgent now:

“Find the rest of the crystal, Mordaine Carrowell. Before they do. Or you will share your parents’ fate.”

Then silence.

When the lantern reignited, the figure was gone.

Mordaine stood alone in the tower, his pulse thundering, his mind reeling. The note had been right. His parents’ disappearance, his strange power, the artifact—it was all connected.

And now, for the first time, he realized just how dangerous his legacy was.

      The lantern tower’s door groaned as Mordaine pushed it open. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the sharp scent of pine from the distant forest. He stepped into the courtyard, his cloak snapping in the wind.

His mind was a storm. The figure’s words echoed with every heartbeat. Find the crystal. Before they do.

The warning clung to him like a shadow.

As he slipped back across the grounds, the Academy looked different—no longer a sanctuary of learning, but a place filled with hidden eyes and unknown intentions. The silver runes carved into the walls glimmered faintly in the moonlight, their patterns twisting as if they, too, were watching him.

Mordaine glanced over his shoulder more than once, convinced footsteps followed him. Yet the courtyard remained empty, only the whisper of wind answering his suspicion.

When he finally reached the dormitory, relief threatened to loosen his guard. He climbed the steps, careful not to wake anyone, and slid into the hallway lined with doors.

That was when he saw it.

His door—slightly ajar.

His stomach dropped. He had closed it before leaving. He was sure of it.

Slowly, Mordaine reached for the hilt of his blade. He pushed the door open with his foot, every sense braced.

The room was dark, but not empty.

A figure sat in the chair by his desk, perfectly still. The faint moonlight from the window traced the outline of a long coat, polished boots, and hands folded calmly in their lap.

Mordaine’s grip on his sword tightened. “Who are you?”

The figure didn’t move. For a moment, silence stretched like a blade between them. Then, a smooth voice replied:

“You’ve been busy tonight.”

Mordaine froze. That voice—calm, authoritative, dangerous. He had heard it once before, during the Academy’s orientation.

Master Kaelen, the head of martial instruction.

“Follow me,” Kaelen said, rising with fluid grace. His presence filled the room, suffocating and heavy. His sharp features caught the light as he turned toward the door. His eyes, cold and calculating, pinned Mordaine in place.

“I… I was only—”

Kaelen raised a hand, silencing him. “Spare me excuses. Whatever you were doing, it was not in your dormitory, where you should have been. That is enough.”

Mordaine’s throat tightened. Had Kaelen seen him at the lantern tower? Did he know?

The master stepped closer, close enough for Mordaine to see the faint scar that traced his jawline. “You have… potential. And potential attracts interest. But it also attracts danger. If you wish to survive in this Academy, boy, you must learn the difference between secrecy and stupidity.”

Mordaine swallowed, forcing himself to nod.

Kaelen’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good. Tomorrow, you will report to me after morning drills. Privately.” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “Do not make me come looking for you again.”

With that, he turned, his coat whispering across the floor. The door shut softly behind him, leaving the room heavy with his presence.

Mordaine stood frozen, his hand still gripping the hilt of his blade, breath caught in his chest.

The cloaked messenger had warned him to trust no one.

And now, Kaelen—the Academy’s most feared instructor—had taken an interest in him.

Was it chance? Or part of the very danger the messenger spoke of?

As Mordaine finally sank onto his bed, one thought circled in his mind, relentless and cold:

The game has already begun.