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When the construction of Edelia was nearing completion all those centuries ago, Baltael insisted that the doorways and windows be left open, even those in the school’s main surrounding wall. Oyva had never been fond of the idea - Tkaanie was not exactly the safest place in the world, sandwiched between Volkenraand and The Shapeless Empire, and should those nations ever come to blows again, Edelia would likely be one of the first battlegrounds. Its status as the premier Soulweaving academy did it no favors on that front, as each empire would surely seek to gain control of it. Open doors and windows would not help in its defense, especially as Baltael was firm on the students being banned from using Soulweaving in combat. But he still insisted on the school’s physical openness, his reasoning being that “the students ought to feel the wind as it flows through the hallways.” Oyva had begrudgingly relented. She would rather not get her way than cause a conflict, especially with her own brother. Her family was already broken enough as is. And so Edelia was constructed, with the walls and windows all shaped and angled to direct the currents of the wind through them.
There was no wind flowing through them, anymore.
Baltael had sent a brief message before the end. “Sister of mine - something happened in Ull. It’s Father.” Oyva had felt it too, of course. A scream echoing through the planes, a cacophony of confusion and pain, and suddenly there were dozens of newborn elemental spirits. It had their father’s stench all over it. For the longest time, she had hoped against hope that he… no, it - not like there was any actual humanity left in that tainted soul any longer - had perished, preferably painfully, alone in some remote corner of the world. But she knew better, in her heart of hearts. Her father had always been obsessed with immortality, and if there was one thing about it, it always got its way in the end.
But not this time, it seemed. Oyva had been rushing to golden, sprawling Nieboheim, following its spiritual residue. She had only just crossed the grand bridge into the city when she saw thousands of anguished souls spewed from its highest, gleaming tower accompanied with such a frightful, shattering scream she thought the very gods themselves had been set aflame. She allowed herself to feel relieved, in that instant. Baltael had to have succeeded. Their father was no more. All those anguished souls that it had consumed over years, finally released. All the suffering that it had wrought. It was over. Right?
And then the wind stopped. When she reached the Seym, all that remained of Baltael was a single speck of pink light, fluttering towards the sky. The golden room was strewn with the bodies of both Magisters and commoners, all with their souls ripped from them, with a curiously empty altar of sorts in the middle. It’s work. One of the bodies lay on the floor, pupils soulless, hair and beard whiter than the purest soulthreads. He was clad in battered soulforged armor, his mouth gaping at the sky beyond the chamber’s open ceiling. Oyva recognized him as Danyel, the headmaster of Edelia and Baltael’s soulally. Or at least, what was left of him. Just an empty husk of a corpse. Forbidden magick. So he had sacrificed himself, his very soul, to defeat it. Denied the possibility of an afterlife, of becoming an elemental spirit. He was brave. Or maybe he had nothing left to live for.
But then what of Baltael? The forbidden magick must have required Danyel’s soul, but it should not have affected Baltael. He should still be here. He should be telling her about his grand battle, his sorrow of having lost his soulally, and his catharsis at having finally ended their father’s existence. They should be finally moving on, together. The wind should still be flowing. The wind should still be whipping her mane about her face. The wind should still be caressing her feathers. Oyva searched and searched, sifting through the lingering magical chaos in the chamber, finally coming across another residue. It was hazy, through the echoes of the battle - or perhaps slaughter - that transpired, but there was the slightest hint of a reddish black soulthread. Or maybe two? One essence intertwined with another. Its color reminded her of burnt coals, and it exuded a scent so foul that blackness crept in around the edges of her vision. She could hardly make any sense of it. It was unlike any soulthread she had ever encountered, and before she could examine it any further, it faded from her grasp.
