It seemed the elders had forgotten how to breathe. No rustle of robes, no whispering—only a dense, ringing silence. Those who had already accepted “generous gifts” from the Vengeful Thunder Family went especially pale. Everything unfolding was clearly slipping out of control.

  Magister Duran calmly stepped forward, toward the center of the hall, straight to Priscilla.

  Kael and Girren followed slowly behind him.

  Each of their steps echoed dully beneath the vaulted ceiling, as if the hall itself were emphasizing the weight of the moment.

  And in that silence, Priscilla’s quiet chuckle rang out with particular clarity.

  She shot Zeiran a contemptuous look and raised an eyebrow in open challenge.

  But Zeiran was not looking at her. His cold gaze was fixed on Girren.

  And it was Zeiran who broke the silence first.

  “What are you doing here, Girren?” he said evenly. “Shouldn’t you be with Aiden?”

  Girren froze for a moment. His shoulders tensed slightly, and his breathing faltered.

  Years under the pressure of his family had not passed without a trace. Fear of Zeiran seemed embedded in his bones, in his very being. A single look from the old man was enough to make Girren tremble.

  In that moment of weakness, Kael stepped forward and placed a hand on Girren’s shoulder.

  Then Kael spoke words no one expected—utterly devoid of respect. An unthinkable breach for someone of his standing.

  “Still hiding your rotten nature, even now?”

  At those words, many of the elders were taken aback.

  It was instinctive—no one expected to hear such a tone from a mere boy addressing one of Lasthold’s three chief Elders. A few of the elders even flinched, as if about to protest.

  But what came next made everyone draw in a sharp breath.

  “You’re asking why Girren is here?” Kael continued, not taking his eyes off Zeiran. “Because he helped me escape from your dungeon.”

  The hall fell utterly still. After such accusations, Kael’s earlier words no longer sounded so bold.

  “And if he had returned to your family,” Kael added more harshly, “you would have simply killed him. Just as you were going to kill me.”

  Durimar and Vulnar’s faces twisted instantly in disbelief. They almost simultaneously turned toward Zeiran.

  Durimar went still. The word “kill” struck hardest of all. He was so shocked he didn’t even realize he was shouting the thought inwardly: “You didn’t just abduct him… You intended to kill him? Have you lost your mind?”

  But it was Vulnar who spoke.

  “Zeiran,” he said, his voice dropping low and heavy, “what the hell is going on here?”

  All eyes converged on Zeiran once more. Yet, surprisingly, he did not look frightened or offended.

  A puzzled expression appeared on his face, as if he himself did not understand what was being said.

  “I’d like to understand that myself,” he replied calmly. “This is absurd.”

  Priscilla only snorted, and then, no longer restraining herself, shouted:

  “This is simply ridiculous. Even in a situation like this, you’re still playing your games?”

  Her voice rang out, sharp and venomous, any trace of restraint gone.

  Duran stepped forward.

  His red eyes hardened, sharpened, yet he did not release so much as a trace of his aura. He narrowed them slightly and spoke calmly:

  “In my absence, Elder Zeiran abducted Kael and held him in his dungeon. That is a fact that can be confirmed not only by Kael, but also by Girren, who helped him escape. Moreover, Kael bears injuries consistent with lightning-aspected mana.”

  A murmur rippled through the hall.

  Zeiran was about to object, but Duran continued without raising his voice:

  “One of Principal Riada’s subordinates also took part in Kael’s rescue.”

  He shifted a serious gaze to Durimar.

  “Riada is from your family. You may question her personally. I am certain she would not dare to lie to you.”

  Durimar’s gaze grew heavy.

  Zeiran frowned even more deeply, though his voice remained calm:

  “I know I did none of what you’ve just described. And this attack on my reputation is far too coordinated…” He slowly swept his eyes over Duran, Kael, and Girren. “Now I am truly curious what the purpose of this little performance is.”

