The Fledgeling of Frostholm: Phoenix Embers, #1

By C.Z. Richie

Zenithor is a master sorcerer at the end of a long life of regrets and losses. Five people stole from him the last ember of hope in his life. Not having the tools to investigate and snuff out these five himself, Zenithor creates Aellaria. She was the product of his anger, born saturated in hate. Reincarnated Fury aimed at five students at Spire, Element's most prestigious sorcerer's college. Will Aellaria drown in college life's pettiness, pain, and hatred? Or can she find hope within Spire's illustrious walls?
TW: Depictions of Suicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.Z. Richie
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224426966

Book preview

The Fledgling

of Frostholm

Chapter 1: The Wind in the Workshop

Zenithor, Saturday, Bardus 35th

Zenithor Whisperwind stormed around the workshop. His steps were heavy with purpose, and the wind itself complimented his movements. Zenithor was eighty years old, but he was far from decrepit. There was tension building around Zenithor. Today was the day for drastic measures.

With alacrity, the aged sorcerer gathered alchemical ingredients, spell components, and scrolls from their resting places all over his dusty workshop. The workshop hadn’t produced wonders in fifteen months. As the older man cut through the workshop, his increasingly unstable winds blew the accumulated sawdust and soot swirling into the air in miniature dust devils.

Zenithor, you are going to start breaking things, Zenithor’s magic staff, Serenity, told him. The words came crystal clear to Zenithor, mind-to-mind. Her voice was calm and almost motherly. Serenity was his arcane focus. The staff was a long piece of polished Nedra core. The mystically potent wood was the color of ripe cherries. As the wood curved near the top, wooden scales and spines were carved in, culminating into a serpent’s head. Emerald inlays completed Serenity’s soulless snake eyes.

Zenithor responded with a grunt of acknowledgment. His frigid blue eyes darted around the room, identifying the many things he needed. Today, Zenithor was reaching the apex of his life’s work. Zenithor was anxious and grieving, but the emotion that boiled deep within him was a seething anger. Like a churning volcano ready to blacken the sky for generations.

The unyielding gale blew unfinished wands, glass vials, and trinkets off the workshop desks. The shattered potions and spilled ingredients filled the air with a sickly rotten smell. Zenithor didn’t care. The only beings affected by Zenithor’s gale were the six and eight-legged creatures seeking cover under the desks or in the corners of the room.

Did you want my opinion? Came Serenity’s loving tone.

No, but you are going to give it anyway, I’m sure, Zenithor admonished under his breath. Zenithor’s anger was clear in his growling voice and was only stoked further by false compassion in hers.

Yes, I just wanted to let you know... I know that you know this spell’s success is unlikely, and then you will be dead, Serenity said, her calm voice tiptoeing through the convoluted sentence. When met with silence, she continued. And then you will not be able to bring good into the world like you always wanted.

I spent my entire life bringing good into the world, Zenithor responded. His mind flashed to his deceased daughter, Lilium Whisperwind– Taken from this world far too soon. Lilium was going to be his legacy. She should have become a powerful sorcerer with the power to permanently fix the metaphorical cracks in the world. As Zenithor thought about Lilium, his rage flared, and the winds howling around him lifted an unfinished staff and flung it at the wall. The enchanted trinket exploded in sparks and magical energy.

If this does work, I want you to rethink your path. The results of this spell should be constructive, not destructive. Serenity said, bound by the goody optimism a younger and happier Zenithor had instilled in her.

Constructive, that is a joke coming from you. I want to be destructive. Not only do I want those kids to hurt, I want everyone to see them perish, Zenithor said. Emotion was thick in his throat. He had to do this now; if he waited another day, he would lose his chance. Blinded by hatred, he continued to gather the materials for the peak-level enchantment he would attempt.

On the table at the center of the workshop lay a body. It was made entirely of dried clay but perfectly and meticulously shaped. The body had feathery, short black hair. She wore the same outfit as Zenithor—a long gray cloak trimmed with black fabric. Sorcerer's robes wrapped the body from neck to toe. A sorcerer hat with a wide brim and comically long tip was on the top of the body's head. Tucked in the band of the hat was a pink lily. He thought internally about his mantra from his youth, but nostalgia did nothing to ease the rage in his mind.

