NOVEL NEXT Vol 2. Chapter 56: Were You Close To Him?
The journey back to Easthaven was a long one. The seas were merciless, writhing with wind and salt and sky-shattering fury, but the ship did not falter. Not because of its hull nor its sails, but because of the will of three individuals who stood against the wrath of the ocean: Lukas Drakos, Jesse Sterling...and Rosalia Elarion.
Every single day, Lukas forced the princess to control the seas without any help or assistance; to wield the magic that she one day hoped to master, the Divinity of the Seas. The Princess could only really hold back the seas for minutes at a time, but each time she did, it felt like the storm respected her more; allowed it to bend to her flow and direction.
Lukas watched her with that sharp, silent scrutiny; telling her how she could improve.
Their training did not stop there. Magic was great but the physical was the foundation of all else. By the time they reached Easthaven, Rosalia's knuckles were bruised, her stance sharper and her heart harder.
The docks of Easthaven glittered beneath a pale sun, and the entire harbor had come to a standstill. The sea calmed unnaturally as if in reverence.
As they drew near, Lukas' eyes laid upon a sight that took his breath away. Standing at the end of the pier were not merchants, not soldiers, not even the commoners that had seen Rosalia off when they first left for Nozar—but mages. Hundreds of them. The entirety population of the Magic Tower now stood before them. Apprentices and masters, mages of every single floor…they all stood in silence, robes still, eyes heavy with respect. At the very front like stood the mages who had shaped the very understanding of the arcane in this realm:
The Legendary Archmages of the Magic Tower.
Rarely did they ever leave the Tower, let alone be seen in public like this. But yet, here they were.
Archmage Belanor the Blacksmith, sponsored by the Crown of Easthaven, wore no hat nor traditional robes. Despite his skill when it came to crafting, he was known by many for his fighting prowess. His hair was tied back into a warrior's knot, and his scarred face gave the impression of a man who had seen a thousand battlefields—each one more violent than the last. He was somebody who many thought Lukas, or Klein as they knew him, would have eventually challenged during his climb of the Tower, for Belanor was the Tower's most skilled combat mage. His presence was suffocating, even in silence.
Archmage Vaelith of the Mind, sponsored by the Church, did not even seem to look at the ship. His gaze was distant, unblinking, as though he saw things far beyond the physical world. He was draped in translucent silks that shimmered with fine silks. Vaelith's Divinity was one of a telepath, a manipulator of thought, memory, and dreams. They say he could fracture a mind as easily as one cracks glass. Lukas wondered how he fared against the Kraken and his own magic which dealt with control over the mind.
And then there was Archmage Myrren Hollowark, who served no power but knowledge itself. Coming from a wealthy family herself, she had never needed a sponsor to back her and in fact, she was the one who had provided Magnus with the funds to begin constructing the Tower in the first place. She was the Tower's oldest Archmage, alongside Varian. Myrren was a chronomancer, a scholar of time and entropy, and her magic was stitched into a cloak of dusk-feathered ravens that moved on their own. Her presence was quiet and eerie. The kind of silence that made even the boldest hesitate. Lukas had heard stories—how Myrren once spent forty years in isolation to research a single spell.
Finally, Magnus Elarion himself. The Head Mage of the Magic Tower and the King of Easthaven.
They stood apart, not from the crowd—but from one another.
They were not allies and certainly not friends. But today, that did not matter. Despite their pride, their politics, and their mutual disdain, they had all shown up. They had all shown up for the Master of Potions. They had shown up for Varian.
The Magic Tower had ceased all study. Every class, every lecture, every experiment…all of it had been put aside for the moment. Because Varian had come home. And the Tower had paused to welcome him back. If only Varian could see this now, Lukas couldn't imagine what he'd think of this.
The moment the gangplank lowered, Rosalia ran—feet slamming against the wood, red hair whipping behind her in the sea breeze. And there, standing at the front of the crowd like an immovable statue of old, was her grandfather.
Magnus' posture remained rigid, his eyes scanning the figures disembarking. But the moment he saw Rosalia—truly saw her—something broke in his face. The deep lines of worry that had etched themselves into his brow for months seemed to fade. His shoulders dropped just slightly, and a breath escaped him; a breath Magnus himself hadn't even known he'd been holding.
Rosalia leapt into his arms and Magnus caught her easily, lifting her like he used to when she was a child. His old, calloused hands trembled as they clutched her close, and Lukas could see it—the weight lifted from him, the unspoken agony that had clung to him like a second skin, now peeled away.
Magnus glanced past his granddaughter, and his tired eyes met Lukas'.
The King of Easthaven gave Lukas a single nod. A small gesture but it carried with it the weight of a thousand thank-yous; of gratitude that words could not capture.
Rosalia clearly wanted to tell her grandfather of all that had happened, to pour out all the stories she had for him—about Nozar, about Maelis, about how far she had come—but even she knew. Now was not the time for that.
Behind them, the sound of soft footsteps signalled the arrival of four men descending from the ship. They moved slowly, with reverence, carrying a platform draped in a white sheet woven with arcane symbols—ancient runes of preservation, of sanctity, of mourning. The moment the Archmages saw the platform, they stepped forward. Their expressions shifted. Even Belanor, whose face was usually carved in stone, blinked away a tear. Vaelith turned his gaze downward. Myrren said nothing, but her raven-feathered cloak stilled completely—a silence deeper than anything spoken.
