Chapter 2: Atheron il Ataraxia, Part 1
Ashgrad. Capital city. Year 311 of the Mage Era.
Ashgrad — the number one country when it comes to mages and sorcerers. Most people live easy lives, untouched by poverty. The rest? Well, they don’t live in the capital.
First day of school.
That morning, a single vehicle rolled up to the grand gates of the Royal Academy of Magic, nestled atop the emerald hills, surrounded by towers of ivory stone and crystalline spires.
A machine, black and polished, somewhere between a car and a noble’s carriage, came to a slow stop by the campus walls.
From it stepped a girl — a vision of elegance carved into memory like timeless art.
Long hair, the color of forged silver with purple gradient, gleaming softly under the sun. Eyes a deep, commanding violet.
She walked the path toward the academy with the weightlessness of wind, as if the world made way for her.
Before her lay a campus that mirrored the Hanging Gardens of old tales. Fountains shimmered with liquid light. Birds with radiant feathers chirped overhead. And everywhere — the scent of fresh flowers hung in the air.
Students bustled about in uniform — ash-gray blazers over maroon shirts, each bearing the royal insignia stitched in enchanted thread.
Some turned to stare, whispering among themselves:
"Is she a princess...?"