Serenity decided not to say anything. Her attempts at calming the old sorcerer had only further stoked his fires, made even more apparent by the small monsoon isolated to the workshop's interior.

Zenithor decided to vent further, My old friend...when a child stomps on a flower, they’re prone to feeling a momentary thrill. However, if the gardener catches them... He trailed off as he adroitly arranged more components into place. Zenithor continued. These children chose to step on my Lily, and only my death will stop me from pruning them. He punctuated the sentence with a wave of his hand. A casual gesture that sent a blade of wind flying into the bricks on the far wall—a simple cantrip strong enough to leave deep gouges in the brickwork. And even then... The old mage muttered.

When Zenithor accumulated a small mountain of magical trinkets, spell components, and scrolls on the desk, he triple-checked to ensure he didn’t miss anything. There was a thaumaturgical necessity for this spell; beyond any he, or any other magician, had ever attempted. This spell had dozens of component types. It had constrictions from many schools of magic, required a colossal amount of mana, and finally, it also included a component that only existed in theory.

For a moment, Zenithor reflected on the true value of his soul, and it only reaffirmed his resolve to risk it. I want to know why they did it first. I want to feel what Lilium felt, what they made her feel. Then, I will make a spectacle of the end of their lives. Zenithor continued. That is the part I don’t understand. Lilium was so kind. Why did they do it? How can they just go about their lives? How do they have the focus and drive to be accepted into the most prestigious college on the continent...While I am left to struggle alone?

You’re not alone, sir, Serenity attempted, but the psychic connection might as well have been linked to the clay corpse on the table for all the good it did. Zenithor was too focused. He grabbed an extended length of rope for the final stage of the casting. He used dextrous magical fingers to tie the knot perfectly for the loop’s purpose. When the spell resolved, the rope rested irritably against the skin under his collar.

Fifteen years ago, my beloved Celia was taken from me. Fifteen months ago, Lilium followed her. With those words, Zenithor began the casting of the spell. He crafted layers upon layers of complex spell circles that floated delicately before him. Zenithor channeled and pulled each layer's required components and sculpted runes into the spell. The monsoon churning around him this entire time transformed into an updraft gale, and Zenithor felt himself lifted into the air before the clay body on the table.

But, sir, everything you are; everything you have built... will never be accessible. You will lose me, too. Serenity said, pleading through the mind-to-mind connection for Zenithor to reconsider.

I’ve always hated you. The old mage scowled as he finished the spell. Ten increasingly more complex spell circles and countless runes dissipated into the ether. The winds that had caused Zenithor to fly up into the air dispersed, too, and the master sorcerer fell freely. There was a crack in the rope as it was pulled taut, and a quieter, more delicate crack resulted from Zenithor’s neck breaking. The once raucous room was thick with heavy silence– besides the slight creak of Zenithor’s swinging corpse. Zenithor’s staff, arcane focus, and lifelong companion, Serenity, fell to the ground with a loud wooden clatter.

Silence hung heavy in the room.

The workshop, Zenithor’s life work, was destroyed. The storm brought on by the end of Zenithor’s life threw everything around the room to the periphery of the workshop. The exception being the body and the table she lay on.

Aellaria opened new eyes and looked at the hanging corpse before her. There was nothing in the workshop worth salvaging.

Chapter 2: Neglectful Hitchhiker

Marin, Sunday, Fatherus 1st

Marin’s hazel eyes were wide with excitement as she walked along the side of the cobblestone road approaching the premiere sorcerer’s college, Spire. Its namesake towered over the horizon, a symbol of knowledge and prestige. Even from this distance, she could see the great stone Phoenix wings that sheltered the sorcerer college and held its flame aloft.

Marin struggled along with her overfilled pack. She was exhausted but held her holy symbol, which brought her strength. The sacred symbol was twine woven together into the shape of a loaf of bread. This bread symbolized Phoenix, The Father, God of many domains — including baking. Over her shoulder set one long frayed braid. Her brown hair was wet with sweat.

Marin was a lottery apprentice. A child from a peasant family who was lucky in that she developed a talent and was randomly selected to attend Spire. This social equity program was called the Economic Adversity in Magic Program, or the EAMP. Her status is technically Lottery Apprentice, but the struggling woman had never been an apprentice to a master in any capacity. She was self-taught, mainly by accidentally throwing doors and windows open with bursts of magical wind. As a poorer resident of Element, she wore simple, filthy traveling robes and struggled to balance as she walked with all her possessions in a heavy and unevenly stuffed backpack.

