The mist hung thick and low, clinging to them like a sentient shadow, amplifying every rustle, every distant, distorted howl. The air itself seemed charged, vibrating with anticipation. Izzar’s gaze moved coldly over his companions, taking in the unguarded glimpses of their inner states.
Viha’s eyes darted between the twisted trees, her fingers ghosting over the hilt of a concealed dagger, every muscle in her body coiled with practised tension. There was no mistaking the intensity that flickered in her eyes; she was a warrior scanning for the first sign of threat.
Aargon, by contrast, seemed mesmerised by the mist itself. His eyes were wide, darting with a blend of boyish fascination and growing unease. He was not watching for danger but seemed absorbed in the mystery of the place as if the fog itself held secrets he was eager to uncover.
Aargon’s voice sliced through the silence, too eager, too loud against the suffocating mist. “Alright, guess I’ll start,” he declared, stepping forward with a theatrical flourish. “Aargon Lexius, son of Luther Lexius, Grand Keeper of the Lybrarius Society on Prion.”
He offered a low bow, his gaze flickering between Viha and Izzar, watching them as if his words were a test. “Scholar, strategist, and…” his smile sharpened, flashing with an odd, almost manic glint, “your new loyal comrade.”
Viha crossed her arms, a sceptical smirk twisting her lips. “Comrade, huh?” Her voice dripped with challenge. “So, we’re here to play nice, are we? Advisers to a ruler we barely know… how convenient.”
Aargon turned to her, a spark of unchecked excitement in his eyes. “Oh, but isn’t that the fun part?” he replied, his voice laced with a touch of too much eagerness. “Three strangers, each of us bringing something different—an unstoppable trio.”
Izzar stayed silent, his gaze fixed on Aargon, watching the exaggerated gestures and unsettling grin with cold calculation. A flicker of caution tightened his stance, a subtle shift that seemed to dampen Aargon’s display, as if reminding him of the gravity of their purpose here.
Aargon turned to Viha, undeterred by her defiant stance. “And you’re from Gandron, aren’t you?” His voice softened, almost reverent. “A warrior, a champion. From a world where survival isn’t a birthright—it’s earned.” His smile edged into something sharper, the admiration bordering on unsettling. “Fascinating.”
Viha’s smirk faded, her eyes narrowing as she took him in. “Fascinating or not, I’m not here to play games.” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the mist. “If you think a few pretty words are going to win me over, think again.”
Izzar watched the exchange, his face impassive, but suspicion flashed briefly in his eyes as they settled on Aargon. Finally, he spoke, his voice a cool command. “We’re here to fulfil a purpose. Torne sees something in each of us—something unique.” His gaze flicked to Viha, unreadable and unyielding, before returning to Aargon, his cold authority setting the tone.
Silence settled around them once more, thicker than the mist itself, as each absorbed the heavy pull of their purpose, bound together in this fog-shrouded wilderness.
Aargon’s gaze flickered, his enthusiasm dimming as he seemed to grasp the gravity of Izzar’s authority. His expression settled into cautious reflection. “So… it’s about balance, then. Wisdom, strength, leadership… something like that?”
Izzar’s eyes narrowed, his response clipped and cold. “Precisely. Torne cares nothing for sentiment—only results. The Rule of Three demands we function as a unit. Whatever pasts we hold are irrelevant.”
The cold precision in Izzar’s tone struck a nerve. Aargon’s eagerness dimmed, his expression slipping into something guarded as he met Izzar’s gaze. “Right… results,” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance at Viha. The flash of wariness in his eyes suggested his confidence had faltered under Izzar’s unyielding authority.
Viha’s eyes flashed, her posture tensing as Izzar’s unyielding gaze turned to her. She lifted her chin, fingers tightening around the hilt of her weapon, as she scoffed. “Balance, rules, results—it’s all the same nonsense. I didn’t come here to kneel to someone else’s agenda. I’m nobody’s servant, least of all yours.”
Izzar met her defiant gaze with steely calm, his voice like ice. “Then recognise this, Viha: none of us are here by choice. Bound by Torne’s command, resistance is… impractical.”
Viha’s jaw clenched, her defiance hardening. “Impractical? Keep your ‘results’ and your cold logic, Izzar. I’ll play along, but I don’t owe you obedience.” She took a step back, her grip tightening as she gauged his expression.
