No one in the Grand Tower of Arcanet really knew what "the signal" was.
Oh, they had theories, of course. The older wizards said it was the pure flow of mana threaded through invisible runes in the air. The younger ones, who grew up with magic streaming from crystal tablets and enchanted mirrors, claimed it was something called Wi-Fi, an ancient technological spell left by the Founders.
All anyone truly knew was this: when the little glowing rune on the SpellStone turned green, your incantations worked. When it blinked red… well, your teapot turned into a frog again.
And on that particular foggy morning in Arcanet, every rune in the tower blinked red.
"Master Orvil?"
The voice belonged to Tiber, apprentice wizard, age sixteen, hair perpetually frazzled from static mana buildup. He was standing in the Hall of Infinite Scrolls, waving his staff like an anxious broom. "The Wi-Fi's gone again!"
Orvil the Vast (a title self-granted, as most wizardly titles are) peered over his half-moon spectacles. "Impossible. I paid the EtherNet bill just yesterday."
"I tried restarting the router stone!" Tiber said. "I even blew on it like you said to. It just keeps blinking red!"
Orvil frowned. "Did you chant the Reconnection Hymn?"
"Yes!"
"Properly?"
Tiber hesitated. "I may have hummed the chorus."
"By the nine layers of lag!" Orvil snapped, shoving aside his breakfast — toast still buttered by a self-buttering knife now lying motionless. "This is worse than the Great Buffering of Year 214."
They weren't alone in their panic. Across the entire floating city of Arcanet, chaos brewed.
In the Spellsmith District, wand-makers discovered that their "auto-aim" enchantments had ceased functioning, resulting in several accidental levitations and one extremely confused goat.
In the Hall of Academics, professors who relied on streaming lectures from the Archive Cloud were forced to lecture from memory — a horrifying prospect for everyone involved.
And down in the Artisan Quarter, an entire café known for serving self-pouring cappuccinos now found itself hiring actual baristas for the first time in three centuries.
Back in the tower, Tiber was watching his master poke angrily at a glowing crystal tablet. "No signal," it read in dull letters.
"Perhaps," Tiber ventured, "we could cast something manually?"
Orvil's jaw dropped. "Manually? Do you mean— without the spell network?"
"Well, yes," Tiber said, cautiously. "There must be a way to cast without Wi-Fi. The ancients did it, didn't they?"
The old wizard gave a scandalized gasp. "Tiber, that's barbaric! That's analog magic! You could sprain a wrist waving your staff like that!"
"But what if we don't fix it soon?" Tiber insisted. "No one can even summon their breakfast anymore!"
As if on cue, a dull thunk echoed from the kitchen, followed by the faint cry of a bread loaf realizing it was, once again, a frog.
Orvil groaned. "Fine. Fetch my hat. We're going to the Ministry."
The Ministry of Arcane Connections (MAC, for short) sat at the center of the floating city — a towering structure of gold and glass that shimmered like a router with too many open tabs. Wizards bustled in and out, waving their tablets and muttering desperate incantations to no avail.
A receptionist witch greeted them with the dazed look of someone who had repeated the same sentence for six hours. "Thank you for your patience. The entire network is currently down. We are aware. No, turning your wand off and on again will not help. Have a magical day."
Orvil leaned on the counter. "We demand to speak with the Grand Technomancer!"
The witch sighed. "Take a number."
Tiber looked down at the slip of parchment that materialized in his hand. The number was 4,382.
Hours passed. Wizards argued, shouted, and threatened to polymorph each other. Someone had started a small black-market hotspot using bottled lightning, which worked for about five minutes before the bottle exploded into a cloud of very annoyed sprites.
When their number was finally called, Orvil and Tiber entered the Grand Technomancer's chamber — a vast hall of floating screens and humming crystals, all eerily dark.
Behind a desk sat a woman in flowing silver robes, her hair crackling faintly with static. She didn't look up as they entered.
"If you're here to complain," she said, "you're about the eight-hundredth today."
"We're here to help!" Tiber blurted before Orvil could complain. "We think maybe— maybe we could fix it?"
The Technomancer's eyes flicked up, glowing faintly blue. "Fix the Signal? You?"
Orvil puffed out his chest. "Orvil the Vast, Archmage of the Fifth Fiber. I have three postgraduate certificates in Encrypted Spells and a lifetime subscription to Mana Monthly."
The Technomancer blinked. "Uh-huh. And the boy?"
"Tiber," he said, quickly. "Apprentice. Amateur tinkerer."
For the first time, her expression softened. "Tinkerer, you say? Hmm."
She led them to a viewing platform overlooking the massive Heart of the Network — a colossal crystalline sphere suspended by chains of light. Normally it hummed with the living pulse of magic; now, it was silent, dim, and webbed with flickering runes.
