Three days it took them to reach the tower, but no Tyr was to be found in its vicinity. All that was left were the shallow grave and his scent around the trapdoor – but that's where it ended. Alex and Okami had been together for years now, and she knew how impressive his senses were. Managing to beeline for Tyr over hundreds of miles with no prompting or need of a map. If he couldn't track the prince – nobody could...

“Astrid, have you tried divination?” Sigi asked. They'd recovered... Somewhat. Her sister was still ashen of face, but she'd begun eating and speaking again after a day had passed.

Astrid nodded, of course she had. Her mother's great talent had always been divination, and she was handy with it – though no genius. A magic that gave one the ability to see that which cannot be seen, and track beyond the physical senses. Her spells when anchored by a proper array had a radius of near fifty miles, and it found no sign of him. A fel omen.

“Thank you for trying.” Iscari remained patient with them. He was a primus, and it was necessary for him to force down his own worries in lieu of the bigger picture. The lessons his father had imparted on him since his infancy, that they existed to serve as the highest form of leadership of man. He needed to change, and fast, if he'd be anywhere near ready to ascend and take Octavian's place. “There's only one way he could've gone. I'll follow him down, just wait here. Or head back, if you'd like.”

“I don't think that's wise...” Alex protested.

Iscari chuckled. “I appreciate your concern, Alexis, but don't forget... I'm a primus.” Meaning lay in that word. There was no need for elaboration, a primus was just that. Everybody knew that their immortal protectors were beyond everything that lay both above and below, save the gods themselves.

“You're right.” She relented. Iscari nodded, a thin and artificial smile on his face, pulling the trap door open. Or at least he tried to.

He panicked. Never in his life had his strength failed him, but the rickety wood and rusty iron was harder than mithril and as heavy as a mountain. It refused to budge. If not for the obvious gaps in the shoddy construction he'd have thought it fused with the structure.

“...What?” Worried at the idea that his powers had truly fled him, he tested himself against the stone wall of the tower. He struck with such speed and ferocity that a whole brick turned to dust and flew free of the mortar. Leaving a perfectly rectangular hole in the tower.

“What's the matter?” Sigi was alarmed at the sudden and violent outburst. “Are you alright?”

“It would seem that there is magic of some kind binding the door. No matter, I'll just...” He replied, striking it with his fists now. Stomping and casting at it. Nothing could so much as scratch the wood. “I...”

This door must be stronger than the palace gates...

“We return to the academy.” Alex concluded.

“He's my best friend.” Iscari shook his head. He'd burrow through the earth if it would let him, but even that was immovable. “I can't abandon him.” His mask was slipping, revealing all his pent up anxiety to the others.

But alas, leave they would. After many hours of trying, downcast and exhausted. Only to get lost again, finding themselves in the middle of a storm the likes of which they'd never seen. Bursting into life without warning, splitting the clear blue sky. Their horses bolted, dismounting them all and sending them crashing to the ground.

“We have to find shelter!” Sigi roared through the sleeting rains and hurricane winds, bodily lifting Astrid and sprinting through the wood. Okami did what he could, bringing them together when they were separated in the darkness, but even he was buffeted to the point where he'd taken his smaller form to avoid being made a wingless bird.

A cave, half lost in trees near ripped from the ground, the leaves shredded and stripped from their branches. Warm. Dry. A haven. The gods were still watching over their chosen son.

–

Tyr stared at the book for a long while, unsure if he should be looking at it. Then again, he'd heard similar stories about Solomon, only to find them inaccurate. Solomon had lived by a moral compass, or so he'd said, more a victim of his own genius than anything else. Not quite the great villain he was made out to be. Men dedicated their whole lives to training in pursuit of strength, and that was fine. Heroes, archmages, saints... But as soon as they obtained the power to threaten a primus, it wasn't? Nothing but vain hypocrisy.

Those same primus' who said that all men were created equal under the gods and anything was possible. What a ridiculous notion. He'd simply achieved a realm that he wasn't supposed to, outside of their neatly manicured sense of order. They'd tried to crack down, and lost in the process.

