People like to talk about the White Tower as if it were some shining monument that simply existed because it was meant to. They remember the protection spells that kept cities standing, the enchanted infrastructure that made daily life easier, the quiet reassurance that someone, somewhere, was holding the world together. What they don’t like to talk about is the cost. How much time vanished inside those walls. How many mages burned themselves out without recognition. How many sacrifices were made without statues or songs. The Tower didn’t shine because magic was easy. It shone because people gave everything and asked for nothing back.
Oscar Sage was one of those people.
Once, his name alone carried authority. He didn’t need to raise his voice or prove himself; his mastery was obvious to anyone who understood magic even a little. He remembers how spells used to answer him instantly, how the world seemed flexible under his hands. That version of him feels distant now, almost unreal. These days, he wakes up in a body that refuses to cooperate. His strength is gone, his control unreliable. Simple spells sputter or fail outright. For someone who spent a lifetime perfecting magic, being reduced to this feels worse than pain—it’s humiliating.
What hurts even more is seeing the White Tower mirror his own decline. The place that once buzzed with study, debate, and ambition has grown quiet. The respect it once commanded has thinned into polite tolerance, sometimes even mockery. Rival towers have risen, backed by newer methods and cleaner results. Magic has shifted. Technology has taken over parts of the role the Tower once played. Oscar can feel it every time he walks through the halls: the sense that the world has moved on without waiting for him.
He wonders, sometimes, if this outcome was unavoidable. Maybe no institution, no matter how powerful, can stay relevant forever. Maybe no mage, no matter how brilliant, escapes decline. But resignation has never suited him. Even now, stripped of most of what defined him, his mind is still sharp. He remembers every lesson, every failure, every hard-earned insight that no shortcut can replicate. Power fades, but understanding doesn’t disappear so easily.
The problem is that knowledge alone doesn’t rebuild a Tower.
Oscar knows he can’t return to who he was. That path is closed. The magic has changed too much, and so has the world around it. Old allies aren’t guaranteed to remain loyal. New factions operate with goals he doesn’t fully trust. The White Tower’s place in all of this is uncertain at best. Starting over isn’t inspiring—it’s exhausting. Each small step forward feels like being reminded of how far he’s fallen.
Still, he keeps going.
Not because he believes everything will return to how it was, but because he refuses to let the Tower’s history end in quiet irrelevance. There are still lessons worth passing on. Still foundations that can be reinforced. If the White Tower can’t stand at the center of magic anymore, then it has to adapt—or disappear entirely.
Oscar Sage doesn’t know what the future holds. He only knows that he’s not done yet. The Tower isn’t finished. And neither is he.