  The elders began whispering among themselves, exchanging looks, some leaning toward their neighbors to discuss what they had heard. Just moments ago, Zeiran himself had demanded that Kael appear, had demanded proof, confident there would be none. But now, as accusations began piling up one after another, he had begun to defend himself.

  Many noticed the shift.

  Kael watched in silence, a predatory calculation unfolding behind his eyes.

  “Writhe all you want, you damned old snake,” he thought coldly, staring straight at Zeiran. “Soon Duran won’t be the only Jade Mage. If I promised to strip you of your power, then that is exactly what I will do.”

  That goal was already known to his allies. That was why Duran had so calmly revealed Riada’s involvement. They were not afraid to implicate her—Kael had already promised to help her break through to the Jade Mage stage. Once the balance of power shifted, today’s accusations would lose their weight.

  Durimar frowned. There was no longer doubt in his eyes—only rising anger. He looked sternly at Zeiran and said:

  “Forgive me, my friend… but you stand in a precarious position. Explain yourself. Otherwise, we will be forced to accuse you of a grave crime.”

  The word “friend” carried particular weight.

  Vulnar clenched his fists as well, not hiding his tension.

  “Why did you abduct the boy?” he demanded. “And why does he claim you intended to kill him?”

  But before Zeiran could answer, Kael’s slightly frightened voice rang out again—a tone chosen perfectly to worsen the situation.

  “That damned bastard drew my blood,” he said, not taking his eyes off Zeiran. “And forced me to swallow strange pills.”

  A dull murmur passed through the rows.

  “He kept saying I was meant to become a sacrifice. That a God would reward him for it.”

  Another wave of shock rippled through the elders. Some who had agreed to bribes now lowered their gazes to the floor in shame. They were beginning to realize that, if this was true, they were complicit in something unforgivable.

  But Kael did not stop, adding things Zeiran had never even said:

  “He bragged that once he gained power, all of Lasthold would be under his control. That everyone would worship him.”

  The hall grew even quieter.

  “He kept rambling…” Kael clenched his fists. “Ranting about duty, sacrifice, some grand purpose. Telling me I was obligated to give up my life.”

  Now his voice sounded wounded, almost childishly sincere.

  “I always believed the Three Families were the pillar of Lasthold!” he burst out. “Was all of that a lie? Do powerful mages like you truly consider the lives of ordinary people worthless?”

  The words hung in the hall like an accusation—one not aimed at Zeiran alone.

  Durimar flinched. The movement was barely noticeable, but those who knew him saw it at once. The Head of Lasthold’s gaze darkened, as if he had taken the accusation personally.

  Vulnar frowned as well, his jaw tightening.

  And Duran, standing slightly ahead of Kael, gave the faintest nod. He had been the one to suggest this very move to Kael earlier.

  Sensing the pause, Priscilla slowly and demonstratively covered her mouth, a sly smile spreading across her face.

  “Oh my…” she drawled, fixing Zeiran with a steady look. “And you very nearly had me killed.”

  A tense rustle swept through the hall, and Priscilla turned her gaze to Durimar.

  “Ah yes,” she added, as if in passing. “I forgot to mention one detail. Two days ago, Zeiran came to my cell. He tried to pry out the location of the Forsaken Brotherhood’s lair.”

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “And he threatened that after my death, my loved ones would follow.”

  Several elders turned sharply toward Zeiran.

  Priscilla, meanwhile, burst into loud, almost mocking laughter.

  “Tell me…” she went on. “Why did you ignore the Forsaken Brotherhood for decades, only to suddenly take such an interest in them now?”

  She narrowed her eyes, openly pointing out the inconsistency:

  “Is this the first time they’ve caused trouble for your family?”

  At those words, Zeiran’s eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly.

  Outwardly, he did not change. Not a single muscle in his face betrayed tension. But inside, his thoughts were feverishly calculating options.

  “I miscalculated. I was cornered. Whatever excuse I come up with now, Durimar and Vulnar won’t believe me. And if I end up in a cell, I’ve lost.”