That wasn't to say that the great mage wasn't mad, though. Sacrificing others for gain was...

More hypocrisy. Maybe I'm more like father than I thought. Tyr had done the same thing, and continued to look for new opportunities to do so within reason. How could he judge another for acting in the same way he had?

There were passages in Solomon's book confessing to his sins, only levied on those he termed 'irredeemable'. He had a code, and thought himself just. At least in his own mind, Tyr found it hard to disagree. Rapists and slavers did not deserve to live. Solomon was a small shaman of Agoron before finding his path to greatness. A path paved by the broken corpses of the slaver gangs that had taken his first family from him. Through revenge he'd discovered world energy, and made it his life's work before branching out into related fields. For decades serving as the greatest mage known to man, and arguably the greatest mage of all time. Organizing the tribal systems of elemental magic into a form more comparable to that which was in use today.

There was wisdom in these forbidden pages and Tyr wanted it. That book, so light in his hands as if it weren't there at all. It was only a book, how damning could it be? There wasn't an ounce of magic in it, only words. Words did not make men mad.

Runes had power, whether by magic or the voice that spoke them. Tyr did not fear them in any case.

Hello. I see that you've found my book. Do not read it, but if you insist on perusing the knowledge I have gained through centuries of study, do so at your own peril. Mine is not a happy tale, and not one that I would have ever willingly told.

You'll find no answers here, scholar. Only eyes. Eyes in the deep dark. Eyes that follow and whisper their fel secrets in my ear. Driving me mad. Do not turn the page. Question everything. Do not turn the page. The eyes are watching. They're inside of me and they make me write, they've taken my eyes and now I'm one of them. Don't look, or they'll take from you! Don't listen to their words! They are all lies!

“What the hell...” Tyr murmured. Compared to Solomon's crisp script, this one was smudged and uneven all over. Every second sentence appeared written by a different hand until countless distinct handwritings patterned the pages. Making it difficult to read and marking him for the raving lunatic that he was. The first few pages of the grimoire were nothing but a journal. An experimental log.

Lichhood was a failure. Today marks the fifth and final attempt, but my understanding of spira is yet incomplete. If it even exists, I cannot sense it as Solomon did. My soul refuses to transit itself from my body. All I can manage right now is pseudo-projection. It seems like the path of the undying is lost to me, I cannot attempt again or I'll risk further damage to my core. I learned a lot, in any case, and this wasn't the most ideal option to begin with.

She has denied me. No surprise, Ejessi was always a fickle one. No fan of mankind, and the other gods remain silent to my attempts at communication. My answer lies not in the divine, but the world beyond. Only magic can save us from the coming darkness. I will be their herald, where the primus' have failed them. Where even great Solomon failed them. They have not seen what I have... I have to show them!

This writing continued. Various attempts at immortality. There was no such thing. Nothing lived for ever and no magic could change that. Solomon had lived long beyond humankind, but he was long dead nonetheless. Even in his mastery, he had failed to truly ascend, and Ellemar was not an equal to the great mage he called his 'master'. A man could not defy the natural order. Eventually the world would set the record straight.

In between was little more than a logbook of even the most insignificant events. 'Took a shit today. Too much moisture – reminder to add fiber to diet.' Ellemar was thorough in his genius, but an eccentric sort of person. Shameless, too, by the claim of what he'd done to that poor cantaloupe.

I've begged the primus to listen to reason, but he refuses. Content to shackle us as we are, we mages. I've left Varia. No need for it. Age has weakened my position in their eyes to the point where I am laughed at and accused of dementia. I will succeed, given time. They will see.

Success! I've made a breakthrough. Anima is not the answer, and never was! As powerful as it may be, dimensional magic is the way forward. It's just for gates and storage, they said! The fools! Ha! I knew it!

I've done it... I've actually done it! Ah, if only my apprentices hadn't abandoned me. They'd see! Those whelps. Their old master still has it in him, he does. A rift to another world. Not a continent, not a gate with a terminus to another part of Hjemland, but a new world with secrets untold! The veil is troublesome, it cannot be navigated with any consistency, but my anchor should hold... I hope.