"This," she said, "is the Source. Every spell, every charm, every cup of self-stirring tea depends on it. Three days ago, the flow simply… stopped. No interference, no overload — it just went dark."
Tiber pressed closer to the glass, awe and fear in his eyes. "Can't you reboot it?"
"We tried. The core won't respond. Something's blocking the connection from beyond the city."
"Beyond the city?" Orvil repeated. "You mean the Mainland?"
The Technomancer nodded. "We suspect the Root Towers — the ancient pylons that channel the signal across the realms — may have fallen."
"Fallen?" Tiber asked.
"As in," she said dryly, "literally toppled over. They were built centuries ago by the first Netmancers. No one's maintained them in ages. Too… analog."
Tiber turned to his master, excitement lighting his face. "We could go there! We could fix them!"
"Absolutely not," Orvil said. "I'm not traipsing across half the continent just because someone forgot to secure a tower leg."
"But, Master—"
"No. Dangerous. Filthy. And worst of all, offline."
The Technomancer smiled faintly. "Then it's settled. You'll go."
"What?!" Orvil sputtered.
"You're the first volunteers I've had all day," she said, already scribbling on a parchment. "You'll take an authorization sigil, a portable mana cell, and this apprentice of yours. If you can restore even one Root Tower, the entire realm could reconnect."
Orvil looked as though he might faint. "I— I demand hazard pay!"
"Granted."
"First-class portal travel!"
"Denied."
"Lunch stipend?"
"Fine."
Tiber grinned. "We'll do it."
By the time they left the Ministry, the skies above Arcanet had darkened. The floating city's usual hum was eerily quiet. Without the flow of magic, even the airships drifted lazily, their levitation runes dim.
Tiber walked beside his master, clutching the glowing authorization sigil. "Where do we start?"
Orvil muttered, "The nearest Root Tower is in the Wildwood Province. Two days' journey by broomstick… if the broomsticks still fly."
Tiber looked at his own broom. It lay on the ground, stubbornly refusing to levitate.
"Maybe we walk?" he offered.
Orvil groaned. "Barbaric."
They packed supplies: dried biscuits, a manual compass ("in case of total magical collapse," the Technomancer had said grimly), and an old map written in smudged runes.
Tiber stood at the edge of the floating city that night, staring down at the endless mist below. He'd never been beyond Arcanet's glow. Down there, the world was wild — forests untouched by magic, creatures who lived by instinct instead of enchantment.
"Master," he said softly, "what if we can't bring it back?"
Orvil adjusted his hat, looking unusually thoughtful. "Then perhaps," he said, "we'll remember how to live without it."
He immediately sneezed. "But let's not be dramatic. I miss my self-heating teapot already."
As dawn broke, they stepped off the edge of the city. The descent spell fizzled halfway, forcing them into a graceless tumble through the clouds. They landed in a pile of moss — or what Tiber hoped was moss.
"Well," Orvil wheezed, sitting up and brushing leaves from his robes. "That was a controlled landing."
"By gravity?" Tiber muttered.
They looked around. The Wildwood stretched endlessly — enormous trees, glowing fungi, and the faint hum of magic in its rawest form.
It was… beautiful. Untamed. Real.
For the first time, Tiber felt something stir in his chest — not fear, but wonder.
Maybe, he thought, there's more to magic than a signal.
Their first problem appeared ten minutes later, in the shape of a small, winged creature carrying a sign that read Toll Fee: One Wi-Fi Password.
Orvil sighed. "We're doomed."
The sprite fluttered its wings indignantly. "No password, no passage."
Tiber rummaged through his pack. "We don't have a signal, remember?"
"Then you can sing!" the sprite said cheerfully. "Old toll tradition!"
Orvil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine." He raised his staff and began an off-key chant:
"By signal lost and buffering slow,
Restore the stream, let magic flow…"
The sprite winced. "Okay, okay! Just go, before you break the trees."
Tiber tried not to laugh as they hurried past.
Hours later, they reached a ridge where a shattered tower loomed. The Root Tower was enormous — a spire of crystal and metal, leaning precariously, its runes dead and cold. Vines crawled over its base like nature reclaiming forgotten tech.
Tiber stepped closer, awe in his eyes. "This is it."
Orvil frowned. "How do we even begin to fix something like this?"
"Maybe we don't need Wi-Fi," Tiber said slowly. "Maybe we just need… will."
He placed his hand on the tower's surface. It was cold — but under his palm, something faint flickered. Not a signal. A heartbeat.
The magic wasn't gone. Just… sleeping.
"Master," Tiber whispered, "I think I can wake it."
Orvil's eyes widened. "You? Alone?"
"I've been tinkering, remember?" Tiber smiled faintly. "Even before the outage."
And before the old wizard could protest, the apprentice raised his staff, took a deep breath, and began to cast — not through a network, not through convenience, but through instinct.
