Premonition (2)

Dawn at the Palace of Aurithéa

The moon hung high in the sky, spilling a faint silver light through the tall, arched windows of the royal library. The night wind whispered softly through the ancient cracks of the building, as if the darkness itself were sharing secrets between the shelves.

Halfway up a long ladder of dark oak, balanced on the rail of a bookshelf that reached the library’s vaulted ceiling, stood Alice.

Dressed in a light sky-blue silk nightgown with white embroidery — the typical sleepwear of a young lady — she moved with the ease of someone who had done this hundreds of times. Beside her floated a small orb of golden light, pulsing gently, bathing the spines of the books in a warm, discreet glow.

Her hair streamed down her back like golden silk, swaying softly as she climbed another rung. Her golden eyes scanned the titles with concentrated, almost reverent intensity.

“Not this one,” she murmured, pulling out a blue leather-bound book and glancing quickly at the spine. A second later, she tossed it downward with a carelessness Alexander would have found sacrilegious. Yet no sound marked its arrival on the floor.

“This one won’t do either…”

She paused. Her delicate fingers traced a row of books higher up.

“Oh… now this one is unusual,” she said, more to herself than to any living soul. She pulled out another volume, flipped through three pages — and then let it drop just the same.

And so the minutes slipped away. She climbed, descended a few rungs, examined faded spines, read words in dead tongues, felt the texture of covers like someone reading history with her fingertips. Each choice was accompanied by faint murmurs, curious frowns, or silent dismissals.

Thirty volumes later, a small tower of books rested on a rug embroidered with runes. Each cover gleamed with the patina of different eras — some rustic, others regal — all now set aside for a future reading.

Then she stopped.

Her eyes fixed on a shadowed corner, hidden behind a dusty glass panel. She reached out, brushing away a cobweb with delicate care, and touched what she had been searching for.

“At last… I’ve found you.”

Alice’s golden eyes lit with quiet satisfaction. There was something magical in that moment — a spark of almost childlike triumph, yet tempered with an almost sacred respect.

It was a book with a dark cover, hard as stone, its edges reinforced with metal now rusted by age. No title. No markings.

Far too heavy to be lifted with one hand.

She tried to pull it — once — but it refused to budge. With a faint sigh, she simply tilted it backward, using every ounce of her slight strength.

Gravity did the rest.

The book toppled from the shelf and, unlike the others, hit the ground with a deep, muffled thud, as if the floor itself acknowledged the weight of its contents. A fine veil of dust rose into the air.

‘To think that even the carpet enchanted with Soft Fall couldn’t bear its weight,’ Alice descended gracefully, her steps light and measured, like a ballerina completing her performance.

The glowing sphere followed like a faithful companion.

Alice stopped before the pile of books. She knelt slowly, as though paying homage to a sacred relic, and reached out.

Her fingers — slender and careful — slid toward the last tome. For a moment, she simply looked at it in silence, as if the ancient object carried not just knowledge, but a dormant awareness.

“You were absurdly difficult to find…” she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. The way she spoke was almost affectionate, as though the book could hear her. “But, lucky for me, I’m a genius when something piques my interest.”

She brushed her hand over the dark, worn cover. Dust gave way beneath her touch, revealing symbols carved in low relief. Tilting her head slightly, her golden eyes narrowed as she deciphered the faintly glowing letters under the sphere’s warm light.

“Forngaldr Thjodhr Felthar Tíminn.” she read softly, almost like an incantation. “It’s written in Jotundrim… the ancestral tongue of the Giants.”

She let out a short, admiring breath, her gaze lingering once more on the title. It was a rare language, nearly extinct, with roots buried deep — silenced by official history.

In the world she lived in, it was common knowledge that the giants — despite being blessed with superhuman strength, unmatched vigor, and legendary endurance — were… intellectually lacking.
It wasn’t unusual to hear that they knew more about smashing stones than shaping them.

But for Alice, who had grown up doubting any knowledge that proclaimed itself absolute, such an idea had always sounded like a poorly stitched veil.

“How can a people thought to be brutish and illiterate…” she began, speaking now to the emptiness around her, “…have their own written language? Leave records? Do calculations, raise columns, build fortifications? And on top of that, create an astronomical calendar more precise than the one invented hundreds of years after their fall?”

There was a faint tone of indignation in her voice, mingled with fascination.
“No… this story’s been told wrong.”

She turned her face slightly, gazing up at the high arched windows of the library. Dawn had yet to break, but something about the moment felt outside of time.

“This world really is a tapestry of lies and forgotten truths…” she murmured, as if thinking aloud without meaning to.
“But that’s what makes it so fascinating. Never boring. Not for a second.”

The smile on her lips widened — not just from satisfaction, but like someone who had just unearthed a secret. A fragment of history buried for centuries.

“They say that more than five hundred years ago, one of the first Archmages was a Giant…” she continued, almost confidentially.
“Today, anyone who says that is treated like a lunatic.”

Alice placed her hands on the book as though sealing a silent pact.
“But maybe… just maybe… he left something here.”

With her heart beating a touch faster — not from fear, but from anticipation — she opened the tome. The hinges of the cover creaked softly, as if waking from a centuries-long sleep. The first page revealed itself with solemn slowness, as though the book itself hesitated to show its contents.

And then she saw it.

Forngaldr Thjodhr Felthar Tíminn.
The title, “Kingdom Forgotten by Time,” was there, just as on the cover.
But what came just below made her breath falter for a moment.