Oyva sat in the Seym for a time, taking stock of what remained in her life. What was left? Her brother Baltael, gone. Her sister Pandora, gone. Nothing left to live for. She was an elemental spirit. She would live on, presumably forever, like this. But there were ways to die. She knew well, as the original soulsmith. Ways to break down elemental spirits, to smith them into weapons and armor and trinkets. She was old and powerful, too fully formed for a single weapon, but she knew that she could do it, split herself apart until there was nothing left. She stared at Danyel’s lifeless body. Baltael had been fond of him. He had been the soulally of many headmasters, but he had particular praise for Danyel, saying that he was a skilled weaver and fighter, and a knowledgeable and fair headmaster, despite how suddenly he was thrust into the position. And how ultimately short his term was, Oyva thought grimly. Baltael also told her stories of Danyel’s quarrels with his brother. Tomix, was it? About their distance despite their great love for each other. They reminded Oyva of her own siblings, in a way. She gently scooped up Danyel. At the very least, she would return him to Edelia to be buried there. After that, she could decide what was worth living for.
Her meeting with the teachers went by in a haze. In the wake of both Danyel and Baltael’s deaths, they offered her the position of interim headmaster, which she soundly refused, though they kept the offer open. She was a soulsmith, not a soulweaver. Yes, she occasionally helped Baltael administer the final exams, but this was his Edelia, not hers. She wandered listlessly through the ivy-crept halls, the purple flames of torches glaring down at her. She always hated that design choice. Too dark, too foreboding, too menacing, especially those glaring eyes. But Pandora had insisted. A bitter smile crept onto Oyva’s face. The irony of it all. Every birthday growing up, her one wish was for a happy family. She saw the way her mother suffered. She was a young mother, far too young. Oyva remembered doing the math once, when she was old enough to understand, and she vomited on the spot. Her mother never showed them any love, but how could she? Oyva could not blame her for that. The only thing she saw in her mother’s eyes was her hatred for it. She saw the way Baltael strived to do something, anything that might garner its attention, or even love, as ridiculous as that sounded. It could not love. That was what Edelia was supposed to be. The first Soulweaving academy, to carry on the legacy of their family. Something to be proud of. She saw the way Pandora desperately rebelled, first honing her Soulweaving for combat, then branching off with her Chaosweavers, trying to make something, anything her own. How her loneliness drove her to eventually try to create her own family, shredding her soul and her life to do so. At the end of her mortal life, Oyva convinced herself that they would be able to try again. After all, they had an eternity as elemental spirits to be a proper family, didn’t they? She did not realize that an eternity was so short.
Students hurried past her, giving her a wide berth, some of them giving a quick nervous bow while averting their eyes. She recognized some of them as students that she had failed in the recent final exams. Baltael had always admonished her for being too harsh on them, as well as scaring them with her animalistic head and armor. She reasoned that unprepared soulweavers would do more harm than good. And she had a reputation to uphold, after all. Her wolf head was not just for show. Eventually her wanderings lead her to the headmaster’s office. It was exactly the same as she remembered it, untouched by the wind. In the middle sat the headmaster’s grand oaken desk, surrounded by bookshelves filled with tomes and pots and bottles of soulthreads. There were still parchments to be read and decrees to be signed. The eastern stone wall was lined with portraits of the academy’s headmasters, starting with Baltael’s human visage and ending with Zellaraneish and a clean-shaven Danyel. Behind the desk was another open window, offering views of the green courtyard below where students sat with their soulallies, practicing their weaving.
Oyva paced around the room. The easy thing to do, she mused, would be to return to soulsmithing. To lose herself in some remote corner of the Elemental Plane, collecting unformed elemental spirits; to lose herself in the rhythm of her hammer beating down on whatever worthless piece she decided to make next. But perhaps… here. Here was something. Taking students and forging them into master soulweavers. Even expanding the academy to teach soulsmithing, as well. Edelia was her family’s legacy. Edelia was something to be proud of. That should not change. It would be a long time, she knew. Being here, surrounded by Baltael’s memory - it would get worse before it got better. But she owed it to him. He would be happy, knowing that she would carry it with her. Headmistress Oyva. Perhaps that was something to live for. Someday, the wind would flow through these halls, again.