A long gap lay between the dates of that strange claim and the next entry.

You wouldn't believe it! I've found a world of pure spira, not a speck of mana in sight. I nearly died. I'd never learned to cook, or clean, or do anything without mana. It's incredible, and it's shown me the way. If the people there had not been so kind... Alien, but kind. They flew metal ships through the sky and possessed all manner of engineered wonder. No magic, all of their problems are solved by technology! Inferior to our own blend of science and magic, of course. Just a diversion, but I've felt the spira and used it to pass through the rift once more. I wonder what will happen to their world? With the introduction of mana, it'll be even better. A great gift, to thank them for their kindness.

How strange... To travel through the rift and find yet more humans. Men like any other! Incredible, but disappointing. Have our kind conquered all the planes? I'd hoped to find an alien race, but no luck this time. I find myself giddy at yet further adventures and understanding. Immortality eludes me but the rift holds untold secrets, I'm sure I will find it. Among the other answers I seek.

Another, very long gap. Multiple pages were torn from the book with the shredded vellum the only indication they'd been there at all.

I've made a terrible mistake. Now I know. I know. I know. The gods... Everything is going wrong and I do not possess the will to stop it. My friends in the otherworld and all the worlds. A gift!? How arrogant could I be. All dead. All wilted and burned and full of eyes. Eyes always watching, eyes all around... I tried to run but they found me. Followed me. I can't get them out of my skin. I've dug deeper into the foundations where the spira and ley lines connect, better fuel for my wards. The eyes can't get me here. No, no, no. They'll never find me here. I'll stop this. I don't know what I'll do if I can't. I will. I will do what needs to be done.

I told him. I told him. I told him. I've always been a master of dimensional magic, and I told him. He never listened. Never listened! Now, I know. Now, I know why my pleas fell on deaf ears. I saw them through the rift. I saw them! I saw Samael! Samael is the truth, the path forward! He is the eye that watches me! Samael is the beginning and the end! I am Samael!

The gods haven't abandoned us! I was wrong! There are no gods, only God! Samael is God! I've found him, how could I be so foolish. To fear his eyes, I humble myself before him. No, you must not listen to my words, Sama-- Is God! Samael is light and all that moves, he's inside me, I feel him on my skin-- My mind is slipping, my periods of lucidity growing evermo-- They're coming! Rapture! I am waiting, I will prepare for my Lord-- I will do what must be done. Forgive me. Forgive me. To my sons, and my primus, and the men and women I've harmed in my journeys throughout the rift...

Forgive me. I didn't know. I thought I'd seen, but they took my eyes. Now I see nothing at all.

The next twenty or thirty pages were covered in dried blood and illegible, nothing but filthy, stained rags. So long had they sat in such a state that Tyr doubted the strange redaction could be removed even with the most powerful magic.

“...” He wasn't sure what to make of it all. There was much more left of the grimoire, but it appeared to be anything but. Too alike Solomon's. Less a book of spells and more of some ego fueling autobiography. Both men were possessive of an arrogance to be heard, but Ellemar in particular was quite mad. That name, Samael, was written in the margins in different colored substitutes for ink. Blood, feces, more things Tyr didn't recognize. Didn't want to.

Tyr didn't hear any whispers or feel any strange compulsion. Nothing like the rumor and myth surrounding these tomes, so he continued, finding the grimoire to become aggressively more... Normal? Now nothing but a series of theorem and formulae for modern magic. Solomon had created the baseline for the system used today, but Ellemar had attempted to improve it. He was a great mage in his era, perhaps even the greatest, from his early days he'd been a supreme talent.