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Then Magnus stepped forward, Rosalia still at his side. With a breath that shook his whole body, Magnus reached out and pulled back the sheet.
There lay Varian.
His body preserved with magic, untouched by rot or time. But his skin was pale—like polished marble, a reminder that death had already claimed him.
Yet on his face…there was a smile. Small and subtle. But undeniably there. A smile worn not in defiance of death, but in acceptance of it.
Magnus collapsed to his knees, one hand clutching Varian's, the other pressed to his chest as though trying to keep his heart from falling apart.
"My friend," he whispered, voice cracked, barely audible. "You stubborn old fool…you said you'd outlive me."
The other Archmages joined him then, one by one. None of them said anything to one another, but they all knelt. Each of them leaned in close to Varian's body and whispered something personal, words that didn't belong to the living, but to the Archmage's soul that now wandered the depths of the Underworld.
Even Ellion crumped under the grief of losing his master.
Lukas stood in silence, watching it all unfold.
He did not know why but his thoughts began to drift and he found himself thinking about a question.
A question that both Rowan and Darren had asked him when they had learned of the Archmage's passing: "Were you close to him?"
Lukas had not known how to answer then. But now, watching Magnus on his knees, watching the Archmages mourn, watching Rosalia hold her grandfather's hand tight as he wept…
Now Lukas knew the answer to that question.
He stepped forward.
The Archmages turned, their expressions one of confusion and uncertainty. Rosalia looked up towards him, watching Lukas with a strange mixture of awe and confusion. And the Head Mage himself…he rose slowly to his feet, a flicker of recognition in his tired eyes. Magnus could feel it—the magic stirring within Lukas, a force growing hotter and deeper than anything he had sensed from the boy before.
They all felt it now.
Lukas did not speak. No sentence could carry the regret or the quiet ache of what might have been. But emotion, raw and radiant, rushed through his veins—and the magic within him responded.
The sea moved. It rose now—not in violence, not in waves—but in gentle strands that coiled upward like ribbons in the wind. Saltwater drifted across the dock, weaving through the air, slow and deliberate. The murmurs began, whispers passing between mages and apprentices alike. Even the Archmages stepped back instinctively, unsure of what was unfolding before their eyes.
Then, without a word, Lukas lifted his hand and the water obeyed.
It flowed toward Varian's body—still, pale, peaceful—and cradled him delicately; like a mother holding her sleeping child. Gasps escaped from the crowd as Varian's body rose from the platform, suspended within the grasp of the sea itself. The water wrapped around him, not drowning, not devouring, but enveloping him in its gentle embrace.
And then the water began to change. It began to shift from liquid to solid state. Not into ordinary ice—no frost, no white veins—but into something clearer than crystal, more refined than glass. It gleamed beneath the sun with a brilliance that made even the Archmages fall silent.
It was beautiful. Like diamond carved from the ocean, like time itself had preserved him.
And Lukas stood, eyes dim with sorrow, but his magic burned brighter than any of them had ever seen. Fueled by something deeper than just Divinities or spells. Something deeper than power. It was love that fueled him now. And as the final ripple of magic settled into place, the tomb completed itself. On its surface, across the flawless, eternal ice, an inscription formed—traced by the current of Lukas' will:
"Here lies the Legendary Archmage of the Magic Tower: Varian, the Master of Potions. He was a good man."
Was Lukas ever close to Varian? The answer to that question was a resounding no.
Lukas had not been close to Varian. But that didn't mean the pain of his death didn't hurt him any less.
Because Lukas wanted to have known him.
Lukas wanted to understand the weight Varian carried, the burdens he tried to shed, the quiet effort he made to be more than what the world expected of him. And now, Lukas would never get the chance to know him, who Varian truly was as a person.
That was why it hurt. Not because of what had been lost. But because of what could have been. And what would never be.
Lukas mourned the death of Varian, Master of Potions. A man who had many regrets but continued trying to be better. And it was the trying that made him…a better man that the world could have asked for.
The silence that followed was complete.
Even the Archmages—those who had shaped weapons of mastery, toyed with the minds of men, twisted the stream of time—had no words.
Magnus stepped forward first, his hand resting on the tomb. His reflection stared back at him from its glasslike surface.
"Thank you," Ellion whispered, the apprentice's voice hoarse. "Thank you for giving him…this."
The others followed, each offering their own quiet nods of respect to Lukas. None dared to speak further, none dared to disrupt the sacredness of what had just occurred. But even moments like this could not last. Not in a world like theirs.
Lukas turned to Magnus, eyes still tired, but voice steady now. "We need to talk," the Dragon Lord whispered quietly.
The Shard of Obedience and Jesse's vision with it was only possible if Magnus was willing to help them. Even then, success was not guaranteed. But for it to have a chance of working, they needed the Head Mage's help. Magnus' somber smile faded slowly, the weight returning to his shoulders once more. The old man gave one last look to the tomb that now encased Varian, then nodded.
"Yes," the Head Mage replied. "Yes, we do."