Throne of Ash and Blood

Chapter 4 The Spheres

The next morning came draped in gray clouds, the kind that seemed to press low against the world. Rain pattered against the castle walls in a steady rhythm, the cold seeping into the stones as if nature itself had decided to match the heaviness in their hearts. The courtyard glistened with puddles, the stones slick underfoot, and the air carried that sharp, damp chill that made every breath feel heavier.

Alphonse stood at the base of the grand steps, his travel cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, water dripping from the hood. His father was there, regal as always despite the weather, his dark blue mage robes trailing over the wet stones. Beside him, Alphonse’s uncle stood with that same stiff posture he always had, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as if the rain itself were an inconvenience.

“Make me proud, son,” his father said, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. Alphonse nodded, but the words felt hollow in the pit of his stomach. Pride was the last thing he could think about when his chest ached this much.

Emiko stood nearby, her white hair damp and glistening under the drizzle, ears slightly flattened against the cold. She had that still, composed expression she wore like armor, but Alphonse could see the tightness in her jaw, the way her tail twitched behind her.

Just as the carriage driver began to load the last of the luggage, Emiko stepped forward suddenly. “Wait,” she said, her voice quick and sharp. “I forgot something.”

Before anyone could ask what, she vanished—her body blurring, dissolving into a faint shimmer, gone in a blink. Her teleportation skill always left the faintest scent of frost in the air, like the world itself had held its breath for just a moment.

When she returned, she was holding something small and closed tightly in her hands. She stepped up to Alphonse, her golden eyes steady on his, even though her fur was dripping now from the rain. She reached for his palm and gently pressed something into it.

“Since you’ll be gone when your twelfth birthday comes,” she said softly, “I wanted you to have this.”

Alphonse looked down. Resting in his hand was a silver chain, and hanging from it—a small silver fox curled around a gem. The gem wasn’t just one color; it shimmered in shifting hues, reds and blues and greens flickering depending on how the light hit it. It was warm in his palm despite the cold day.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, even as his throat tightened. “Emiko…”

Before he could say more, she added quickly, “And no—I didn’t steal it. I worked for it.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to question her.

That made him laugh despite the ache in his chest. Without hesitation, he looped the chain over his head, tucking the pendant under his cloak, close to his heart. Then he pulled her into one last hug.

She didn’t fight it. For once, she leaned into him fully, her arms slipping around his waist, her head pressed against his chest. The rain soaked into both of them, but neither moved to break away.

When the driver finally cleared his throat, Alphonse forced himself to let go. Without looking back, he stepped into the carriage. The door shut, and with the creak of wheels and the snap of reins, the carriage rolled forward, carrying him away from the only person in the world who made him feel truly understood.

The journey across the continent was long, and Alphonse felt every mile of it. The carriage wheels groaned over cobblestone and dirt roads, the steady rhythm of hooves striking the earth almost hypnotic. Outside his window, the landscape shifted from rolling green farmlands to misty pine forests, and then to dry, windswept plains where the wind howled against the carriage walls. At night, they stayed in small roadside inns, where the candlelight was dim and the beds were stiff.

Fifteen days it took to reach the eastern coast, where the great port city of Celverra opened its arms to the sea. The smell of brine and tar hit him before the carriage even stopped. Tall masts swayed gently in the distance, their sails furled tight like sleeping giants. Alphonse stood on the dock, clutching his satchel and glancing back toward the road they had traveled, almost expecting Emiko to appear out of the mist. But she didn’t.

Boarding the ship was a strange mix of excitement and dread. The vessel, the Sea Wing, was larger than any boat he’d ever seen, its hull painted a deep blue, the figurehead carved into the shape of a roaring sea dragon. The crew bustled about, shouting to one another in sharp, salt-weathered voices. When the gangplank was pulled away and the ship began to drift from the dock, Alphonse’s stomach tightened—not from sadness, but from the sudden lurch of the deck beneath his feet.

The first day at sea was almost tolerable. The wind was sharp but clean, the waves rolling gently beneath them. By nightfall, however, the novelty wore off. The constant rocking of the ship churned his stomach until he was leaning over the railing, gagging miserably into the ocean below. Salt spray stung his face, and the creaking of the timbers above became an irritating, endless groan.

For three days, he endured it—pale, dizzy, and utterly miserable. Meals were a blur; he could hardly keep anything down. The crew found it amusing at first, calling him “land sprout” and offering him useless remedies, but eventually they left him alone. The only comfort he had was the silver fox pendant resting against his chest. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he held it in his palm and imagined Emiko’s golden eyes watching over him.

On the morning of the fourth day, a shout went up from the crow’s nest—land in sight.

As the Sea Wing cut through the waves toward it, the island came into view like something from a legend. Jagged cliffs rose from the water, crowned by sprawling green hills. But it wasn’t the natural beauty that stole Alphonse’s breath—it was the Spheres themselves.