He'd tried, and failed, for night on three decades before finally he'd succeeded in furthering his understanding of magic. Inventing personal spells and the like, setting the stage for string and metamagic theory. Determining that the 'ancient language' spells used to be constructed of to be wholly unnecessary and adjusting common runes to replace it. With the right frame of mind, imagery, and imagination – one could whisper the word 'piss' and produce a fireball. It was up to the mind of the mage, an accumulation of hundreds of theories to create something greater than the sum of its parts. No more complex strings comprised of dozens of 'words of power', the man had invented control arrays to make magic far faster and efficient. More versatile than the old system

Personal spells and advanced magic. Mankind had remained stuck at the level three standard, and Ellemar had taken them all the way to 'seven'. Eight, as he posited – was magic only capable of gods, the exponential terminus of magic beyond men. An archmage by the standards of his day was five or six. Seven was the realm of saints, perhaps only primus', but he was confident man could do it. Once one surpassed the initial bottleneck of inborn mana, it was necessary to siphon mana from the surrounding atmosphere into their spells. Spira was necessary at this point, but it seemed like the book was written with an odd chronology, he hadn't found it yet. Not quite.

Stealing it from the air and the earth, mana crystals, or any external energy source. Ellemar was a dimensional mage first, and a runesmith after. Both vocations, at least at the time, were at the head of magical advancement. It was a great success, but Tyr had little use for it. To anyone else, this would be a goldmine. Perhaps... The way he saw it, as flawed as the true modern system was, a lot of this was all guesswork. Too vague to make use of, and he wouldn't be able to regardless.

Tyr's mana and spira flowed as one whenever he cast, the handicap. Combined with his excessive mana pathways, it was like trying to inflate a balloon through a porous straw. Too many holes, not enough energy to fill them all. And the struggle between mana and spira obviously made it worse.

Even if he understood the formulae... It was beyond him, and his 'shaper magic', whatever that was – was incompatible. Curiously, Ellemar invented the classification system for mages and from the standpoint of an academic, insisted even back then that the schools of magic were only holding people back. He posited that mages should be broken into groups based on their innate element to approach all manner of specializations. Which would have been a calling back to the 'old way', stepping back into the magic of the ancients with their new understanding. It wasn't that Solomon was wrong, but more likely that his system was contrived from the get-go. Ellemar thought it might have been an attempt for Solomon to remain the strongest, or alternatively – to avoid releasing too terrible a weapon. The former had no such compunction, only concerns with progress.

Despite the fact that the 'black books' should have little influence on mankind considering their forbidden status... Everything about them was so blunt and obviously part of the modern magical world. Tyr didn't understand it. Why were these considered evil artifacts of objects when all they held was what most already knew, diluted by insanity? If insanity made something illegal, half the poets and philosophers waxing on about lusting after their sisters and mothers should've been long executed. Their works burned to ash.

Hmm... There were spells present that while useless to him, possessed interesting functions. The problem was that he could manifest half a magic circle before it collapsed on itself under the strain of his world energy diluted mana. Or at least, that's how Abaddon had simplified it. All of this was made for a system not compatible with his body. It made him feel like some kind of alien creature.

Ellemar mastered the theory of personal spells, and what he called 'image casting'. A technique of training that was less about obeying the understood laws of magic and more reliant on raw willpower and mana control. It could take a long time to invent a new spell in the higher tiers compared to standard magic, but it worked. Really worked. To the point that even humans with weak cores were able to find a way to reach the third tier of magic – something that would've been impossible. All they needed was a source of energy and practically anyone could be a mage.

The driving principle wasn't initially to go beyond in terms of output. It was to make things more efficient, to cut away the influence of ritual and dogmatic thought processes in a time where the church and magic were far closer in relation. To use less mana, and do more with it. The rest had come naturally to someone that powerful.

At one time, he was a man of the people. The rare sort of archmage that gave freely and shared his findings with the world. Not for gain, but his love for magic. Arrogant at he was, there was not a violent bone in his body. Not a battlemage, only an eccentric who loved magic more than anything else and wanted everyone to love it as much as he did. To the point where he scorned women and focused only on his studies – terming them a distraction not fit for the workplace. Claiming that a world of men would see infinite progression if not for their lust for the flesh, and women too – he did not discriminate, proposing segregation instead. He purchased the 'rights to womb' of many women to bear him sons that would ideally carry his legacy, but apparently they had never spoken after as a man and wife would. Vast sums of wealth given to great women of the era to couple with him, and as one might imagine his offers weren't taken very seriously... Even given his relative 'fame', he made quite a few enemies doing this.

