Patterns of Friction

Prologue: The Vanishing Thread

Aetheris was a city that gleamed with ambition. Spires of glass and gold towered over narrow alleys where the forgotten dwelled. Magic dictated the flow of life here—a currency of power, respect, and survival. Those who wielded Primal and Spiritual magics found themselves elevated, their futures secured in the hallowed halls of the Aetheris Academy. Those with Abstract magic, however, were whispers on the wind—heard, but never acknowledged.

And among those whispers, there was one that even the wind failed to carry.

Cael Mavros had long mastered the art of being unseen.

Not through invisibility, nor through illusions, but through sheer irrelevance. The corridors of the Academy bustled with nobles and prodigies, voices echoing like the crashing tide, and yet Cael moved through them like a shadow that had forgotten how to cling to its owner.

No one greeted him. No one called his name.

That suited him just fine.

He stood at the edge of the Grand Library's upper level, eyes half-lidded as he observed the crowd below. Another duel was unfolding, as they often did—young mages posturing, their spells clashing in brilliant bursts of fire and ice. He could already see the victor before the match had even begun.

Pattern recognition was his curse and his gift.

The flick of a wrist, the placement of a foot, the tensing of a shoulder—they all told a story. To the average observer, magic was chaos. To Cael, it was a web of predictability, a tapestry woven from habits and mistakes.

His gaze landed on Soren Draeven.

Gravity Magic. Powerful. Overconfident. Predictable.

Cael sighed as the duel concluded exactly as he had foreseen. Soren's opponent lay sprawled on the marble floor, clutching at his ribs while the victor basked in applause. The Academy would celebrate another display of dominance. Another confirmation that raw power was everything.

Cael turned away, already knowing he wouldn't be missed.

By the time he reached the courtyard, night had fallen. The lanterns flickered with an ethereal glow, enchanted to never burn out. He stepped lightly across the stone path, his every motion calculated to make no sound. A habit. A necessity.

Then, a shift in the air. A presence.

He stopped.

"You're avoiding me again."

The voice was soft, but it carried the weight of certainty. Lirienne Valis.

Cael turned to find her leaning against a carved pillar, her celestial magic humming faintly in the night air. She had that look again—curiosity tempered by quiet frustration. She had been watching him, though he had no idea for how long.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Avoiding you? That would require acknowledging you in the first place."

Lirienne didn't flinch.

"You can joke all you want, but we both know the truth. You keep yourself invisible on purpose. Why?"

Cael shrugged, turning his gaze to the academy spires above.

"Because it's easier that way."

She sighed, stepping closer.

"You do realize that makes no sense, right? You see everything. You analyze everything. You could stand at the top of this academy if you wanted to."

He chuckled.

"And why would I want that?"

Lirienne hesitated, then said the one thing he wished she wouldn't.

"Because you're lonely."

The words struck him harder than any spell ever could.

For the briefest moment, he let his mask slip. The weight of isolation, the exhaustion of knowing too much, the hollowness of every victory that belonged to someone else. It all threatened to surface.

But he smothered it.

"I think you overestimate how much I care," he said smoothly, stepping past her.

Her voice followed him into the dark.

"And I think you underestimate how much I see."

Somewhere deep in the academy, beneath layers of gilded halls and hidden archives, a single parchment lay forgotten in a locked chamber. The ink upon it was old, but the warning it carried was timeless.

Abstract magic is an anomaly. It must not be allowed to fester.

And below it, the signature of the man who ruled this world from the shadows.

High Chancellor Malrik.

The gears had already begun turning. And for the first time in years, Cael Mavros had been noticed.

He just didn't know it yet.