His spell was clumsy, raw, and beautiful. Light sparked from his fingertips, runes flaring one by one up the tower's spine.
For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to hum.
Then—
The runes pulsed green.
The tower thrummed to life.
Far above, in the floating city of Arcanet, the first rune lights flickered back to green. A teapot somewhere began to whistle. A broom rose uncertainly, then hovered.
Orvil stared, open-mouthed. "You— you did it."
Tiber exhaled shakily, his hair standing completely on end. "I think I did."
The signal wasn't fully restored — not yet — but a pulse of life had returned to the realm.
Orvil clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Tiber, my boy… you may be insufferable, but you might just be a genius."
Tiber grinned, eyes shining. "Shall we fix the rest?"
The old wizard looked up at the endless sky. "Let's reconnect the world.".
Chapter 2
The Root Tower still hummed with new life. Runes pulsed faintly along its surface, green light spilling across the mossy clearing. Birds that had fallen silent when the magic vanished now called again, as if the forest itself were exhaling.
Tiber stood in the center of the glow, his staff trembling slightly in his hand. His face was pale but his eyes shone. "It worked," he whispered.
Orvil the Vast pressed one hand to his hat to stop it from sliding off his head in the rising wind. "Well, technically, it only half-worked," he said, glancing at the dim runes near the tower's top. "But considering you just rewired ancient magic with your bare hands, I suppose I'll allow myself a small amount of pride."
Tiber grinned. "You mean you're proud of me?"
"I mean I'm proud of myself for taking an apprentice with decent instincts," Orvil said, and turned briskly toward his travel pack.
They made camp at the base of the tower that night. Without the floating city's artificial glow above, the Wildwood sky was a wild sprawl of stars. Tiber stared upward, feeling both very small and strangely free.
"I didn't think the stars would be this bright," he said.
"That's because we never look up when we have screens in front of us," Orvil muttered. He was trying to coax their cooking pot into heating itself, but the rune on its side still blinked red. "Blasted thing. Guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way."
He clicked his fingers and produced a small flame from the tip of his staff. It flickered uncertainly, threatening to go out.
"You mean—manual fire magic?" Tiber asked.
Orvil shuddered. "Don't make me say it out loud."
The flame steadied after a moment. Tiber watched, fascinated. "I didn't know you could still do that."
"Neither did I," Orvil admitted. "I suppose muscle memory counts for something." He gave the boy a sidelong glance. "Don't spread that around. I've got a reputation to maintain."
When the stew was ready—barely edible, but warm—Tiber asked the question that had been bouncing in his head since morning. "Master, why do you think the signal really went down?"
Orvil slurped thoughtfully from his spoon. "The official story is that the Root Towers decayed. But if one apprentice can wake a tower with a single spell, then decay isn't the issue."
"So you think…someone did it?"
Orvil's eyes flicked toward the glowing tower. "Someone or something. Magic doesn't just vanish. It obeys its nature—to connect. Something must have disconnected it."
Tiber frowned. "Then we'll reconnect it."
Orvil chuckled softly. "You make it sound simple. But the Wildwood is only the first stop. There are four more towers beyond this—each in lands that haven't seen city wizards for centuries. People out there have their own ways now."
He poked the fire. Sparks danced up toward the stars. "Ways that don't rely on signals."
Morning arrived with dew and the smell of wet leaves. They set off early, following a faint trail deeper into the forest. Birds swooped overhead, chattering like gossiping familiars.
Without floating walkways or hover-brooms, travel was slow. Orvil complained incessantly.
"My knees weren't designed for this sort of terrain," he grumbled, stepping over a root as thick as his leg.
"You could cast a levitation charm," Tiber suggested.
"I could, yes," Orvil said. "If we had a signal."
They trudged on. Around midday they came to a clearing where a cluster of small cottages sat between enormous trees. A crooked sign read: "Welcome to Downdell — Population: Depends."
A woman with moss-green hair and hands like knotted vines was tending a vegetable patch. She looked up as they approached. "Travelers, are you? Haven't had any of those since the sky people lost their glow."
Orvil bristled. "We didn't lose our glow. It's—temporarily buffering."
The woman snorted. "Call it what you like. We call it peace and quiet."
Inside her cottage, the air smelled of earth and herbs. The woman introduced herself as Maera.
"Used to live in Arcanet," she said, pouring tea that actually required a kettle. "Moved here years ago when the 'smart cauldrons' started talking back."
Tiber smiled. "So you do magic without the network?"
Maera shrugged. "Magic doesn't come from towers or tablets. It comes from you." She tapped her chest. "Always has."
Orvil rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, very spiritual. Unfortunately, internal magic doesn't scale well for public services."
Maera ignored him. "The forest remembers things you lot forgot. The Wi-Fi falling wasn't an accident. Something's been draining the ley lines for months."
"Draining?" Tiber asked.
