Towers of, what?

Approaching the Magical Society felt like stepping into a dream teetering on the edge of nightmare. The tower loomed ahead, a monolith of deep purple stone that drank in the misty light of the Mistveil Shores. Its black-tinted windows glinted like the eyes of some ancient beast, dwarfing every structure in the city save for the king’s keep—a distant spire piercing the fog-shrouded horizon. Steven barely had time to gape before Melissa’s insistent push propelled him through the arched doorway, her tiny hand a surprising **** against his back.

Inside, the air hummed with arcane energy. A towering elven woman stood behind a curved counter, her presence commanding the room. She straightened as they entered, her ancient face etched with the wisdom of centuries yet softened by a graceful, timeless beauty. Her bountiful chest strained against a flowing silver gown, and at seven feet tall, she cast Steven—5’9” and suddenly feeling small—into her shadow. “Melissa, is this him?” she asked, her voice a melodic ripple. Melissa nodded briskly, and Steven’s jaw slackened, only to snap shut as a sharp punch to his calf jolted him. He glanced down at Melissa, who jabbed a finger forward. “Follow me,” she mouthed, already marching deeper into the tower.

They wound through echoing halls lined with shimmering tapestries and glowing runes until they reached a chamber straight out of a bygone era—a circular theater where dour statesmen might once have squabbled over power. Tiered benches curved around a central dais, but only a handful of figures occupied the vast space. An elderly man, the quintessential Merlin, presided with a wild mane of grey hair and a beard that spilled over a deep purple robe adorned with gold accents, a matching sash cinched at his waist. Beside him sat a woman in her mid-40s, human by look, her crimson hair cascading beneath a lacy white hat. She puffed on a long white pipe, tendrils of smoke curling from her lips, her white robe pristine yet edged with a rogue’s charm. Two elves flanked them—one in a sleek emerald tunic with golden embroidery, the other in a midnight-blue cloak that shimmered like starlight. Last was a dwarven man, his ragged attire a stark contrast: a patched leather jerkin stained with soot, trousers frayed at the knees, and boots caked with mud, as if he’d stumbled in from a forge rather than a scholarly conclave.

The dwarf spoke first, his voice a gravelly tremor. “So, this be the strapping lad ye spoke of, Melissa—the first to wield Radiant Armament on his fists? Well, boy, let’s see it!” Steven squared his shoulders, summoning the spell with ease. Golden light flared around his hands, faint flames licking the air, a radiant aura that danced like divine fire. The redheaded woman clapped her hands, glee sparking in her eyes. “Ah, so it’s true!” she crowed, exhaling a plume of smoke. The emerald-clad elf leaned forward, her tone crisp. “Fascinating. Thank you for proving this union of skills possible. Your name—Steven Shatterkynn—will be etched in the academy’s annals for this discovery. Melissa, too, for unearthing you. You may go.”

Dismissed, they slipped out of the chamber. Outside the tower, the fog curled around them, and Melissa’s voice softened, shy once more. “Where you off to?” Steven grinned, leaning slightly closer. “Got a quest—hunting horned rabbits out west in the forest.” Her eyes flickered with warmth. “Good luck, then. Maybe… I’ll see you later at the barracks?” A blush crept up her cheeks. “Absolutely,” he purred, his tone smooth and laced with intent, a velvet promise that sent her scurrying off, her silver hair vanishing into the mist.

Steven turned west, striding toward the city’s edge where the forest loomed—a tangle of gnarled trees and shadowed undergrowth. His fists twitched, still tingling with the memory of Radiant Armament, and the Soulcatcher’s Band glinted faintly on his finger. The hunt awaited.