  At that moment, Durimar’s furious voice rolled across the hall:

  “Answer, Zeiran!”

  The murmur died. All eyes fixed on him once more.

  And in Zeiran’s mind, another thought flared coldly:

  “Reputation matters when you’re weak. What use is it to me once I have power?”

  Slowly, he raised his hands and rose to his feet.

  The movement was unhurried, almost peaceful, as though he were about to concede defeat.

  “As things stand,” he said evenly, “there is no point in denying the obvious.”

  A wave of shock swept through the hall. Half the elders sprang to their feet, unable to believe their ears. The day had already brought too many twists, but no one had expected this.

  Vulnar parted his lips, genuine shock written in his eyes.

  “Why did you do it?” he burst out. “We gave Priscilla the chance to explain herself. Then explain yourself!”

  Zeiran let out a heavy sigh, as though the conversation truly wearied him.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said calmly. “But I’ll give you a hint.”

  He slowly turned toward Kael and pointed at him.

  The gesture was open, almost accusatory. At that very moment, Zeiran’s mana began to spread subtly through his body, so subtly that even Durimar and Vulnar failed to notice.

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  “This boy is an anomaly,” he declared to the hall. “Not long ago, there wasn’t a drop of mana in him. And now he already stands as a Steel Mage.”

  Listening to this apparent madness, no one could quite grasp what Zeiran was talking about.

  “Moreover,” Zeiran continued, “he has formed a contract with some unknown spirit.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and his voice dropped lower, growing all the more ominous for it:

  “In ancient times, such anomalous mages were sacrificed… And in return, the great Gods granted power.”

  As the words left his lips, the hall seemed to turn to stone. No one could believe an Elder was saying such things aloud. It was sheer madness.

  In that brief moment of confusion, a grin spread across Zeiran’s face. His gaze slid over Priscilla and Duran.

  “None of you will stop me,” flashed coldly through his mind. “You are too weak.”

  And in the next instant, a deafening crash rang out—BAAAM!

  Thunder-aspected mana burst from his body, blinding the hall in a white-blue flash. The air detonated, tiles cracked beneath him, and his chair shattered into splinters as if struck by lightning.

  Without giving anyone time to react, Zeiran lunged forward—straight at Kael.

  Time seemed to freeze.

  Durimar and Vulnar sprang from their seats, but managed only to rise halfway. Their mana had only just begun to flare when they realized Zeiran was already halfway to his target.

  He had not merely accelerated—he had fully merged with his spirit.

  Zeiran’s body changed before their eyes. The skin of his arms was covered in dense violet scales; membranes stretched between his fingers, and his nails lengthened into curved claws. A thick reptilian tail grew from his back, along with small membranous wings.

  A clear realization flared in Durimar’s mind: “We won’t make it. He’s faster than we are.”

  Vulnar was already releasing his mana, but the distance was shrinking too quickly. It was happening too fast.

  Zeiran bared his teeth. In his eyes, there was no longer any mask of calm or feigned reason—only greed and fury.

  He reached for Kael’s throat, violet lightning crackling along his claws.

  “You’re mine!” he roared inwardly. “No one steals my resources!”

  Shock seemed to paralyze everyone.

  Even those who had been raising their mana a second earlier now froze, realizing what was happening. If Zeiran dared abduct the boy openly in the Grand Assembly, he was prepared to go all the way. And to stop him… there was no one.

  Everyone knew one thing—he was the fastest in Lasthold.

  Duran and Priscilla did not possess enough power to restrain a Jade Mage fully merged with his spirit. Durimar and Vulnar were strong, but not that fast.

  The same thought flared in Durimar’s and Vulnar’s minds almost at once: “This is a catastrophe!”

  Zeiran’s clawed hand swept past Duran, slicing through the air. Another fraction of a second, and his fingers would have closed around Kael’s throat.

  But in that instant, the unthinkable happened.

  BA-BAAAM!

  The hall shook a second time.

  Another aura flared—thick and heavy, flooding the hall with blood-red light. It surged through the chamber like a tide of blood.