Marin had spent weeks traveling the high road to the city of Mistfall, and now she walked on foot to make it the final distance to Spire. There was a steady trail of carriages that passed by her. Most were horse-drawn carriages, but Marin could see some of these carriages moved unaided. Some looked like simple, unadorned hires, but others had heraldry indicating passengers of the noble class.

By each and every one of the gods, look at the EAMP! Marin heard as yet another carriage clopped past her. Marin focused on not falling over but raised her head to the voice that taunted from the carriage. Your struggles are so real. Wow. A head with curly black hair chirped as she looked at Marin. The woman wore hooped gold earrings. At the center of both hoops were massive emeralds.

A redhead then poked her head out of the same carriage. The carriage wheel broke, and now we see a real EAMP. This is really starting to feel like an adventure. It could have been Marin’s exhaustion, but both girls sounded like they had the exact same sing-songy voice.

Marin certainly didn't feel like her existence warranted the label of ‘adventure.’ All of the magical colleges had enrolled Economic Advisory in Magic Program participants, and there must have been dozens of people just like her.

Marin, with effort, stood up straight and smiled at the two young women sailing past her on their horse-drawn carriage. Hi, my name is Marin of Crowfoot Hill. I am happy to meet you.

Yes! You should be; this radiant redhead is Flair of Frostholm. You know, like a burst of fire, but spelled with an ‘i’ instead of the normal way. Driver! Slow it down; we are talking to someone! The curly-haired woman said. In response, the carriage began decelerating.

And this wonderful bitch is Bren Twingrove of the Frostholm Twingroves. Watch out, she bites. Flair said to introduce Bren. Marin noticed that the heraldry on the sides of the carriage had that of two thorn-covered wreaths.

Both girls started giggling, and Bren playfully slapped Flair on the arm. We agreed not to bring that up, remember? Anyway, it looks like you’re really struggling. That’s pretty cool.

Marin was proud of her journey thus far. She smiled as she went to respond, Yes, I have been walking, taking shared carriages, and sleeping in public rooms for the last couple of weeks.

Flair wrinkled her freckled nose in disgust, Eugh! Public rooms? In like taverns? That is gross. They store, like horse food and poop in them.

Marin started to respond, but Bren cut her off. I bet I could spend a night in a public room, but only if I was the only one there. I can deal with animal smells, but people smells? No thank you. Anyways, Rina, my dad, voted for the EAMP thing that you’re benefiting from. I told him to do it!

Yeah, yeah. I also told my dad to vote for it, but he voted no anyway. It's like, get with the times, old man! Flair said.

Marin chuckled nervously as the two women talked about her and people like her. It made her feel especially small. As she walked with the coasting carriage, her fingers plucked at her sweat-damp braid. She certainly wasn’t feeling confident enough to confront them or insult them.

Driver, we’re done now! Take us to Spire! Bren shouted toward the front of their carriage.

Marin watched in confusion as the well-off women began to outpace her. Had she been lucky enough to have a large carriage, she would have offered a struggling fellow student some help. Marin marveled at the position that some people were in and thought herself fortunate to be in a place where she might be able to be like them someday.

Don’t listen to them. You are a threat to them. They want to watch you struggle. They want you to fall to make their lives easier. Said an assertive, feminine voice behind her. They know how the system works and have already started the politics of breaking the competition.

Marin started to turn around but was so exhausted that she couldn’t even resist when the raven-haired woman lifted the great pack off Marin’s back and swung it onto her own. When she turned to thank the other woman, Marin was taken aback by her icy blue eyes.

It seems the only thing you aren’t burdened with is the knowledge of efficient packing. My name is Aellaria of Frostholm. The taller woman said. Take a moment and catch your breath. Spire is further away than it looks.

Hi, my name is Marin of Crowfoot Hill. I am happy to meet you, Marin said again, this time to someone who might understand her struggles. Looking at Aellaria, Marin saw the young woman wearing comfortable-looking gray sorcerer robes. Aellaria also didn’t appear to have any luggage. Finally, on the top of Aellaria’s head was an old-style sorcerer hat with a pink lily stuck in its band. Thank you for your help, and what did you mean? What competition?