She nodded. "Old power. Buried deep. If you're fixing towers, you'll want to watch your step. The forest isn't the same anymore."
They left Downdell with a pouch of Maera's herb biscuits ("for luck, or indigestion, whichever comes first," she'd said) and a lot to think about.
By dusk they reached a stream that shimmered faintly with residual magic. Tiny fish glowed beneath the surface, like living sparks.
Tiber knelt beside the water. "It's beautiful," he whispered.
Orvil was staring at the fish. "It's illegal. No one's supposed to be tapping raw mana like this."
"Maybe the forest doesn't care about our rules," Tiber said.
Orvil sighed. "You're starting to sound like a poet. Next you'll be growing a beard and claiming enlightenment."
They followed the stream until nightfall. When they camped, Tiber could swear he heard faint voices carried on the wind—whispers in a language just beyond comprehension.
Sometime past midnight, he woke to find the air vibrating with faint green light. Orvil was already sitting up, staff in hand.
"Something's coming," the old wizard whispered.
From between the trees, shapes emerged—three figures cloaked in ragged cloth, their eyes glowing faintly with static blue light. They moved with a smooth, artificial rhythm.
Tiber's stomach dropped. "Are those—?"
"Signal Shades," Orvil said grimly. "Constructs left behind when the network collapsed. Echoes of spells that never finished processing."
The figures stopped at the edge of the firelight. One spoke, its voice layered like overlapping frequencies. "Connection detected. Authorization required."
Orvil raised his staff. "Denied."
The shades advanced.
Tiber's instinct kicked in. He thrust his staff forward, trying to cast the same pulse he'd used on the Root Tower. A spark burst at the tip—small but bright. The shades hesitated, flickering.
"Keep it steady!" Orvil shouted. "They feed on uncertainty!"
"I'm sixteen!" Tiber yelled back. "I am uncertainty!"
The spark flared again, this time erupting into a wave of green light that swept through the clearing. When it faded, the shades were gone—dissolved into harmless particles that floated upward like fireflies.
Tiber collapsed, breathing hard. "Did I…delete them?"
"Let's say you logged them off," Orvil said. "Nicely done."
He helped the boy to his feet. "Looks like your connection's stronger than you think."
They didn't sleep much after that. At dawn, they followed the direction the shades had come from and soon reached a ravine. In its depths lay another tower—smaller, half-buried, its runes shattered.
Tiber stared down at it. "The second Root Tower."
"Or what's left of it," Orvil murmured. "Someone didn't just neglect this one. They tore it apart."
Climbing down took hours. When they finally stood at the base, Tiber ran his hand over a cracked rune. It was warm—too warm.
"Master," he said, "this tower didn't die naturally. It was drained. Like Maera said."
Orvil nodded grimly. "And look." He pointed to a sigil scorched into the stone. It was circular, with a jagged line through the center—a symbol Tiber didn't recognize.
"What is it?"
"The mark of the Disconnected," Orvil said.
Tiber frowned. "I thought they were a myth."
"So did I," Orvil admitted. "A cult that believes magic enslaves humanity. They've been silent for centuries."
He turned the symbol over in his mind. "If they're back, then this outage isn't just a technical problem. It's sabotage."
A chill ran down Tiber's spine. "Then we have to stop them."
Orvil looked at him sharply. "We? You plan to fight a cult that erases magic with your half-trained spells and your optimism?"
Tiber met his gaze. "Someone has to."
For a moment, the old wizard's expression softened. Then he sighed. "Fine. But if we die, I'm haunting your spellbook."
They worked for hours trying to repair the broken tower, but nothing responded. The energy was gone completely—leeched out, not dormant like before.
Finally Orvil lowered his staff. "It's hopeless."
Tiber looked around the ravine, noticing something odd: the vines that had grown through the cracks were pulsing faintly, carrying the same eerie green as the shades' eyes.
He crouched beside them. "Maybe it's not hopeless. Maybe it's moving."
"Moving?"
"The drained magic—it's flowing somewhere."
Orvil followed his gaze. The vines stretched north, disappearing into the shadow of the mountains.
The old wizard exhaled slowly. "Then I suppose we know where we're headed next."
They climbed out of the ravine as the sun dipped low. The forest stretched endlessly before them, the mountains sharp against the horizon.
Tiber glanced back once at the ruined tower. "Do you think anyone else is out here fixing towers?"
"Doubt it," Orvil said. "Most wizards won't step outside the city without guaranteed reception."
"Then it's up to us."
Orvil chuckled. "A reckless apprentice and a retired bureaucrat. The realm's last hope. Wonderful."
But there was pride in his voice—just a flicker—and Tiber caught it.
They walked on. Above them, the sky deepened to violet, and far in the distance, something glimmered faintly among the mountains—like a pulse, slow and steady, waiting to be found.
end of chapter