  And in that same second, a crushing blow slammed into Zeiran’s ribs, catching him off guard.

  BOOM!

  Zeiran’s body was hurled like a cannonball. He smashed through one of the stone columns, which burst into fragments, before his back crashed into the hall’s wall with a thunderous impact. The masonry cracked, fractures spiderwebbing across it.

  No one even understood what had just happened.

  For a split second, the hall stood in deafening silence. Even Zeiran himself, falling amid the rubble, thought not of the pain in his ribs but of something else: “What the hell?! The brat was almost mine!”

  He lashed his tail against the ground, vaulting back onto his feet. The scales along his body crackled with thunder as he prepared to lunge at Kael again.

  But he did not manage to take even a single step.

  At the same instant, two more powerful auras flared from either side.

  BAAAAM!

  Zeiran was driven into the floor. The stone tiles beneath him cracked and sank under monstrous pressure.

  On one side stood Durimar, bearing down on him.

  His skin darkened and roughened, as though covered in the bark of an ancient tree. Massive stag antlers rose from his head, and green roots coiled around his legs, biting into the stone and anchoring him in place.

  On the other side pressed Vulnar.

  His body was covered in thick red fur that seemed to smolder against his skin. Heat radiated from him; the air around him trembled. His eyes blazed crimson.

  They had not fully realized what had just happened. But instinct had acted faster than thought.

  Decades of working together allowed them to coordinate in a fraction of a second.

  Now, together, they were forcing their colleague into the ground. A comrade. An Elder with whom they had ruled Lasthold side by side for many years.

  Under their combined pressure, Zeiran’s thunder mana immediately began to falter.

  Only then did all three lift their eyes to where, an instant earlier, that mysterious crimson aura had flared. And with them, all the other Elders.

  Their gazes converged on Duran.

  Only now was this no longer the Duran they had known for decades.

  Red tendrils writhed from his back, as though woven from living flesh. They moved fluidly, deliberately, as though they were extensions of his will. Black veins spread across his neck and arms, stark beneath the skin, as if the very blood in his body had thickened and darkened.

  A muted whisper rippled through the hall.

  “Magister Duran… has merged with his spirit?”

  “Does that mean…” one of the Elders murmured, unable to finish.

  And at that moment Durimar himself, still pressing down on Zeiran, spoke in shock:

  “Magister Duran… have you truly broken through to the Jade Mage stage?”

  Duran inclined his head slightly. His red eyes, deeper and colder now, swept across the hall.

  “I would not have brought Kael here,” he said calmly, “had I not been certain I could protect him.”

  There was no boastfulness in his voice—only a dry statement of fact.

  And in that same second Zeiran’s body trembled—not from fear, but from fury.

  His claws dug into the stone, his tail lashed the floor, scattering fragments.

  “How dare you?!” he roared.

  He strained against the pressure, thunder-aspected mana flaring again, tearing through the air with sharp cracks. But Durimar and Vulnar only increased their pressure.

  Their mana poured into Zeiran’s body, invading his channels, disrupting the flow, breaking his rhythm. Green and crimson energy intertwined, smothering the violet flashes of thunder.

  Zeiran began shaking his head violently, as if for the first time that day his mask had cracked. The confidence with which he had played before the Council moments ago was vanishing. Something feverish flickered in his eyes—he was desperately searching for a way out, any gap to seize.

  He twisted his head toward Durimar and Vulnar and shouted:

  “Durimar! Vulnar! Listen to me! If we sacrifice this boy, we will gain unimaginable power! We will rise beyond the Jade rank! It’s a small price! One life in exchange for Lasthold’s prosperity!”

  His voice boomed through the hall, echoing beneath the stone vaults. Many Elders paled; some instinctively stepped back.

  And in the next instant Durimar roared.

  “Shut your mouth!”

  With a sharp, almost bestial snarl, his fist flared with green mana, and he slammed it into Zeiran’s face with full force.

  BAAAM!