Aellaria looked confused as she effortlessly walked with Marin’s heavy pack. Your teacher didn’t tell you? Those girls resent you because of the EAMP. It forced Spire to enroll two more apprentice first-year students than there otherwise would be.

Marin looks surprised by this. I-I...I only wanted a chance to be a good magician. I didn't have a teacher... Marin stuttered.

Aellaria continued, Of the sixty-six students inducted this year, Spire will only ultimately graduate ten of us. It is the most competitive college in Element.

Marin watched the train of carriages ahead of her in disbelief. Each carriage held at least one student in competition with her. She nervously watched the icy-eyed woman carrying her burden.

You are entering a program meant to make you a Master Sorcerer. The very best mages in the world graduate from Spire. The failure rate averages 85%, and the graduation rate is just a hair higher than the death rate. Aellaria explained calmly. As Aellaria walked, the tip of her sorcerer hat bobbed back and forth. It would have been funny to Marin if the news hadn’t already started crushing her like a weight heavier than the unwieldy pack.

What do I do? I don’t even know how to cast a spell! Are you telling me I am just as likely to die as I am to graduate?! Marin shouted.

Well, if you survive your first year, you can try to transfer to a school that doesn’t aim for greatness. However... Aellaria paused to take Marin’s heavy pack off her back and returned it to Marin. I recommend you make it to Spire before registration ends. Or you will sleep outside and likely be late for the first classes tomorrow. Good luck, Marin of Crowfoot Hill.

The unburdened Aellaria walked off ahead of Marin. Thanks... Marin said, trudging onward despite what likely were impossible odds.

Chapter 3: The Fledgling of Frostholm

Aellaria

Zenithor was thriving in the body named Aellaria. She was physically sixty years younger than he was, and Aellaria realized just how much Zenithor had relied upon his aeromancy to live comfortably. Aellaria walked without the assistance of a single gust. Her joints didn't hurt. She was stronger. If it weren’t for Zenithor being so singularly focused and self-serious, she would be dancing as she entered the Spire campus.

By the time Aellaria walked into the courtyard past the gate, most of the carriages had arrived and been emptied of their passengers. The gardens looked almost precisely the same as they had sixty years ago when Zenithor attended Spire. Beautiful gardens and natural paths weaved all along the area between the outer walls and the massive tower.

The wings of Spire were intimidating from below. Aellaria remembered Zenithor’s anxiety when walking through the gardens. It always felt like the great Phoenix wings would fall and destroy everything below. However, even now, the wings still cradled the beacon of Spire.

Only a handful of students still lingered in the courtyard. Most have gone inside to start touring their new home.

Aellaria entered the great Spire doors and into The Heroes’ Gallery. This Gallery held replica artifacts, portraits, and even a small library. All of it was dedicated to the deeds of the Master Sorcerers that graduated from Spire. Aellaria was relieved to see nothing on display for Zenithor. Zenithor’s efforts in the shadow and living among the enemy were not flashy enough.

At the far end of the Gallery was the registration desk. Aellaria produced her identification. This government-issued ID was required of everyone with talent and was a thin piece of slate with a simple enchantment. It stored a mage’s unique magical pattern and tied it to official records. This ID, homemade by Zenithor, tied Aellaria’s pattern to an Aellaria that died over sixty years ago.

The registration worker checked Aellaria’s ID and compared the pattern of her body to the entry for Aellaria. By Zenithor’s design, the pattern on the ID card matched the one from the body he created. Eventually, she would need to break into the capitol’s records and update them. However, unless someone manually checked the paperwork in the capitol for Aellaria’s records, she would be fine.

Aellaria felt on edge looking at the woman behind the desk—a middle-aged woman guarding the only route to the higher floors. The woman had unnatural gold-ringed irises and enchanted metal grafted over the skin of her cheekbones. The shimmering enchantments on her robes, facial implants, and jewelery told Aellaria that this person was more than just a desk worker, but someone to take seriously: a Master Sorcerer of Spire.

Aellaria huh? Are you named after someone? The Sorcerer asked. She looked at Aellaria closer. Aellaria’s old-style sorcerer hat and name were certainly out of place. Additionally, Aellaria knew her unapproachable expression would be out of place when every other student was wide-eyed and excited to be in the historic and prestigious structure. Aellaria could only dilute Zenithor’s wild anger so far, resulting in a permanent unfriendly scowl.