He recognized women who were on average superior to men in magic, and claimed some as peers or great teachers. He just didn't want to look at them, which Tyr found strange. The passion in which he asserted that 'purity leads to power' was something else. Worthy of a laugh, far less gloomy than Solomon's own 'black book'. He'd even had a theory that if he made it to the age of forty a virgin, he'd unlock some supreme ability. Unfortunately for him, this didn't seem to be the case.

Archmage Ellemar of Varia invented the gates and dimensional objects, redefining the element of 'space' which had previously only been the exceptionally rare gravity magic. A gag version of telekinesis, inferior to kineticism in all ways, back then. Without his teaching, string theory would've never been possible.

He didn't invent metamagic as it was used in the contemporary, but he built the lattice that would take other mages toward the understanding of it. He was an expert in the field of magic fusion, though, which was fairly similar. Abaddon's words about 'a better textbook does not make a better mage' were something Tyr had some understanding of. Ellemar was a great teacher. A wise and articulate man of incredible intellect. Like Solomon in many was, but less akin to prose and romance. One was a stereotypical, overly manic bookworm who didn't like speaking to women. The other was a Casanova of his time and had, by claim, sired over two hundred children. There was also the fact that Solomon liked to fight. Being a preeminent duelist, gladiator, and a terrifying force on the battlefield.

Unfortunately, the great mind of Ellemar seemed to dull, slowly descending into mental illness or the natural ravages of time – perhaps both. He wished to overcome the obstacle of level seven magic to reach the peak of his own theory, eventually failing. An arrogant man was an easily broken man when confronted with his own weaknesses, and Ellemar's were vast in number. Tyr could see how frustrated the man was getting, realizing his life was coming to a close and he his theory, while revolutionary in the modern era, was a bit of a joke among academics of his time. He'd won many accolades for it, but people didn't take him as seriously as he wanted them to.

He failed, but he was a scientist. Failure was learning, and his process of constant failure began to answer questions. He wished to know the gods, becoming a priest and looking deep into the prime elements of dark and light to understand what it was that made them 'prime'.

Tyr wasn't sure if he'd found it. The truth, that is. His writing became looser and less descriptive. Claiming that he'd seen the gods for what they were, as the monsters who preyed upon the souls of men. That men were just a part of their games, sharing Solomon's claim that they were naught but puppets dancing on strings for the enjoyment of higher beings. That there was nothing holy or divine about them, and until they were expelled, that mankind would never truly move forward. Would never know peace or anything of substances, trapped and slaved to pre-determined tracks through life.

Free will was either an illusion or a curse, neither had provided any definitive answer as to which it was. In their addled minds, at least.

He didn't finish. It was a waste of time. Ellemar had lost himself in the later years of his life, chasing secrets that could not or should not be pursued by men. Tyr wasn't boiling over with humility at any given time, but he accepted that there were things mortals shouldn't know – and that included himself. He'd seen Thanatos, who'd claimed he, a god, was a minor thing. If he was minor, than Tyr was but the smallest speck in the cosmos.

This was okay. There was no shame in knowing how little he mattered. Even the primus' were nothing but a brief footnote in the book of life. Something Ellemar did not understand himself, something that had made him mad – leading him to see things that men shouldn't. Ellemar was confident that his life needed to have meaning, that he was chosen for some great destiny. And in his way, so was Solomon. Reasons for doing so aside, both men had gone where they shouldn't have.

Tyr had no interest in following that path, taking what wisdom he could before sighing and returning the book to its plinth. There was much knowledge to be gained in the library within the dungeon, but he wouldn't find it in the 'confessions' of this Ellemar. A man who wrote like his perspective was the only one that mattered, only claiming one person in history an equal.

He knew much, that was certain. But for all his superior intellect he'd missed the most important lesson of all. That nothing mattered, that there were no great heroic arcs. That he wasn't the hero of mankind that he thought he was. Nothing mattered, and there was no truth to any of it. No point either, things just were, people lived and died and did what they could to survive. The only thing of any substance whatsoever was the experience and the struggle. Their little flecks of existence dancing in the mass of order and chaos that composed the universe.