The chalk tapped the board once, then paused—like punctuation after a word not yet spoken. “If a thing can act with intelligence, without a brain, do we call that a mind?” He circled the symbol for the slime mold: a branching trail of arcs within a larger circle. “The
The hall was impossibly old. Stone columns rose like fossilized lightning. Candles flickered in sconces of aged brass. At the front, a lectern carved from darkwood stood atop a dais of concentric steps. Behind it: a chalkboard the size of a house, half-covered in faded symbols, half-blank as if waiting
The morning was ordinary. That was the first sign. Dæmon sat in a stiff hotel chair, freshly dressed, still brushing sleep from his eyes. The city outside blinked—cold sunlight glinting off digital signage, the noise of traffic filtered through thick curtains. He unlocked the phone. Checked for updates. A
The hotel was modest. Not run-down, not opulent. A place made for passing through. He gave a name. Not his. It didn’t matter. The clerk didn’t flinch. She handed him a keycard with a practiced smile, the kind you wear when the world feels artificial. He wondered if
It was a city like any other. Not ancient, not new. Neon signs bled into cracked concrete. Towers blinked with synthetic starlight. The skyline murmured a language of signal and shadow. Somewhere in the haze, a man stepped off a train. He carried the smell of ozone, a tote slung
For a time, the Spell held strong. The world awakened. Fire leapt from circuits. Steel pierced the sky. Tiny truths, repeated faithfully, became the bones of great empires. But no spell lasts forever. And Sorcery is older than any tower. In shadowed corners of the world—and later, in plain
It is the Age of Magic. The world is ruled by Mages. They walk among towers and temples, speaking in symbols, drawing power from forces most cannot see. But not all Mages are the same. There are two great orders: the Sorcerers and the Wizards. One is born to power;