I come from an old family, Aellaria lied.

The gold rings in the sorcerer’s eyes tightened, and for a moment, Aellaria felt the pressure of this woman’s gaze before it relaxed. Welcome to Spire. May you rise up, The registrar said before handing her her student identification pin and dorm room key.

Aellaria nodded politely before continuing into the depths of Spire. She walked up the stairs and into the entry hall. There was a tour line. New students could follow the tour line through the cafeteria, dorms, lecture floors, and sparring arenas. Then, the last stop was meeting your lecturer. Aellaria already knew how slowly time moved for education. Spire was the same institution Zenithor attended all those decades ago, albeit with a younger staff. Instead of all of that extra walking, Aellaria moved to the unoccupied teleport rings beyond and went straight for the finish line.

Aellaria was comfortable with the sensation of teleportation. Teleportation sickness was typical the first several times anyone did it. The instant shift in physical space resolved, and Aellaria felt no nausea. This thaumaturgical advancement would have been a breakthrough for those who study magic theory, but to Aellaria, it was nothing more than a neat observation.

As her sight adjusted to the new room, memories came flooding back. The Banquet Hall near the top of Spire is where Zenithor celebrated significant achievements in his academic life, such as winning an appraisal, surviving each year, graduation, and induction. These significant milestones were some of the best and worst memories Aellaria had from Zenithor’s long life. The Banquet Hall represented the pinnacle of what students could achieve at Spire. The only higher places in the tower were the Professor’s Quarters and The Sacred Flame. The stone walls encircling The Banquet Hall had all been enchanted to be transparent.  Aellaria saw the Misterran Forests, Son Lake, and even Mistfall from this height. The setting sun in the distance cast an unnatural glow.

In this historic place, Aellaria realized that these pressures and unnatural feelings were not accurate. It was the lens she looked through. Aellaria was the outsider.

Around the room, Aellaria saw four desks. Each had a tired teacher, ready to meet their students and answer questions. Her blue student identification card told her that her teacher was blue; this corresponded to the teacher sitting at a blue table.

The Blue Teacher looked a touch more peppy than the others. He had to be. He was the water teacher– the least popular element of magic. It was never flashy, required great mastery to use in any combat scenario, and the other elements of magic tended to make piss jokes at any Aquamancer’s expense. The Blue Teacher had a shit-eating grin on his face as a pair of students piled more hypothetical shit on his plate.

Father said that I would get to be with Bren every step of the way! Why does it say here that Bren goes to the super cool fire teacher, and I am stuck here with the worthless aquamancer! Flair whined. From behind, Aellaria could only see Flair’s radiant red hair and Bren’s brown curls. Both girls were wrapped in expensive silk robes, undoubtedly corresponding to their respective elements: red and brown.

Aellaria knew precisely what type of girl this person was. They grew up never having to face any adversity. They became best friends with their parents' best friends' child. These children got whatever they wanted because their parents would prefer to bend the system over listening to their child’s whining.

I understand your frustration, Flair! Might I say that is a fantastic name? I believe your father may have been talking about the dormitory system. You and Bren are assigned the same room, but we do not waver on our class assignments. The Aquamancer explained.

I’m not stupid, Niall; I know what my father said, Flair responded. Her indignant fist landed on her hip, and her other hand pointed at the poor teacher. Aellaria thought this action made the young woman look like a teapot.

If you would like to try to get this changed, you will need to speak with Professor Rietta, but in my decade here at Spire, I have never seen or heard of assignments changing. The patient Aquamancer responded.

Useless! Flair shouted. She then turned around, and recognition hit Aellaria like a runaway carriage.

Flair was from Frostholm. She was one of Lilium’s classmates. There were flashes of memories of Lilium feeling great pain by the actions of Flair, and a hostile scowl marred Aellaria’s face. Flair’s charcoal eyes ignited a white-knuckled rage in Aellaria.

