Throne of Ash and Blood

Chapter 6 Five Years Later

The years at the Spheres passed both swiftly and painfully slow. Alphonse had arrived a boy with too-big eyes and the smell of sea salt clinging to him, but now—five years later—he stood taller, broader, and carried himself like someone who had walked through fire and made it his own.

From the first month of training, Master Kaelen had taken notice. Alphonse absorbed lessons with a speed that unsettled the instructors. Spells that took most apprentices months to master were his in days; incantations flowed from him as naturally as breath. His body, too, had changed—because unlike the others, who channeled magic through staves, rings, or crystals, Alphonse was the conduit. Every spark, every surge of power passed directly through his muscles, bones, and nerves.

Kaelen made sure that body was prepared for it. Dawn runs through rain and fog. Endless drills until his hands shook. Weight of stone and iron pressing on his back while he recited charms without breaking concentration. “A mage’s body is as much a vessel as his mind,” Kaelen had told him. “Yours must be unshakable.”

By the second year, he could hold a fireball in one hand while freezing water with the other. By the third, he could bend winds to carry him across courtyards and coax stone into moving at his command. By the fourth, the instructors stopped giving him assignments meant for his level—because there wasn’t a level for him anymore.

Now, in his fifth year, he was standing at the edge of becoming a MasterMage—a rank equal to Kaelen himself. After that, there would be nothing more the Spheres could offer him. His training would be complete, and he would finally be able to return home.

Home.

Back to the familiar halls of the castle.

Back to the city streets.

Back to Emiko.

They had written letters all these years. At first, they were clumsy—him describing the dizzying trials of the Spheres, the strange food, the endless hours of study; her sharing quiet updates of home and little jokes only they would understand. As time went on, the letters deepened. She told him how she’d been advancing in her own training, learning rogue magic skills and charms from her mentors. She claimed she was “well on her way” to becoming a Master Rogue—he could almost hear the smug little smile in her words.

But there was always something beneath her playful tone, something sharper and more guarded. She never said it outright, but he could tell she missed him.

In his most recent letter, he told her he was almost done—just one final trial remained. Soon, he’d be free to return.

Her reply had come swiftly: I’m relieved. Things here are… getting intense. Your uncle has been fighting with the king about who should rule. Malric thinks he could do a better job.

Alphonse had frowned reading that. His uncle Malric had always been ambitious, but to openly challenge his father? That was dangerous.

Another letter had arrived the same day—this one from his father. It congratulated him on nearly finishing his training and promised a celebration upon his return.

And then… the part that made his stomach twist.

Upon your return, the arrangements with the Beckton family will be finalized. You are to marry Rosalind.

Alphonse remembered her from their childhood. Rosalind had been sweet enough—blonde hair like spun gold, soft blue eyes, polite and ladylike in every way the court demanded. She had never been cruel, never unkind. But she was a future queen chosen for him, not by him.

And she was not Emiko.

He had known this day would come. He had always known that love—true, dangerous, inconvenient love—was something a crown could not afford. But knowing it didn’t make it easier. He could already feel the rift pulling inside him, the choice between his duty to the kingdom and the one person who had always seen him before the title.

He folded the letter, set it aside, and stared at the flickering light in his palm—magic dancing between his fingers. It was steady. Controlled.

But inside, he felt anything but.

The morning of Alphonse’s final exam dawned crisp and sharp, the air thrumming with energy. He stood in the grand testing hall of the Spheres, its marble floor inlaid with glowing runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Overhead, the towering crystalline ceiling refracted sunlight into prismatic beams, as though the building itself wanted to bear witness to the moment.

Kaelen stood nearby, arms folded, face unreadable. “You know what’s expected,” he said simply.

Alphonse nodded, forcing his mind into calm focus. This wasn’t just a test of skill—it was a test of control. One slip, one uncontrolled surge of power, and all his years of training could unravel in seconds.

The crystal in the center of the room—twice his height and pure, unblemished white—waited for him. It was the same kind used in his first test five years ago, but now it seemed to watch him, aware of the power coiled within him.

He stepped forward, closed his eyes, and drew in a steady breath. One by one, the elements answered his call—fire’s heat, water’s cool rush, the shifting air, the solidity of earth, and the delicate whisper of sprite magic. He channeled them not as separate forces, but as threads of a single tapestry, weaving them together until they hummed in perfect harmony.

