Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

The two clashed in a dazzling display of magic and skill. Faelira's staff met Wi'thas's blade, each strike sending ripples of energy through the air. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the surrounding trees groaned under the strain of the battle.

Despite her strength, it was clear that Faelira was faltering. Wi'thas's attacks were relentless, his magic fuelled by a darkness that seemed inexhaustible. With a final, powerful strike, he disarmed Faelira, sending her staff flying into the shadows.

"You cannot protect her," Wi'thas said, his voice cold and final.

"Stand down."

Faelira glared at him, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, but she did not yield. "The academy… will never fall to the likes of you," she spat.

Wi'thas did not respond.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Elowen, who had managed to scramble to her feet. She was breathing heavily, her face pale but resolute.

"Elowen," Wi'thas said, his patience seeming to be running thin. "Come with me."

"No!" she shouted, summoning every ounce of courage she had. "I won't!"

Wi'thas's expression darkened. "If you don't, I will slaughter every one of them."

Before he could move, a powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing, momentarily disorienting him. Teyna stood nearby, her hands glowing as she summoned another spell.

"Get away from her!" she screamed, sending a barrage of magical projectiles toward Wi'thas.

He deflected them with ease, but the distraction was enough for Elowen to take a step back. She turned to run, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Enough of this," Wi'thas growled. He raised his gauntlet, and a wave of darkness swept across the clearing, immobilising everyone except Elowen. She froze as the shadows closed in around her, their cold tendrils brushing against her skin.

"You are coming with me," Wi'thas said, his voice echoing with finality.

Elowen's vision blurred as the shadows enveloped her. The last thing she saw was Teyna's defiant face and Faelira's fallen form before everything went black.

***

The imperial capital was always alive with whispers of intrigue, but one location rose above all as a bastion of power and secrecy—the Wizard Tower.

A soaring, obsidian, cylinder-like structure, it loomed against the skyline, its enchanted wards shimmering faintly in the moonlight. This was the heart of the arcane arts, where the brightest and most gifted wizards honed their craft.

The Tower was more than just a physical structure; it was a revered institution, a society bound by rules, traditions, and the unyielding pursuit of magical supremacy. It was here that the Men of the Tower, a council of arcane giants, resided—each a living legend, their names etched in the annals of magic.

It was men only, and most of them finish the join at a young age, deepening their knowledge of the arcane arts. Once you swear allegiance, you are bound to the tower in all aspects. While it may seem like a restriction, the knowledge, the power, and the resources available in the tower, you won't get anywhere. They are the scholars of the magical society.

Among them was a young prodigy named Alaryc Vayne.

Barely in his twenties, Alaryc was already hailed as the heir apparent to the title of Wizard Lord.

His mastery over spells, particularly those of the elemental, was unparalleled for his age. Alaryc had an aura of confidence and a touch of arrogance, his striking features and piercing amber eyes marking him as both formidable and enigmatic.

But it wasn't just his magical prowess that set him apart; it was his potential, a boundless reservoir of power that even the senior wizards regarded with awe and a hint of trepidation.

-

On the night Elowen was taken from the Elf Academy, an equally sinister event unfolded within the Wizard Tower.

The halls of the Tower were eerily quiet, save for the occasional flicker of arcane flames that lined its grand corridors.

Alaryc, in his personal chamber on one of the upper levels, was immersed in his studies. Tomes and scrolls littered the desk before him, their pages glowing faintly under the influence of his magic.

Outside his window, the moon hung low, its pale light casting long shadows across the spire.

Unbeknownst to Alaryc, a shadow had already infiltrated the Tower.

It moved like liquid darkness, slipping past the magical wards and protective glyphs that were said to be impenetrable. This shadow wasn't mere magic—it was a man.

Cloaked and obscured, his face hidden beneath a hood that seemed to absorb light, he was an anomaly in the arcane world. His presence carried an unsettling stillness, as though the very air around him held its breath.

He was no ordinary intruder. His movements were precise, deliberate, and without hesitation, as if the Tower's labyrinthine passages were already mapped in his mind.

The Tower's wards did not react.

The guardians, enchanted constructs of immense power, remained inert.

The man bypassed each layer of security with an ease that bordered on mockery, his obscured form leaving no trace of his passage.

Even the Men of the Tower, in their private chambers, sensed nothing.

He was a ghost, a phantom of unparalleled skill.

-

Alaryc's chamber was at the apex of the tower, a sanctum protected by layers of spells designed to alert and repel any intruder.

Yet, as the young prodigy sat engrossed in a ritual of study, the cloaked figure stood silently outside his door. With a simple, almost casual gesture, the man traced a pattern in the air.

The glyphs guarding the entrance flickered for a moment before dissolving into nothingness. The door creaked open. After all, the man who came now was at the level of archwizard level, an adept archwizard in dark arts. It was a level where you can even crush the entire city to rubble with your power.

Alaryc looked up sharply, his instincts honed enough to sense the anomaly. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the intruder, his hands already crackling with elemental energy.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice steady but laced with suspicion.