Daniel Newwyn

Severa Book 1 (Chapter 17)

Added 2025-08-22 16:06:58 +0000 UTC

The Archive was not a single hall but a sprawling complex of chambers, vaults, and stairwells stacked into the heart of the Academy’s oldest keep. Every wall seemed laden with stone-etched formulae and erased annotations from long-dead researchers, while the air carried the faint mineral tang of preserved aether. The deeper one went, the more the ambient glylphlights dimmed, until even the grand corridors had the hush of a subterranean sanctum.

High Instructant Bellare, the bald and stocky man leading the way, was a familiar face to Severa. They had worked together on no fewer than three artifact research projects, the newest being a study on fusing rare, combat-oriented trinkets into a single epic-graded ring. Ever since she had bonded with Embervein, Severa’s fascination with practical combat artifacts had only deepened. Her handling of them was still rough—sometimes even reckless—but Bellare had been patient, guiding her through the intricacies of mechanical resonance and compatibility.

The first thing Bellare said to Severa when he saw her was, “Are you okay?” The second one was, “The epic-grade ring you sent over to me only reacts to water spells.”

Severa’s legs nearly betrayed her, and she had to press more firmly into Halveth’s arm to remain upright. Even so, she answered without hesitation, her tone polished as ever, “Does it give no augmentation if one casts any other spell?”

Bellare was already turning, walking ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, his pace brisk enough that she and Halveth had to adjust to keep stride. “Presumably,” he said over his shoulder. “However, preliminary trials indicate the intensity output of water-based invocations across all tiers is increased by approximately one-hundred and fifty percent.” Then he turned back to her. If he had any concern for her current physical state, he sure wasn’t showing it beyond the inquiry earlier. “Has the Embervein reacted to any other element, or only pure fire?”

“Only fire so far. I couldn’t get solar invocations to run through its core. I’ll try to channel Energy or Lava into it once I branch out to those elements.”

Bellare gave a short hum of acknowledgment. “That would be expected. Many artifacts recovered in the last century were dismissed as little more than trinkets because they failed to respond to the majority of elements. For decades, the assumption was that a non-reactive core meant uselessness.” It is only recently, through a handful of independent studies, that researchers have begun to understand the specificity of elemental resonance—that a piece may be extraordinarily potent under one aspect and entirely inert under another.

Severa was eager to respond, as this was one of the few subjects she actually had an ounce of interest in, but Halveth immediately cut in, “This is a matter to discuss later, Bellare. We would very much like to see Draeth now.”

“Of course, Commander.” Bellare had always been respectful despite the fact Halveth had long been dismissed from the army.

Instead of leading them deeper into the Archive’s main corridors, however, he turned toward a narrow side passage and placed his palm flat against a stretch of wall. What opened before them was not a carved tunnel but a hallway of pale light woven thin, as though Bellare had stitched the aetherrealm itself into a passage. The aether had its own dimension, so one could often bypass physical distance through it, but such travel was typically unstable unless one was capable enough of a thaumaturge.

“An auxiliary throughway,” Bellare explained in his usual neutral timbre as he stepped inside. “Conjured to link Draeth’s alternate study with the Archive. It saves one the trouble of three flights of stairs and the eastern ward’s patrol.”

Bellare’s method was a compromise. The corridor he conjured was serviceable, but dim, the luminous walls no brighter than a guttering lantern flame.

Severa stepped inside. Halveth’s hand remained firm on her arm as they followed, but Severa found her gaze drawn to the corridor’s subdued radiance. She would have called it underwhelming, if not for the quiet awe that crept into her chest at the thought of anyone simply cutting through reality for convenience. That was the kind of spatial manipulation Severa had yet to be able to practice, mainly because it required an incredible amount of mental stamina and aether pool reserve.

“Keep close to the center line,” Bellare instructed without looking back. After another minute, they reached their destination: a cavernous hall masquerading as a study. Draeth never did anything in moderation. Like his other private studies, this one was needlessly, almost comically vast, spanning high vaulted ceilings from which an archipelago of suspended glyphlamps (yes, these were different from glyphlights) drifted in slow orbits, as though the man could not tolerate a simple chandelier when an entire firmament would suffice.

The floor was, once again, some exotic onyx veined with a pale opalescence and a surface polished until it reflected like still water. Draeth’s penchant for minerals was no accident of taste. He had a thorough, almost intimate understanding of them, the kind born not of mere scholarship but of decades spent tracing the resonance of stone as though it were a living language. Which made it all the more requisite that he mask this interest as nothing more than shallow extravagance, a vanity project befitting his station. Otherwise, the Order would be hot on his tail.

Draeth was already seated on a chair with armrests carved from granite when they entered, as if he had been expecting them not merely this hour, but this very moment. In one hand, he cradled a porcelain cup, while the other hand rested with deliberate poise atop the chair’s stone arm, his long fingers curled as though sculpted there.

He might have just woken from a nap judging from the languid ease of his posture, but he looked immaculate, as though the act of rising from bed had already left him fully assembled. His black robes were free from crease; the silver-threaded trim sharp as blade-edges; his collar high and perfectly aligned. Not a fleck of dust clung anywhere. His hair, what little remained, was reduced to a thin ring about the back of his skull, but rather than diminish him it only drew attention to the austerity of his brow and the penetrating severity of his gaze. At seventy, Draeth had long since shed the illusion of youth, yet in his case the lack of it only magnified the sense of permanence.

Severa straightened at once as she stepped into the study, hands clasped before her. Her chin dipped in a respectful angle. “Headmaster. We meant no disruption.”

[You say his name is Draeth?]

Yes. Be respectful and don’t do your analysis on—

Murelien Draeth — Preliminary Analysis (Confidence: 47% — Obfuscation Detected)