By Alfonse Heisenberg Van Allytharion

✦ ✦ ✦

The sun was rising shyly over the waiting fields of Dracknum, casting a pale golden glow across the thin mist still clinging to the ground. Even though it was midwinter, I was running bare-chested — and I wasn’t the only one. A fine sheen of sweat trickled down my torso, burning against the cold skin as if the heat came from within.

Around me, twenty-five other young kids panted alongside me, all equally bare from the waist up — except for the girls, who, reluctantly, wore white bindings to cover their breasts. The frigid air turned the steam rising from our bodies into chimney smoke.

This was only the warm-up: twenty-five full laps around the training field, that just to remember was of the size two and a half football(soccer) fields. After a stretching session that had, quite literally, left no part of the body untouched.

“I swear, by Elorien’s shadow… when I become a high-ranking member of the Black Squadron, my first target will be Sir Isack.”

The tired, irritable voice came from Zael Ardent, running to my left. His name might have sounded like that of a wandering poet, but Zael was rougher than he looked — a legitimized bastard of House Ardent, a vassal county of Dracknum. Light brown hair clung to his forehead in a mixture of sweat and dust, and he snorted like an ill-tempered bull.

He was one of the eight faces I didn’t recognize. The original Alexander had been rather arrogant and, while capable of holding a conversation, his habit of belittling others had made him antisocial; because of that, his interaction with others had been extremely limited. So until I arrived at the waiting fields, I had known no one beyond family records or a few social events. And those eight teenagers, including Drent and Zael, had never crossed my path before.

“He’d probably be honored by that threat… and then make you run twice as much,” came the reply from Thorne Arkwell, a little behind me. Skinny, with eyes that carried a sharp intelligence, he hailed from the Archduchy of Cromwell and, despite his slight build, possessed absurd talent in mana control. He seemed calm — but was competitive as hell.

“You talk too much, Zael… focus on your breathing,” said Reyna Valtor, on my right. She kept perfect posture, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Her accent gave away her origins: the capital of Allythéon, Arcadion. They said she was a prodigy in aura control. Her steps were steady, almost elegant — as though she were dancing while running.

“You all talk too much… how about saving your energy by shutting your mouths?” grunted Drent, just ahead of me. He was impossible to ignore — skin of an unusual reddish hue, short hair, and defined muscles. Drent was a refugee from the far north, adopted by a knightly house of Dracknum. His endurance was beyond normal limits, no doubt forged by the brutal conditions of his homeland.

“I’m already on my fifteenth. You’re the ones who are slow.”
The provocation came from Nolan Veska, running as if it were a lazy Sunday morning stroll. From the Grand Duchy of Phoenix, rumor had it he possessed a speed-type aura, though he never confirmed it. Nolan always wore that careless little smirk, as if he were effortlessly ahead of everyone else.

“Lucky me… I ended up surrounded by sadists and lunatics,” muttered Elaine Veilthor, running a few meters behind Reyna. Her lilac eyes, paired with an expression of boredom, hid the fact that she was perhaps the most ruthless among us. Coming from the shadowy Marquessate of Duskweld, it was impossible to know what she was thinking — and honestly, I preferred it that way.

“Come on, you slugs! You can do it! Just another… twenty laps!” shouted Damian from somewhere ahead, his grin infuriatingly provoking. His endurance was greater than Drent’s, and in close combat, he was even better than Beatriz — which was almost absurd. And yet… he was an aspiring mage.

´How does he even do it…? That was the question pounding in my head.

In truth, I wondered that about almost all of them. Except for Damian, even Oswin and Beatriz were exceptional. Sure, Bart, António, and the rest were good too — but those few? They were in another league entirely. And if not for a few small — very small — factors, I would probably be among the weakest, maybe even among the laziest in the group.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, there were others who seemed as ordinary as me. And there were also those who… stood out. But not in a good way.

Of the eight dragging behind the most, there were two who lagged noticeably, even compared to the aspiring mages, who never stopped complaining.

One was Leor D. Silvermoon — or simply Leor. He hailed from Silvermoon, as his name gave away, and was a prodigy with swords… and only swords. His body was frail, his environmental awareness poor, and his stamina even worse. But the strangest part was the contrast: put a sword in his hands, and he became a different person. Everything else faded away.

But, as old Sir Isack used to say, “And if I take the sword away?” Well, what remained was just a sack of useless flesh, tripping over its own feet.

The other was Althea Snaken. Aside from her surname — the same as the noble lineage of the Grand Duchy of Snaken — no one knew much about her. She spoke to almost no one, except Glória, Beatriz, and two other girls in the group, the ones who… shone more brightly.

Unlike Leor, she showed no particular skill. None. Zero. While even the least talented in the group had something — sharp senses, quick thinking, brute strength, rapid adaptability — she seemed to possess no notable trait whatsoever.

Except, perhaps, for her appearance: eyes of a deep green, and light brown hair — almost blonde — with a sheen that, in certain angles, hinted at white. Her skin was unnaturally pale, like porcelain, or like… like someone who had spent far too long in a sickroom. If someone told me she was a disguised elf, I might have believed it. But there was something… sadder about her. Althea seemed less like a mystical being and more like a recovering terminal patient — and yet, she still forced herself to keep pace with the rest of us.

Whenever I look at her I always ask myself ‘Just Why does she tries so much?’