The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 8: AETHERSTONE UNIVERSITY

Aetherstone University of Magical Arts was less a campus and more a living dream etched into the side of a mountain. Towers of polished ivory spiraled into the clouds, tethered by bridges of crystallized light. The very air hummed with a symphony of power, a constant, low thrum that resonated in the bones.

For Tristan, it was a terrifying, beautiful paradise. He was no longer a prisoner in a stone cell, but the gilded cage of the university felt just as isolating.

“So that’s him,” a student whispered as he passed.

”He doesn’t look dangerous, he actually looks good.” another replied, doubtful.

“That’s what makes it worse,” came the hushed answer.

Every student here was a prodigy in their own right, and they wore their power on their sleeves—literally. The university’s robes were a tapestry of elemental might. The hydro-mancers moved in flowing azure, their cuffs embroidered with waves. Geomancers strode in earthen browns and greens, patterns of roots and rock climbing their hems. Aeromancers were swathed in sky-blue and white, like clouds in a clear sky. And then there were the pyromancers, clad in furious crimson and orange, their robes adorned with patterns that mimied licking embers and crackling flames.

“Stick close,” one geomancer muttered to his friend. “I don’t want to be anywhere near him if something goes wrong.”

And then there was Tristan. His robe was a declaration of his otherness. It was a dual garment of liquid gold and shimmering silver. The embroidery was not of a single element, but of the cosmos itself—intricate sunbursts bloomed on the gold side, while elegant crescent moons and constellations graced the silver.

When he walked the echoing corridors of the university, he was a one-man constellation. Some students would stop and stare, their faces alight with undisguised awe at the sheer artistry and raw power the robe represented. But far more would whisper behind their hands, their gazes a mixture of suspicion and scorn.

“Who designs something like that?” someone muttered.

“A madman,” came the reply. “Or someone who wants him watched.”

“The mortal anomaly,” he heard one whisper, the words like shards of ice. “They say he shouldn’t even be able to channel into Lumen, let alone wear the Sun and Moon.”

Isolation was a familiar cloak, and here, it was woven tighter than ever. In the Great Lecture Hall, he took his seat in the front row, not out of arrogance, but out of a desperate desire to learn, to prove he belonged. But the seats around him remained conspicuously empty, a halo of vacant space that marked him as untouchable.

“Is he cursed?” a freshman whispered from two rows back.

“Quiet,” her friend hissed. “He might hear you.”

His solitude made him a target. The most persistent was Gildart, a senior pyromancer whose power was matched only by his towering ego. His crimson robe seemed to crackle with his simmering anger, and his eyes burned with a perpetual, challenging light.

To Gildart, Tristan was not just a curiosity; he was an insult. A common mortal elevated to a status he hadn’t earned, wearing colors he didn’t deserve.

“Someone should remind him of his place,” Gildart muttered once, loud enough to be heard.

“Look what the stray cat dragged in,” Gildart sneered one afternoon, blocking Tristan’s path with two of his cronies. “Playing dress-up in robes meant for a god, are we? Does that pretty gold and silver come with a soul, or are you still just an empty shell?”

One of the cronies snickered. “Careful, Gildart. He might sparkle you to death.”

Tristan clenched his fists, the gold and silver fabric rustling. “I don't know what's wrong with you. But I have as much right to be here as you do.”

Gildart laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Right? Your right is to be a cautionary tale in the history books. But the Archmages have gone soft. Don’t worry, little mortal. I’ll make sure everyone here remembers what you really are.” He leaned closer and whispered, “An accident waiting to happen.”

He then set to work, spreading insidious rumors... that Tristan's power was a parasitic drain on the university's Aether reserves, that his presence was a dark omen, that he had cheated his way past the Archmages' judgment. The whispers grew louder, the stares colder.

“Did you hear?” voices murmured in corridors.

“They say the wards flicker when he sleeps.”