The crystal flared brilliantly, colors swirling so fast they blurred into pure white light. The room shook faintly beneath the force. When the glow faded, the crystal bore the markings of every element—something even the examiners in the upper galleries had never seen.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room.

“Flawless,” Kaelen said, though his eyes held a flicker of concern. “You’ve passed, Alphonse. You’re a Master Mage now.”

Relief and pride surged through him, but it was quickly shadowed by something else. It had been days since he’d last heard from Emiko, and unease gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. The pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

That evening, the Spheres hosted a celebration for the graduating students. The grand hall was transformed—tables laden with food and wine, enchanted lanterns floating in midair, soft music playing without any visible musicians. Laughter and chatter filled the room, but Alphonse felt disconnected from it all.

Kaelen found him near the edge of the crowd, holding a goblet of spiced wine but barely sipping it. “Excited to finally head home?” he asked, his tone warm.

Alphonse nodded. “More than anything.”

“Well, it might be delayed slightly,” Kaelen said. “A rogue storm’s been churning near the main trade routes. As soon as it clears, you’ll be on the next ship to the continents.”

Alphonse managed a polite nod, but inside his thoughts were far away—sailing over the vast expanse of sea, across the roads that led home. He pictured Norwich’s familiar spires, the bustle of the market streets, the feel of the wind on the castle’s ramparts. But most of all, he thought of Emiko—how she must have grown and changed in five years. Would she still look at him the same way? Would she still remember the promises they’d made as children?

The thought warmed him and ached at the same time. He was going home—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something back there had changed in ways he wasn’t ready for.

Alphonse tightened the last strap on his travel satchel, his mind buzzing with the thought of Norwich, of home. The storm outside had not completely passed, but it had calmed enough for ships to risk the journey. Kaelen had said he could leave in the morning. That was all Alphonse needed to hear. Every movement he made—folding clothes, packing scrolls, tucking away letters—carried a quiet urgency.

Yet, as he looked around his quarters for the last time, something tugged at him. The Spheres were silent… unnaturally so. At this hour, he would normally hear at least the faint shuffle of a night patrol or the low murmur of late-working mages. But tonight, nothing. Only the faint crackle of distant thunder and the rain ticking against the windows.

Alphonse stepped into the hall, the sound of his boots echoing down the long corridor. The air felt colder than it should have, and the lamps burned lower, as if the very light had been swallowed by the storm. Shadows pooled in corners, stretching and twisting with the sway of the torchlight. He saw no one—not even the custodians who swept the floors at night.

He moved toward the balcony, drawn by the rhythmic roar of waves below. The wind greeted him with icy fingers, tugging through his light brown hair and sending his cloak snapping against his legs. The rain misted his face as he looked out into the black horizon where the ocean met the sky.

Home soon, Emiko, he whispered to himself, his voice nearly lost to the wind. His chest tightened at the thought of her smile, of the way her silver-white ears would flick when she laughed. Five years had been far too long.

He turned—

—and froze.

A figure stood in the center of his quarters, cloaked in black, unmoving.

Alphonse’s hand instinctively tightened around his staff, magic humming faintly through the polished wood. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

No answer.

The figure’s head tilted slightly, and a gust of wind swept through the balcony, tugging back the hood just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her face. His breath hitched—

She looked exactly like Emiko.

But her hair was pitch black, dark as midnight. A jagged scar ran over her right eye, and that eye… it was not her warm, kind gold. One glowed a deep, burning crimson, the other—where the scar cut—was black as obsidian. Not the black of emptiness, but the black of something alive, something evil.

“Emiko…?” he whispered, though he knew in his bones it wasn’t her.

Before he could react, the figure lunged. She moved faster than his eyes could follow, a blur of shadow and steel. Pain exploded in his chest as cold metal drove between his ribs. His breath caught, and the world tilted.

He looked down. A dagger was buried deep, the hilt pressed against his tunic. He could feel the warmth of his blood spilling down his side. His gaze snapped back up to her face just as the hood blew completely free, revealing sleek black fox ears flattened against her head, and a tail—thick, furred, and just as black—whipping in the wind.

A black fox person.

His heart stuttered. Fox people were nearly extinct. Emiko was the last… or so he thought.

The woman’s crimson and demon-black eyes bore into him, cold and merciless, before she wrenched the dagger free. Alphonse staggered back, his staff slipping from his fingers.

The balcony railing caught him for only a moment before another blast of wind tipped his balance.

He fell.

The icy ocean swallowed him whole.