In a world once shaped by divine hands, where kings fear what they cannot control, Simion stands at the edge of myth and obscurity. He holds no grand title, wears no gilded robes, and bears no reputation as a prodigy of the arcane. His story is quieter, rooted not in greatness, but in something far more human.
Before the councils and court chambers, Simion was a kitchen boy. The castle at Bremyra was his world, its stone corridors filled with the clatter of pans and the scent of stewing broth. He moved among servants, delivering bread, cleaning floors, and sneaking crusts to the youngest among them. It was there, beneath those very walls, that the first spark of magic broke loose from within him. A frightened boy. A sudden flare. And the Order of Magicians arrived before the embers cooled.
He was taken without ceremony. His name added to the rolls of the Academy where the days were long, the teachings relentless. Simion did not rise easily. Others soared through the high arts, weaving spells with elegance and precision. He struggled to hold form, to understand deeper currents, to speak the tongue of magic with anything beyond effort. Yet he endured, through sheer will, long study, and quiet resolve.
Upon completing his training, no citadel called him. The cities of power remained silent. His path remained unclear until his former master, a stern voice within the Council, arranged a post that few would envy, Advisor to the King of Bremyra. It was less a promotion than an obligation. A placement of necessity. Still, he accepted.
Now, Simion walks again through familiar stone halls. He stands beside those who once knew him in passing. Elana, a friend from youth, the princes, with whom he once shared stolen moments of laughter. The kitchen boy has returned, not with acclaim, but with a burden that grows heavier by the day.
The kingdom shifts. Whispers speak of hidden tomes, ancient chambers sealed in forgotten stone, and strange forces moving beneath the world. Simion has seen things no Advisor should see, felt magics that do not obey the rules he was taught. There are voices now, soft, distant, threading through silence.
He never sought power. Nor was he shaped for glory. Yet in the quiet places where gods once walked, something has stirred.
And Simion, worn and uncertain, may be the only one left who can hear it.
Simon J. Phillips 