Massive mage towers, each one impossibly tall and shaped like a perfect cylinder, dotted the island’s central plateau. Their surfaces shimmered faintly, not with light, but with the hum of magic itself. It was as if the air around them was alive, vibrating with ancient power. Bridges of stone and crystal connected the towers at dizzying heights, some of them arching so high they disappeared into low-hanging clouds. Between the towers, wide courtyards were filled with fountains whose water didn’t fall, but flowed upward in perfect spirals.

Even from the ship, he could feel it—the magic. It seeped into his skin, a warmth and weight at the same time, pulling at something deep within his chest.

Alphonse stepped to the railing, eyes wide, forgetting for a moment the sickness that had plagued him. This was it. The place where he would learn, grow… but also the place that would keep him away from Emiko for far too long.

The ship groaned as it eased into the stone dock, ropes thrown and caught by hooded dockhands whose movements were quick, silent, and precise. Alphonse’s legs still felt like they were swaying from the days at sea, his stomach unsettled but stubbornly refusing to give in again.

When his boots touched the dock, the air hit him differently—charged, humming, almost alive. It wasn’t just the salt of the ocean anymore; there was a sharpness, a weight, as though the very air was laced with magic. He straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring, though his eyes couldn’t help but dart upward.

The Spheres dominated the horizon. Tower after tower rose impossibly high, some slender and straight like spears piercing the clouds, others spiraling in twisting arcs of glass and white stone. Bridges and walkways hung in midair without support, shimmering faintly as if woven from sunlight. At the center of it all stood the Grand Sphere, so massive it dwarfed the rest—its surface carved with intricate runes that pulsed with slow, steady light, like the heartbeat of the island itself.

Everywhere he looked, mages in flowing robes of deep blues, greens, and crimson walked with purpose, their eyes bright, some carrying staffs that glowed faintly at the tips. Creatures he’d never seen before flitted about—tiny winged beings no bigger than a thumb, trailing sparks of light, and statues that shifted their heads to watch him as he passed.

His boots clicked on the polished blackstone of the main road as he followed the instructor assigned to greet him. Each step carried him deeper into the heart of a place that was equal parts wonder and warning. This was not home. This was not familiar. Here, every shadow felt like it might be watching, and every gust of wind might be listening.

Alphonse swallowed hard, his hand instinctively brushing against the fox pendant beneath his shirt. He could still smell the rain on its silver, still see Emiko’s golden eyes in his mind. The thought anchored him as they reached the towering gates of the Grand Sphere—doors so vast they could have swallowed his family’s manor whole.

When the gates began to open, the sound was like thunder.

The gates yawned open, and light spilled out—not warm sunlight, but a pale, shifting glow that seemed to come from the very walls. The interior of the Grand Sphere was unlike anything Alphonse had imagined. Vast halls stretched into the distance, the ceiling lost in an ocean of mist and shadow. Pillars carved with runes spiraled upward, humming faintly. Streams of magic—visible, tangible—drifted through the air like ribbons, casting shimmering reflections across the marble floor.

Waiting just inside was a tall figure in deep indigo robes, the hem lined with silver thread. His hair was black streaked with white, pulled back in a single braid that reached the middle of his back. His eyes were the color of molten gold, sharp and assessing.

“You’re late,” the man said, though there was no irritation in his tone—just statement, as if he’d been told long ago exactly when Alphonse would arrive and found the prediction off by minutes.

Alphonse straightened. “The seas—”

“—do not concern the Spheres,” the man interrupted smoothly. He stepped closer, gaze flicking briefly to the fox pendant around Alphonse’s neck, then back to his face. “I am Master Kaelen. You will address me as such. I am your guide, your teacher, and, if you prove worthy, the one who will make sure you leave here alive.”

The weight of those words settled in Alphonse’s chest. Alive. He hadn’t thought the Spheres were dangerous—not in that way.

Kaelen turned on his heel without another word, striding toward one of the side corridors. “Follow. Keep up. And do not touch anything unless I tell you to. The walls here have long memories and sharp tempers.”

Alphonse obeyed, quickening his pace to keep up. They passed mages practicing in open chambers—one summoning torrents of water into the shape of a serpent, another weaving fire and wind together until the flames danced in spirals. Every time he looked too long, Kaelen’s voice would cut in: “Eyes forward.”

Finally, they entered a smaller room—round, with a domed ceiling painted in shifting constellations that moved like the night sky. In the center stood a low stone pedestal with a single crystal resting atop it, glowing faintly.

“This,” Kaelen said, gesturing to the crystal, “is where your training begins. You will place your hands upon it, and it will see you. It will know the truth of your magic, your blood, and your will. It will decide whether you are worth the Spheres’ time.”

Alphonse’s throat went dry. “And if it decides I’m not?”

Kaelen’s gold eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light. “Then you’ll wish the seas had kept you.”