  Zeiran’s head was driven deeper into the shattered tiles, blood spraying across the floor. His brow split, his lip burst, and a dark stream ran down his chin.

  But he did not lose consciousness.

  The madness in his eyes only intensified.

  “How can you not understand?!” he rasped, spitting blood. “We will rot behind these walls! We need power to go beyond Lasthold! To explore the world beyond! Old fools! It was a mistake to stop the expeditions! I always knew it!”

  A low, frightened murmur rippled through the ranks of the Elders.

  “What a disgrace…”

  “Elder Zeiran… has he lost his mind?”

  “He speaks of sacrifice… in the Grand Assembly…”

  Vulnar clenched his teeth so hard that veins stood out along his temples. The flames around his body thickened.

  He glanced briefly at Durimar and said hoarsely:

  “We end this. Now.”

  At once, without words, Durimar and Vulnar increased the pressure.

  Their mana surged, the currents turning coarse and crushing. They no longer tried to act carefully—green and crimson energy flooded into Zeiran’s body, forcibly invading his channels. There was no room left for caution. Even if it damaged his foundation, Zeiran had to be stopped at any cost.

  Zeiran roared.

  His body arched under the double pressure, the scales on his arms cracking, his bond with his contracted spirit snapping. In the next moment he bellowed again and vomited blood—a thick, dark stream spraying forward, splattering across the shattered tiles and fragments of the fallen column.

  He clenched his teeth, fighting to stay conscious despite the damage tearing through him. His chest rose heavily, his breathing turning ragged.

  With effort, he lifted his gaze.

  His bloodshot eyes found Kael.

  In a trembling whisper filled with hatred, he forced out:

  “This is… not the end…”

  And in the same instant his pupils rolled back. His body went limp, his thunder-aspected mana finally dissipating. Zeiran lost consciousness.

  A deathly silence settled over the hall.

  No one knew what to say. Even the most talkative Elders were silent now, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.

  The representatives of the Vengeful Thunder Family were especially pale. Their most influential and powerful mage, the pillar of their lineage, had lost his mind before their eyes, confessed to sacrificial rites, and disgraced their family before the entire Council of Elders.

  Some of them were not of the main branch and truly knew nothing of Zeiran’s crimes. They stood frozen, unable to understand how such a thing was even possible.

  But there were others.

  Those who swallowed nervously, feeling the ground shift beneath their feet. Those who understood that interrogations would follow—investigations, inquiries. And if details surfaced, they too could be condemned.

  Several Elders among them had already lowered their eyes, frantically calculating how to distance themselves from Zeiran. How to convince the Council of their innocence. How to survive in this new reality, where their former patriarch lay unconscious, disgraced before all of Lasthold.

  The heavy silence was broken by Durimar’s voice.

  He slowly rose, not taking his eyes off the fallen Zeiran.

  “Vulnar,” he said coldly, “cripple his mana channels and bind him.”

  Vulnar nodded and increased the pressure, directing crimson mana with precision, disrupting the flow at key nodes. It was rough, painful, and dangerous, but there was no other choice.

  Durimar straightened and cast a grim gaze across the hall.

  The shattered column. Cracks spidering across the tiles. Blood on the floor. The Elders—pale, stunned, shaken. And at the center of it all—two figures.

  Kael. The boy who had been kidnapped and nearly killed.

  And Priscilla. The woman who only minutes ago had nearly been sentenced to death.

  Durimar understood: had it not been for Magister Duran’s breakthrough, today would have ended in catastrophe. For all of Lasthold.

  He took several steps forward and, unexpectedly, inclined his head.

  “I offer you my deepest apologies,” he said gravely. “On behalf of the entire Council of Elders.”

  Silence returned to the hall.

  “What happened today,” he continued, “is a disgrace—an unforgivable failure of judgment.”

  He straightened. Durimar’s gaze was heavy and cold.

  “I give you my word—Zeiran will be placed under guard immediately. He will not leave his cell. He will receive no visitors. No one will see him but Vulnar and me.”