“I heard the Arcum reacts when he walks past.”

Then the annual Arcum Gauge test was the perfect stage for Gildart’s final act of humiliation. Held in the Grand Coliseum, it was a spectacle where students demonstrated their raw power during their first day as freshman in the university.

The Arcum Gauge itself was a marvel of enchantment: a flawless sphere of pure resonant crystal, ten feet in diameter, floating in the center of the coliseum. It was designed to absorb a single, uniform spell and measure its energy output, displaying the result in Magical Strength Index, or msi.

“Place your bets,” someone from sophomore and senior years joked nervously from the stands.

Students lined up, one by one. A quiet-spoken water witch in azure robes cast the spell.

“Liberatio!” A jet of clear water struck the gauge. The numbers within crystal flickered and settled.

4,550 msi.

A respectable score.

“Not bad,” a professor murmured. “Solid control.”

An earth-shaper in brown robes followed, and a spike of stone slammed into the gauge.

22,100 msi.

A low ripple of applause.

“Good density,” Professor Archum commented. “He’ll go far.”

The scores continued, ranging from a thousand for the freshmen to nearly a hundred thousand for the most advanced students.

Then, Gildart swaggered to the center. He didn't just cast the spell; he performed it. With a theatrical flourish, he bellowed, “Liberatio!”

A roaring plume of white-hot fire, a miniature dragon, engulfed the Arcum Gauge.

“Watch closely,” Gildart called to the crowd. “This is what real power looks like.”

The crystal screamed, glowing cherry-red from within. The numbers spun wildly, climbing past the hundred-thousand mark before finally halting. A deep, resonant voice echoed through the coliseum.

“Gildart, Pyromancy… 666,666 msi.”

The crowd erupted.

“Incredible!”

“That’s insane!”

“No one’s topped that in years!”

Gildart bathed in their adoration, his chest puffed out, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face. He looked directly at Tristan, who stood waiting at the end of the line. The smirk widened into a predatory grin.

“Well, mortal anomaly,” Gildart announced, his voice magically amplified to reach every ear. “Your turn. I wager my entire year’s stipend you won’t even break three digits. Let’s see how much power a cosmic mistake really has.”

A wave of cruel laughter washed over the coliseum.

“Three digits might be generous,” someone jeered.

“Careful,” another laughed. “He might trip over his own robe.”

”Boooo, don't even try. Leave here!” someone shouted.

Every eye was on Tristan, filled with derision and morbid curiosity. He felt the weight of their judgment, the heat of their gazes like a physical pressure. He walked slowly toward the center of the arena, the gold and silver of his robes feeling heavier than lead.

“Is he really going to try?” a student whispered.

“He’d be a fool not to,” another replied quietly.

He ignored the jeers, focusing on the now-silent, humming Arcum Gauge.

“Focus, inhale.... exhale... inhale... exhale... you can do this Tristan.” Tristan murmured to himself.

He did not adopt a grand stance. There was no flourish, no dramatic shout. Tristan simply closed his eyes, shutting out the world, shutting out the hate. He quieted the storm of doubt and anger in his own heart, reaching for the core of his being, for the strange, dual power that lived within him. It wasn't fire, or water, or earth. It was something older. It was the silence between stars and the fury of a sun's birth.

“What is he doing?” someone whispered, confused.

“Nothing,” Gildart scoffed. “Exactly as expected.”

He extended a single hand, palm open, toward the crystal sphere. His voice, when it came, was clear and steady, cutting through the silent arena like a blade.

“Liberatio!”

It wasn't a single element. It was an uncontrolled vortex. A violent, churning storm of pure light erupted from his palm, a maelstrom of spinning gold and silver energy. It didn't travel through the air; it simply was, filling the space between him and the gauge in an instant. The sound was not a roar, but a high-pitched, deafening chime, like a thousand bells being struck at once. The energy struck the Arcum Gauge. Everyone holds their breath awaiting the score.