A shadow of something flickered in Izzar’s gaze—amusement, perhaps—before vanishing as swiftly as it had come. “Obedience isn’t required, Viha. Discipline is. You’re here to fulfil a purpose, as we all are. And if you question the Order’s motives,” his voice dropped to a chilling calm, “then you question Torne himself.”
The silence thickened, weighted with unspoken threats. Viha’s grip on her sword remained firm, her gaze fierce yet wary. Aargon’s bravado had faded, leaving him watching the exchange with tense silence, clearly absorbing the weight of Izzar’s words.
Finally, Viha broke the silence, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t choose to be dragged from my world, my life, just to play by someone else’s rules.”
She levelled her gaze at Izzar, eyes smouldering with defiance. “What is this ‘Order’ you’re so proud of? Why should I care? Gandron has its own traditions—your Order means nothing to me.”
Before Izzar could respond, Aargon moved between them, a quick, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “Alright—let’s not turn this into a bloodbath,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. His eyes darted between Izzar and Viha, clearly eager to defuse the growing tension.
Izzar’s gaze shifted between them, his expression as impenetrable as the mist surrounding them. He stepped forward, his voice low and measured, slicing through the tension. “Aargon Lexius,” he began, each word deliberate. “Son of Luther Lexius, Grand Keeper of the Lybrarius Order. Bred in Prion’s halls of knowledge, but untested outside of them.”
Aargon’s eyes flickered with surprise, his practised demeanour briefly slipping. But Izzar didn’t pause, pushing on with unyielding focus.
“And Viha Remit,” he continued, his gaze settling on her with a cool appraisal. “Champion of Gandron, famed across galaxies as the Gandron Thieves Guild. Your father, Victor Remit, is wanted in more systems than you care to count.”
Viha’s jaw tightened, a mocking smile tugging at her lips. “Flattered,” she echoed, her voice laced with sarcasm, but her gaze was wary, her guard unmistakably raised.
Izzar held the silence for a moment, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Titles, family names, legacies—none of that matters here,” he said, his tone dismissive. “You’re here because the Order sees potential. We’re bound by purpose, not by past glories. Everything you were before today… is irrelevant.”
Aargon’s posture faltered, his bravado dimming as he glanced between Izzar and Viha, sensing the shift in control. Izzar’s cold authority left no room for argument.
Izzar’s gaze returned to Aargon, cold and unyielding. “Intelligent, but reckless. Too eager to prove yourself. Your father’s position may have shielded you before, but here, you stand or fall on your own merits.”
Aargon’s face reddened, his earlier ease fading beneath Izzar’s unyielding scrutiny.
“And Viha,” Izzar continued, his gaze locked onto hers, unyielding. “Champion, yes, but not out of loyalty. You left Gandron’s coliseums to escape your father’s grip, not to serve him. You cling to independence, yet here you are—bound by forces beyond your control.”
Viha’s defiance wavered, her grip tightening around her blade. She met his gaze unflinchingly, though a flicker of unease betrayed her at his unerring insight.
Izzar let the silence linger, asserting his authority as his cold assessment settled into the mist. His knowledge of them ran deeper than they were comfortable with, a silent reminder that, here, he held the upper hand.
The tension hung thick around them as Viha’s hand hovered over her sword, her grip firm yet restrained. Her breaths were measured but heavy, each one a testament to her defiance. She stood unwavering, her posture fierce, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with the fire of her people. The Champions—the ones she hailed from—were known for their relentless pride, their fierce independence, and their refusal to yield. To them, “thieves” was an insult, a simplification of a higher calling: to fight for the voiceless, to rebel against tyranny and exploitation, often at great risk—especially against powers like the Order of the Ipsimus.
Aargon’s voice broke through the fog, calm but resolute. “We’re part of the Order of the Ipsimus now, a hidden force that has endured for over nine thousand years,” he declared, his tone steady but carrying a hint of wonder. “Until days ago, I thought of them as myth—a legend whispered in the shadows of the Lybrarius. But here we are.” He turned to Izzar, bowing his head with measured respect. “I offer my skills and service to you, Izzar, and place myself at your disposal.”
Izzar returned the gesture with a slight nod, though his gaze sharpened with quiet suspicion. Aargon’s deference seemed too seamless, his loyalty almost too rehearsed, and it set Izzar on edge. The young Lybrarian was clever, too quick to please, and adaptable to a fault. Beneath Aargon’s polished exterior, Izzar sensed an undertow—an ambition, perhaps, or a hidden agenda. Was this loyalty genuine, or did Aargon’s bow conceal something darker?