  But at that moment Duran’s voice rang out.

  “That is not enough,” he said evenly. “That bastard must be put to death.”

  Before Durimar could respond, Duran added:

  “And the problem is not only Zeiran.”

  He shifted his gaze to the rows of Elders.

  “I have long been dissatisfied with what is happening in Lasthold. And now I have the strength to say it openly.”

  Durimar did not attempt to defend himself, accepting Duran’s words without protest. He only lowered his head slightly, acknowledging:

  “If you are the one saying this, Magister Duran, then the Council of Elders has indeed failed in its duty.”

  Silence settled over the hall once more, but of a different kind—not stunned, but attentive.

  Duran nodded respectfully.

  “If wisdom still guides you, this can be corrected,” he said evenly. “I am prepared to help.”

  At that moment Vulnar approached them. His aura had already faded, the fur and beastly features gone, yet his gaze remained heavy. After ensuring Zeiran was securely suppressed and bound, he turned to Priscilla.

  “I said I was ready to apologize on my knees…” he began hoarsely.

  Priscilla only rolled her eyes and cut him off:

  “Spare me the farce. Better deal with Zeiran and his subordinates.”

  Her gaze slid across the rows of Elders, and she added:

  “And take a sober look at your own families. You are no saints either.”

  Durimar and Vulnar did not argue—they merely flinched for a brief moment.

  Everything that had happened had indeed shaken them awake. It was as if a long dream—one in which Lasthold had seemed stable and controllable—had suddenly shattered. The illusion of control was gone.

  Durimar exhaled slowly.

  “I do not have the right words,” he said honestly. “We need time to sort this out.”

  He bowed slightly—not formally, but sincerely.

  “I will not detain you any longer. You are free to leave the hall… or remain and observe the Council’s proceedings. We have much to discuss even today.”

  He held his gaze on Duran, Priscilla, and then on Kael, and said:

  “I truly do not know what else to say—only to offer my apologies once more.”

  Duran answered Durimar’s words without hesitation:

  “I will remain here,” he said calmly. “To offer a clearer perspective on the state of Lasthold. The others have no reason to remain.”

  He shifted his gaze to Kael and Girren.

  “The boys will remain with the Forsaken Brotherhood for the time being. Until I am certain Lasthold is truly safe for them.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he added:

  “The Forsaken Brotherhood… is another matter that must be addressed.”

  A quiet murmur rippled through the hall once more.

  Priscilla, not waiting for further words, turned away. She approached Kael and Girren, gently but firmly placing an arm around their shoulders and guiding them toward the exit. The gesture was simple but clear—they had nothing more to do here.

  Girren bowed quickly to the Elders, almost automatically. He was still in shock and, without raising his eyes, hurried after Priscilla.

  Kael bowed differently. His bow was restrained, and even slightly cold.

  He straightened and for a moment met Durimar’s and Vulnar’s gaze. Calculation flickered in his eyes, and a thought passed through his mind: “Duran was right. Those two are not lost yet… I hope they draw the proper conclusions.”

  But aloud he said something entirely different, evenly and respectfully:

  “I place my faith in the wisdom of our elders. The younger generation relies on you—both its wealthy and its poor.”

  With those words, Kael turned and calmly followed after Priscilla.

  His steps were steady, unhurried. He did not look back, did not try to catch anyone’s eye. Yet in his mind a cold, calculating thought flared: “It is unlikely they will dare to execute a Jade Mage… Even with his reputation shattered, Zeiran remains too significant to discard.”

  A faint predatory smile touched Kael’s lips. And in his thoughts he seemed to address Zeiran directly: “But I will not let you rot peacefully in prison. I have already promised to take your life. And I will.”

  It was not an outburst of emotion, but a cold decision.

  Passing through the massive doors, Kael left the Grand Assembly. Behind him remained cracks in stone, blood on the tiles, and a Council that, for the first time in many long years, had lost its unshakable certainty.

  Change loomed ahead—great changes for all of Lasthold.