Trinity of Magic

Book 6: Epilogue: Mournful Winds

The ground trembled again.

Viola crouched atop a slab of rock jutting from the tunnel wall like a broken tooth, her silhouette framed against the ghostly lights of the distant excavation teams. The tunnel never stopped growing. Neither did the silence.

She shifted slightly, letting her eyes drift shut.

The wind changed.

Not real wind. There was none here, not in this hollow place, but currents shaped and refined by her will. A tiny vortex hovered near her fingers, weaving and unraveling itself again and again. Her control had become sharp, razor-fine. It had to. Without that discipline, without the meditation, the rituals, the obsession, the months down here would have broken her.

Her mastery had become her anchor.

A low, unfamiliar tremor vibrated through the stone. Not digging. Not any movement she recognized. This was deeper, more deliberate.

Below, the tunnels buzzed with renewed urgency.

New banners moved through the stone-lit corridors. New uniforms. New insignias. The sluggish trickle of officers had become a flood. Some wore the colors of the Emperor’s personal retinue—iron masks hiding whatever humanity remained within. They didn’t even speak aloud.

Viola’s focus sharpened. She leaned forward.

A flicker of mana, soft as breath, bent the air just enough to carry voices to her perch. It was a technique she had honed into an art. Another gift of her long solitude.

“…surface tomorrow. Final phase confirmed.”

Her breath caught.

Tomorrow?

The word struck harder than expected. Her heart pounded like a war drum. There had been rumors before—idle chatter among sentries, guesses tossed around during rotations. But this… this wasn’t hearsay.

She could feel it.

The Legion had shifted. The air was taut with purpose. The rhythm of the operation had changed.

She hugged her arms around her knees, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Could it really be ending? The endless night. The stifling air. The years of being buried alive.

A smile—small, uncertain—tugged at the corners of her lips.

She didn’t know if she was ready for what came next.

But she was ready to leave.

She stood, the little wind-vortex at her fingertips unraveling one last time, and turned toward the barracks. Her steps were light, almost springy, a rhythm she hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes.

She was finally getting out of here.

Her quarters were small but private. For someone of her status, it was a concession rather than a reward, just enough space to breathe without feeling the walls close in. Viola sat cross-legged on the cot, her gear laid out before her in neat, methodical rows. Every strap checked, every blade polished, every rune traced. She could have done it blindfolded. By now, the repetition had become ritual.

A knock came.

She didn’t look up.

The door creaked open, and in walked Liora—tall, red-haired, with a face sculpted from noble arrogance and eyes that hadn’t yet learned how to mask fear. A Fire Mage. One of the few other ‘honored guests’ in this forsaken hole.

"You think it’s true?" Liora asked. She sounded casual, but her voice wavered at the end.

Viola tightened the straps on her greaves. "It’s happening."

Liora lingered in the doorway. “I thought I’d be excited. Fresh air. Sunlight. But now that it’s real…”

Viola snorted softly, still not meeting her gaze. “Did you expect a parade?”

“No,” Liora said quietly. “Just… something.”

She hesitated, then stepped back and pulled the door shut behind her.

Viola exhaled through her nose.

Liora’s presence had long since lost its novelty. A noble daughter from some western province, exiled for the scandal of trying to run off with a commoner. A childish mistake. Naïve.

And infuriating.

Because Viola hadn’t broken any rules. Hadn’t caused a scene. Hadn’t made herself a problem.

And yet, she had been buried in this place just the same.

That bitter truth gnawed at her more than she liked to admit. Her grandfather would have to answer for that. Among other things. A very long list was waiting for him.

She rolled her shoulders and let the tension drain from her fingers. Then she closed her eyes and reached inward.

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Magic flowed like breath, like memory. Wind stirred faintly in the chamber—an echo of her thoughts, her training, her obsession. It was the only thing down here that made her feel alive. She had honed her control to a razor’s edge. In the hollow dark, it had become her refuge. Her escape.

She conjured the sensation of open skies. High clouds. The roar of storms over the mountains.

She would fly again.

And when she did, nothing would hold her back.

Sleep came eventually, shallow and restless.

She awoke to the sound of marching boots and steel scraping against stone.

The camp pulsed with anticipation.

At the forward edge, Earth Mages worked in concert, arms raised, brows furrowed in concentration. With every synchronized gesture, the final meters of bedrock groaned and fractured. The ramp, shaped over months of effort, now narrowed to its last obstruction—an ancient barrier of stone that separated them from the surface.

Stone splintered with rhythmic cracks. Dust clouds billowed, quickly swept aside by streams of air conjured by Wind Mages moving along the flanks, maintaining circulation and pressure.

Behind the vanguard, Water Mages knelt by the freshly carved walls, coaxing away moisture and binding the crumbling mud into hardened pathways. Their work held the tunnel steady, keeping it from collapsing under its own weight.

Viola stood just behind the front line, armored and ready. Rows of soldiers formed ranks with silent discipline, arrayed like drawn blades. Shields were checked. Weapons drawn. Every movement was deliberate.

The command came.

A final surge of magic pulsed through the front line. With a thunderous crack, the last slab of rock split in two and collapsed inward.

A gasp rippled through the assembled ranks.

Light, real, unfiltered sunlight burst through the breach, flooding the tunnel in radiant gold. Viola raised a hand instinctively to shield her eyes, blinking rapidly as the chamber was drenched in a brilliance it hadn’t known in years.

