The Storyteller

The Plaza of the Steps, in Myriath, was one of the oldest and most symbolic public spaces in the city, known as the place where voices were raised, and truths competed against one another. Built around a wide, semicircular staircase of pale stone—the steps that gave it its name—the plaza descended in gentle tiers to a central square, allowing any orator to be seen and heard by dozens, sometimes hundreds, of people. There, sound seemed to obey laws of its own: words cast from the center echoed naturally through the stone arches, as if the architecture itself had been designed to amplify speeches, songs, and proclamations, transforming ideas into a spectacle.

During the day, the space was taken over by occasional preachers, wandering philosophers, merchants of ideas, and makeshift prophets, each vying for attention with fiery promises, veiled warnings, or theories that bordered on delirium. At night, torches fastened to the stone handrails cast a flickering light over attentive faces, lending the place an almost ritualistic air where beliefs were born, rumors spread, and suspicions planted with equal ease. The guards of Myriath watched from a distance, leaning on spears or columns, intervening only when rhetoric threatened to turn into violence. In the Plaza of the Steps, there was no formal censorship—only the volatile judgment of the crowd, which decided which voices deserved to be heard and which would be swallowed by the ceaseless noise of the city itself.

The following morning, Edric headed toward the plaza. It was not far from where he was lodging, and he arrived early enough to see the first groups forming, drawn more by habit than by any specific promise. He chose one of the intermediate levels of the steps and remained there, alert, blending in with the listeners, resolved to observe, listen, and understand at what moment he might find Serith. Throughout that first day, however, the elder did not appear. In his stead, younger preachers alternated in the center of the plaza, each trying to impose their voice over the previous one.

They spoke of diverse matters. Some limited themselves to simple, almost harmless themes—morality, labor, daily devotion. Others, more daring, touched upon controversial questions, such as the recent tax increase decreed by the kingdom, drawing applause from some and jeers from others. Edric listened to it all with growing attention, but something seemed strange to him as the hours passed: none of the preachings mentioned magic. Not as a promise, not as a threat, not even as a metaphor. For a city like Myriath, where information circulated with such freedom, that absence seemed deliberate. Had someone imposed a limit? Or was it merely a tacit agreement, the result of past experiences that no one was willing to repeat? Without answers, Edric left the plaza at the end of the day, carrying more questions than certainties.

He returned the next morning. The sun was already climbing higher when, a few hours into the morning, a different movement rippled through the steps. The murmur of the crowd reorganized itself, as if an invisible thread were being pulled. Edric raised his gaze and knew, even before hearing the voice, that it was him. There was no denying it. Serith emerged in the center of the plaza with the naturalness of one who did not need to announce his own presence.

He was a lean, tall elder of surprisingly firm posture. His long hair and thick beard, white as snow, framed a face marked by time but sharp, almost severe. When he began to speak, his voice rose strong and booming, filling the steps without effort. He did not preach, he did not accuse, he did not promise. He told stories. He spoke of a very distant island called Aurelith, located in Thiramar, surrounded by waters of an impossible hue, where marvelous creatures walked freely—creatures never before seen in the kingdom of Eldoria, described with such precision that they seemed to breathe within the elder’s words.

The plaza fell silent. A complete and contemplative silence took over the steps, nearly hypnotic. Faces leaned forward, breathing slowed, and even the guards seemed to forget, for an instant, the duties they performed. Serith spoke without haste, mastering the cadence of the narrative like one who deeply understood the power of a pause. At his feet, a worn hat rested upon the stone, receiving coins deposited with care, one after another, without breaking the spell of the moment.

When the story came to an end, the world seemed to return all at once. People caught their breath, exchanged glances, and then a shower of applause spread across the plaza. Edric descended the steps, his heart racing. He approached the elder, placed a few coins in the hat, and praised the story with sincerity. Serith tilted his head slightly, acknowledging him with a brief, almost complicit smile.

Edric then said he had a few questions to ask. Questions that did not fit there, amidst echoes and watchful eyes. He invited him to share a meal. Serith accepted promptly. Together, they left the Plaza of the Steps, while behind them other voices already began to vie for space, as if nothing had happened.

The tavern lay a few streets from the Plaza of the Steps, hidden among ancient structures of stone darkened by time. It was not a sophisticated place, but it exuded a welcoming warmth: the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with that of stews simmering slowly, and the constant murmur of conversations created a curtain of sound that afforded a degree of privacy. Edric and Serith sat at a table of worn wood near a narrow window through which the midday light entered in slanting beams. They ordered their meal, and while they waited, the initial silence was filled only by the creaking of chairs and the distant clinking of mugs.

It was Edric who began to speak. He told of Eldorwyn, the simple life amidst fields of wheat and ancient woods, and of the desire that had accompanied him since childhood: to become a mage. He spoke of the Arcane Academy of Varethia, of the repeated attempts, of the same refusals, time and again, and of the coldness with which they told him there was no gift in his blood. While he spoke, Serith listened with attention, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze fixed on some point beyond Edric's face, as if those words were old and familiar to him.

When Edric finished, the elder let out a brief sigh, heavy with contained disdain.

“The academies,” Serith said, “have always been more interested in preserving power than in understanding magic. The Council of Mages does not merely govern spells; it governs narratives, lineages, and conveniences. They call it order. I call it fear.”

Before Edric could reply, the food arrived. Deep bowls were placed upon the table, accompanied by bread and wooden spoons. Vapor rose slowly, bringing with it a comforting aroma. For a few moments, both turned their attention to the meal in silence. It was then, between one spoonful and the next, that Edric resumed the matter with caution.

He commented that he had met a scribe named Tavian, and that he had spoken to him about the possibility of learning outside the Academy—clandestine tutors, mages who taught beyond the Council's watch. Serith did not seem surprised. He merely pointed his spoon toward Edric, confirming with a simple gesture what had been said.

“They exist,” he stated. “They always have.”

Edric's heart quickened. He seized the moment.

“Do you... know any mage willing to teach?”

Serith brought the spoon to his mouth but paused mid-gesture. He remained motionless for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the bottom of his bowl, as if weighing not just the answer, but its consequences. Then he set down his spoon, raised his eyes, and said:

“They say a sorcerer was seen in the ruins of Valtoren, to the south. A man who knows secrets that not even the masters of Varethia dare to pronounce.”

Edric felt his heart beat with force. Perhaps it was the chance he had always been seeking.

“And who is he?” he asked, barely noticing the urgent tone of his own voice.

The elder narrowed his eyes.

“They call him Magnus Obscurus. They say he was once an archmage but turned to forbidden arts. Now he lives among the ruins, waiting for fools who seek easy power.”

Edric swallowed hard. Forbidden arts sounded dangerous, but if there was knowledge beyond what the Academy taught, he needed to discover it.

Serith continued, his voice lower now, as if that part of the story demanded care.

“His true name is Malagar. He was once one of the most famous mages of his time, but he never accepted the restrictions imposed by the Council of Mages. He was powerful, and since he caused no direct trouble, the Council turned a blind eye for years. If you find him, I believe he might accept you as a student—perhaps even as a deliberate affront against those who rejected you.”

Edric felt something firm up within himself. For the first time in his life, the dream that had always seemed distant and abstract now had finally found some footing in reality. There was no certainty—neither that he would find Malagar, nor that he would be accepted—but the mere discovery that magic could be learned outside the narrow circle controlled by the Council of Mages was enough to warm his heart. For the first time, his desire was not merely an impossible longing, but a path—dangerous, uncertain, and yet real.