Izzar’s gaze lingered on Aargon for a heartbeat longer, assessing before it shifted to Viha. Her stance remained defensive, her hand on her weapon a silent reminder that she would not bow to anyone—not to the Order, and certainly not to Izzar.
Viha held her ground, her hand firm on her weapon, eyes narrowed as she cast a wary glance between Aargon and Izzar. Her mistrust was palpable, a shield forged in battles where survival was earned through grit and defiance. Though her blade remained sheathed, a storm simmered just beneath the surface.
“Don’t think a few clever words will win my trust,” she said, her voice firm yet softened by a trace of sorrow beneath the defiance in her gaze. “The Order of the Ipsimus may have dragged us here together, but that doesn’t mean I’ll blindly trust either of you.”
A heavy silence followed, the mist curling around them as if the forest itself sensed their discord. The quiet pressed down like an invisible weight, thickening the air. Izzar felt the burden of his purpose grow heavier—Torne’s shadow cast long, an unyielding reminder of responsibilities he could neither escape nor fully share. His gaze shifted between Viha, fierce and tenacious, and Aargon, seemingly loyal yet unreadable. Bound to these two, they were as much mysteries as allies. Every step forward would be a gamble, each word a test of loyalty or hidden intent.
The fog thickened, merging with the muted, eerie sounds of the forest. Dark, gnarled trees loomed over them, their branches twisting through the mist like skeletal hands. The damp scent of soil and decay hung thick, mingling with the faint, unsettling calls of hidden creatures—a reminder that even in the silence, they were anything but alone.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Aargon’s voice slipped through the ambient forest noise, low and cautious, as though wary of stirring the shadows. “What exactly does Grand Master Torne expect from us?”
Izzar’s gaze rested on Viha, noting the defiant set of her shoulders and the grip of her hand around her weapon. Her unyielding pride was unmistakable, raw and untamed, a stark contrast to the rigid order of the Citadel. He studied her a moment longer than necessary, drawn to the fire in her stance, before shifting his attention to Aargon, his expression calm yet unreadable.
“He expects us to function as a single unit,” Izzar stated, his voice steady and calculated. “Until we prove we can act as one—no hesitation, no divisions—our real training won’t begin.” His gaze swept between them, gauging their responses, his tone sharpening. “None of us are here by choice, but we’re bound to a purpose. The fragments we seek, Oblivium stones, are scattered across this land. Torne has spent decades hunting them, finding only a few. It’s up to us to finish what he started, to trust each other—if only for survival.”
Viha scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she met his gaze. “Trust? I don’t know either of you,” she replied, her voice edged with defiance. “Trust doesn’t happen just because we’re lost in the same fog.”
“Maybe not,” Izzar replied, his tone steady as he held her challenging gaze, cold and inscrutable. “But in this place, it might be the only thing that keeps us breathing.”
The silence stretched, heavy with tension, and Izzar noticed a flicker of caution replace the curiosity in Aargon’s gaze. Aargon nodded, his voice steady but wary. “If we’re going to survive, we’ll need more than just skill. This forest… it feels alive, like it’s watching us. We’ll need each other.”
Izzar cast a steady gaze into the darkened depths of the forest, the weight of their mission pressing against him. The fog shifted around them, veiling and unveiling shapes in the wilderness as if the land itself were watching, waiting. The silence grew heavier, thick with unspoken doubts, and at that moment, Izzar knew they had crossed an invisible line—each step from here would lead them further from safety, and turning back was no longer an option.
The tension between them grew heavier as Izzar continued, his voice calm, laced with an authority that left little room for doubt. Aargon couldn’t shake the myth of the exploding mountain—a riddle he’d studied in fragments, whispers within the Lybrarius Order. The story spoke of a power so immense its wielder had lost control, annihilating himself, his followers, and the very mountain they stood upon. Now, here he was, in the same world tied to that legend, a thrill mixed with unease settling in his bones as if he could feel that lost power echoing beneath his feet.
“Does Grand Master Torne venture out alone for the stones?” Aargon asked, his curiosity rekindling, mind racing with the possibilities hidden in Izzar’s words.
Izzar turned, a faint smirk appearing as he noted Aargon’s oversight. “Grand Master Torne,” he corrected, his tone quiet but sharp. “Yes, he ventures out alone—rarely, but with purpose. When he does, he’s gone for days, returning only when he’s uncovered something… substantial.”
