The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 6: SUSPICIONS

The Lumen glowed like a living tapestry, threads of sapphire fire and emerald wind weaving through stone. Even the night seemed to pulse with elemental breath, the very air humming with ancient magic.

From his narrow window, Tristan could see the river of light that streamed from the Core... a column of pure elemental energy that rose from the palace’s heart, illuminating the towers that spiraled upward like the ribs of a great beast.

He was lying on a cold stone slab in a narrow tower cell, his back pressed against a wall that thrummed with a faint, protective ward. The ward flickered like a dying ember, a faint blue sigil that pulsed in time with his racing heart. The scent of iron and incense hung heavy in the air, and the distant chant of the city’s wizards drifted up through the stone, a reminder that somewhere below, the world was still alive.

Tristan’s eyes fluttered open, taking in the dimness of the room. A soft, golden light seeped through the narrow slit in the wall, bathing his face. He tried to sit up, but a band of iron cuffs clanged against his wrists, pulling him back. A gentle voice, sweet as a winter wind, slipped through the bars.

“Do not struggle, stranger,” it said. “The ward will not harm you while it holds.”

He turned his head, eyes narrowing to make out the silhouette of a woman standing just beyond the bars. She wore robes of deep violet, embroidered with tiny wind symbols that caught the light. Her hair was a cascade of black, yet a single streak of silver ran through it, as if an ice had brushed her scalp.

“Who are you?” Tristan asked hoarsely, the words tasting like ash.

“My name is Lysandra, Keeper of the Ward,” she replied, her voice steady but tinged with a faint sorrow. “You are far from home, Tristan Russellville. The city judges you as a threat, though you claim otherwise.”

Tristan’s mind raced. How did she know my name? He remembered the night he had stood on that bloody desert, his hands blazing with the combined power of sun and moon, the portal cracking under his assault.

He had saved Seraphine... her eyes had glowed with gratitude, her voice a tremor of hope, but why would the city imprison him now?

He pressed his forehead against the cold stone, his breath fogging the air. The memory of Thorndike flooded back... crowds shivering away from his help, their eyes cold as stone. “I did not ask for this,” he whispered. “I just wanted to survive.”

Lysandra’s eyes softened. “You are an irregularity, an unknown creature that can wield sun and moon. In our history, such power has not been seen for a thousand years. Fear masquerades as awe, and the council fears what they cannot understand.”

A sudden clank reverberated through the tower. The iron bars shivered, and the ward’s blue sigil flared, then dissolved. Heavy footsteps thundered down the spiral stairs. Two armored guards appeared, their helmets gleaming with the same elemental luster that bathed the city.

“You will be taken to the Grand Trial Hall,” one of them intoned. “The Archmages will decide your fate.”

Tristan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the weight of his past, the cold shoulders of the people of Thorndike, the unspoken judgment that had always trailed him like a shadow. The thought that this new world might be a mirror of his old one was a blade that cut deeper than any sword.

The doors to the tower opened, and a cool rush of air brushed his face—air alive with the scent of ozone and jasmine. He was led through winding corridors, past murals that depicted the Elemental Wars, past statues of the ancient Archmages whose faces seemed to stare into his very soul.

”Hasten your steps, we can't keep them waiting for too long.”, the guard said coldly.

When the massive doors of the Grand Hall finally swung inward, an awe‑striking sight greeted him. The hall was a cathedral of light, its vaulted ceiling a kaleidoscope of swirling colors.

At the far end, four towering pedestals rose, each supporting an Archmage cloaked in the hue of his element: Ignis, the Archmage of Fire, with a crown of ember; Nymira, the Archmage of Water, her robes perpetually dripping with crystalline droplets; Gorath, the Archmage of Earth, his staff bound in tangled roots; and Lirien, the Archmage of Air, her hair a perpetual vortex of silver wind.

Between them, a lower tier of scholars perched on stone benches, their eyes sharp as hawks, pens poised over thick tomes.

”Is he that irregularity that they are talking about?”, one of the scholars murmured.

”Yes, he is that one. The one who can wield the sun and moon magic at the same time.” another said with amusement.

"Hmmmp, who knows where he get that power? He's a freak. Maybe his power is from the Necrolord himself.” one of the scholars claims boastfully.

The murmurs of the crowd died to a hushed whisper as Tristan was led to a simple wooden chair placed in the very center of the hall.

The four Archmages turned their gazes upon him, their expressions a blend of curiosity, suspicion, and something else—perhaps a flicker of reverence.

Lysandra, now standing beside Tristan, whispered, “Do not be afraid. Speak your truth.”

Tristan swallowed, feeling the weight of a thousand eyes. He could hear his own breath, the rhythm of his heart, the echo of the battlefield where he had wielded the sun and moon. He lifted his gaze to the two vacant seats at the highest pedestal.... higher than those of the four elemental arch mages—empty thrones marked with the intertwined sigil of sun and moon, a symbol that had not been used for centuries.

“Honored Archmages,” Tristan began, his voice trembling at first, then gaining steadiness, “I did not come here by my own choosing. I was being chased by thugs and suddenly I was sucked by the mysterious light. Then when I open my eyes, I'm in the middle of the battlefield where Seraphine sees me...” Tristan looks for the crowd for Seraphine... wishing that she will support his claim but she's nowhere to be seen.

Tristan continued, ”Then that portal opened, and the black creature you called as Necrolord threatened to spill darkness upon your world. I don't know how but I am able to use the magic I carry... sun and moon, as you call it to seal the breach, to protect lives.”

A murmur rose among the scholars. A slender man with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. “But from where do you draw this power? The ancient texts speak of a prophecy... a savior who will wield both sun and moon, yet they also warn of a herald of doom. How can we be sure you are not a weapon forged of darkness?”