The first gust of wind swept through.

Clean. Wild. Unconfined.

It caught her hair, tugged at her cloak, slipped between the plates of her armor like a curious ghost.

Around her, a few voices rose in stunned celebration. Others stood silent, reverent.

Viola didn’t move.

Her breath caught as warmth bloomed against her face. The world, her world, had just opened. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the sky waited.

Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t blink them away.

And then, the final order came.

The Legion surged forward.

Not in chaos, not in haste, but in precision. Like water breaking through a dam yet held in place by unseen channels. Line by line, the battalions advanced. Their boots struck stone in perfect rhythm, each squad emerging into the sunlight as if summoned by some ancient rite.

Viola stepped forward with them, eyes narrowing against the glare as she crossed the threshold. The light was softer now, filtered by early morning mist clinging to the treetops beyond. For a heartbeat, she paused just outside the tunnel, letting the world unfold around her.

A rolling valley stretched before them, serene and untouched. Gentle hills swayed with wildflowers and tall golden grass, bending in the breeze like waves on a quiet sea. The air smelled of pine and earth. A winding stream caught the morning light and shimmered like a ribbon of silver cutting through the fields.

Viola rose slowly into the sky, the wind lifting her with ease. Currents embraced her like old friends. She climbed higher, eyes sweeping across the vast horizon.

No fortifications.

No walls.

No battle formations.

Just farmland.

Scattered clusters of wooden homes nestled between fields of barley and wheat. Fruit orchards bloomed in color, dotting the landscape. Narrow roads branched like veins from a distant village to the east, where smoke drifted lazily from chimney tops. Life stirred below, but none of it prepared.

Then she saw them.

They moved like figures in a dream—tall, slender, fair-skinned with slightly pointed ears. Some carried baskets. Others led goats or oxen along the paths. A child laughed as he splashed in the stream.

None bore weapons.

Viola hovered there, suspended between earth and sky, breath caught in her throat.

This… was Rukia, wasn’t it? The land of the half elves, a distant paradise that was said to be protected by the Elven Matriarchy.

Why had they come here? What was the meaning of all of this?

Below, the Legion spread in waves. Earth Mages reinforced the breach, sculpting the hill into defensive ridges. Water Mages secured the flanks, tracing protective lines into the soil. Fire Mages advanced through the center, hands aglow, poised to strike.

At the far back, Mind Mages stood motionless, the Empire’s banners raised behind them like declarations. No commands were spoken, but formations shifted with exacting precision, soldiers moved like pieces on a grand, unseen board.

Still, the valley remained quiet.

Still, the half-elves were unaware.

And then, the Legion pressed forward.

At first, she thought it a drill.

The way the Legion advanced felt too clean, too rehearsed. Fire Mages conjured flame, Wind Mages circled like vultures above, and the forward lines moved as if they already knew there would be no resistance.

The half-elves weren’t armed. No armor. No shields. Just homespun clothes and startled eyes. A young woman dropped a basket of herbs, frozen in place as soldiers stormed toward her. An elderly man stumbled, waving one hand while shielding a child with the other.

They didn’t fight.

They fled.

No signal had been given. No warning shot fired.

Still, the Legion descended.

Viola dove lower, wind slicing past her ears. Her heart hammered, breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

This wasn’t a drill.

The flames came first. Long arcs of red and orange hurled from disciplined hands. Homes ignited like tinder. Thatched roofs exploded into fireballs. Smoke billowed, curling skyward in thick black spirals.

Wind Mages guided the smoke, forcing it into the village to flush out anyone hiding. The air grew hot, choking, furious.

Then came the screaming.

Children crying. Mothers pleading. Elders begging.

None of it mattered.

The Ehrenlegion worked like clockwork, and like any other machinery, it was deaf to the pleas of people.

The troops pressed forward. The front line of soldiers moved like reapers through tall grain. Steel flashed in the morning light. Blood followed.

Viola hovered above it all, suspended in the wind like a leaf no longer sure where it belonged.

Her orders had been clear.

Do not interfere.

And yet, her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white.

She couldn’t look away.

The land stretched out beneath her like a tapestry unraveling, smoke curling from the blackened husks of once-charming cottages, firelines scorched across golden fields now smoldering with ruin. Faint screams still carried on the wind, distant but sharp, like glass breaking in her ears.

The breeze met her face, and it wasn’t the freedom she’d longed for.

It was hot. Bitter. Choked with ash and the copper tang of blood.

Viola’s hands trembled.

She stared down at them, slender fingers that had once danced with the wind, shaped it into flight, into freedom.

What was this? What was this madness?

How had she ended up in this place, so far from home, watching a massacre unfold?

None of it made sense.

A low gust swept across the ridge, pulling at her coat like a plea. She didn’t answer it.

Her mind drifted to a classroom in the Elementium. To a rooftop bathed in morning light. To Zeke’s infuriating calm. To Sophia’s unfiltered joy.

The past felt like fiction.

A dream she’d woken from into a nightmare.

The wind rose again, fierce and erratic, whipping strands of her hair across her face.

It didn’t sing today.

It screamed.

Not in triumph. Not in liberty.

But in mourning.

And Viola stood in its center, hollow and still.

No tears came.