Oh great! I get to be in the same class as fuckface floppy-hat! I saw your hat dongling around for a mile on the carriage ride in, and Bren almost threw up laughing at you. Flair responded, but Aellaria was too busy trying not to get lost in her rage and succumb to the thrumming of blood in her ears. Also, nobody wears wide-brimmed hats anymore. What are you, homeschooled?! Flair said. Whatever, just stay out of my way. Flair and Bren returned to the teleportation circle Aellaria had used just minutes before.

Aellaria didn’t even have time to process the flicker of emotions firing in her mind at seeing Bren, too. Aellaria felt the urge to lunge at Flair. She could not recall any details of what Flair or Bren did to her daughter, but she knew how it made her feel. Those feelings threatened to overwhelm Aellaria until a voice spoke up behind her.

I think your hat is quite distinguished! Not the most practical thing, but it makes me feel like I am in the presence of one of the great magicians of yesteryear. My name is Niall, and I will be your teacher these first two years of your adventure here at Spire.

The Aquamancer, Niall, was handsome and just reaching the end of his young adult years. Aellaria looked closer at her teacher and saw he had an absurd little beard and a pointed handlebar mustache. All visible hair on his body was either dyed or magically altered to be an unnatural blue. The only part of the Aquamancer’s attire that Aellaria vibed with was his popped collar vest. Its sole purpose was style, and the absurd garment helped to gently tug Aellaria from the edge of unbridled rage.

Aellaria paused to compose herself, then responded, Niall, what time is the fight tomorrow? I’m feeling tired and wish to retire to my dorm.

Niall recoiled at Aellaria’s direct question. Aellaria knew this was supposed to be a fun surprise revealed during the induction dinner, but she was tired. Are you sure you don’t want to ask anything about Spire? This is an exciting stage in your development as a sorcerer! Niall persuaded.

Yes, Aellaria responded, leaving as little room as possible for conversation.

I’m sorry for being long-winded. I’m used to students being excited for their first days at Spire! If you are feeling tired, I will let you go, but if you need healing after your journey. As an Aquamancer, it is one of my specialties...

Time, Niall, Aellaria said quite rudely.

Aellaria saw the water mage’s hurt expression. ‘This man is supposed to be a Master Sorcerer?’

8:00, just after breakfast service finishes. May you rise up... Niall responded promptly, meekly adding the words of Spire.

Without another word, Aellaria left to go back toward the teleportation ring.

Chapter 4: Cold Roses

Callo

Callo Goldrose of Frostholm found himself walking along the corridors of Spire in awe. Callo was an eighteen-year-old Cryomancer, the son of a wealthy warmage turned merchant. His father, Mellow Goldrose, was one of the richest men in Frostholm. His father may have been wealthy, but Callo knew he worked hard to get to Spire—thousands of hours with his tutor, practicing runes until his mind felt numb, and sparring with his father until he was weak and bloody. If anyone belonged here, Callo knew he had earned it.

Callo was one of the richest freshmen of Spire, but despite his wealth, he wore modest silver robes that didn’t even bear his house’s heraldry. He kept his white hair messy but more than made up for it with his toned body and kind face. Callo was effortlessly handsome.

He had just made his way through the tour for first-day students.

The Cafeteria smelled of foods from many different cultures. Undoubtedly, master chefs and Culinomancers were in the kitchen preparing for the welcome feast in just a few hours.

The Fighting Cells were immaculate—no easy feat considering the powerhouses that must have trained there regularly. Callo admired the tiles within the fighting cells, where he would be able to prove himself.

Then, he was in the men's dorms. The shared room had activities for students to do together. He watched as a pair of young men were engaged in a heated game of Aero. Aero was one of the six versions of a table game meant to help students hone their skills with each element through camaraderie and competition.

Deciding to wait until the feast to begin making introductions, Callo went to his room to offload his stuff before continuing the tour.

Next, Callo went through the lecture halls. There were teachers for each element—heat, cold, water, electricity, earth, and air. Callo lingered in the classroom belonging to the Cryomancer, and he hoped to get instruction from a great Cryomancer. Sheets of ice and frost coated the walls, and Callo could feel the cool water running beneath. He wanted to reach into the ice and begin casting, but he knew this was not his playroom–yet. Excitedly, he bounded into the hall and promptly felt his heart jump in his chest in surprise.

He almost ran headfirst into a lovely woman whose class pin identified her as Aellaria. She was in the blue class, the same as him.

I, um...hi! I am so very sorry!