Izzar’s gaze swept over the mist-cloaked landscape, his expression inscrutable, as if the secrets of the stones were his alone. He faced his companions, his tone carrying a cold certainty.
“These stones defy explanation,” he said quietly, each word deliberate. “They aren’t relics, nor anything the Lybrarius could catalogue. They’re anomalies—impervious to any device, any scanner. It’s as if they choose to reveal themselves only to those who seek them in the flesh.”
Viha’s scepticism flickered, replaced momentarily by a glint of intrigue, though her stance remained guarded, arms crossed as if warding off the mystery surrounding Izzar’s words.
“So,” she said, voice cold, “we’re supposed to hunt stones that refuse to be found. With no tools, no tech?”
Izzar nodded, his gaze steady. “Precisely. They’re bound to something deeper—something that only responds to us, not machines.” His words lingered, dense with unspoken meaning.
Aargon leaned closer, his gaze narrowing as he tried to grasp the substance’s nature. “But… how? Every material leaves traces—residue, radiation, something that even outdated tech could pick up. Why are these stones different?”
Izzar’s gaze hardened, his voice chilling. “Precisely. These stones leave no trace—a blank in the landscape that machines can’t perceive. Only a human can find them as if they’re attuned to something… deeper within us.”
Viha watched the exchange in silence, her expression sharpening with guarded scepticism. She didn’t speak, but her gaze alone conveyed her thoughts—this Order, with its veiled secrets and cryptic agendas, was still under her scrutiny.
Aargon’s brow furrowed as he grappled with Izzar’s revelation. An invisible substance? It defied everything he’d been taught within the Lybrarius. Such a phenomenon was unheard of—eluding science, shunning logic. Yet here, in this desolate, fog-bound world, myths and impossibilities had taken form. His gaze drifted toward the twisted shadows cloaked in mist, a landscape shrouded in secrets. For the first time, he felt the magnitude of their search—a force beyond comprehension, beyond reason, buried deep in the silent soil of Dessix.
After a long pause, Viha’s voice cut through the silence and edged with challenge. “Say we find one of these stones. Then what? What happens to us?”
Izzar’s gaze turned distant. “We retrieve the fragments,” he replied, his tone clinical. “And then… we follow where the inscriptions lead.”
They fell silent, each grappling with the weight of the task before them. Around them, the forest loomed closer, branches arching as though to listen, the mist curling like ancient tendrils. It was as if the trees held secrets as ancient as the stones, watching and waiting for the trio to uncover what lay hidden.
The sky darkened, a deepening blue overtaken by a band of clouds gathering on the horizon, ominous and foreboding. Time was slipping through their fingers; they all felt its urgency. Each of them was to retrieve a stone alone, yet Izzar suspected this was no mere hunt. Knowing Torne’s designs, he sensed that teamwork would be essential to succeed. It was a concept that felt foreign to him—he had only ever trusted his grandfather or Tarium in the field. Now, he would have to depend on these two strangers, a thought that gnawed at him.
Izzar’s mind drifted to the sketches he’d meticulously drawn of the stone fragments—a star-like scattering across the valley as if a cosmic force had cast them in a deliberate pattern. Every time he felt close to grasping its meaning, it eluded him, slipping from his thoughts like a half-remembered dream. He sensed a design, something grander hidden beneath the surface, yet its full shape remained beyond his reach.
Izzar surveyed the dense jungle with a sharp, calculating gaze, the tangle of vines and mist scarcely a hindrance as he moved with quiet purpose. The foliage seemed to part before him as he brushed aside a thick cluster of leaves, squinting to assess his surroundings.
“What are you looking for?” Aargon’s voice broke the silence, filled with unguarded curiosity.
Izzar didn’t respond at first; his focus was on the terrain. Viha, keeping her distance, watched him carefully, her gaze sharp, tracking his every move.
After a pause, Izzar turned, his voice measured. “A tool—a stick or something sharp.” He didn’t need to explain further; the authority in his tone made his purpose clear.
Without hesitation, Viha’s sword flashed from her side, slicing through the air as she tossed it to him with a calculated flick. Izzar caught it by the hilt with practised ease, his grip steady, as if expecting the gesture.
“Consider it yours,” Viha murmured coolly, her gaze fixed on a distant point in the mist, maintaining a practised indifference that belied the tension in her stance.
Izzar knelt, lowering the sword to the ground as he etched precise lines into the soil. Slowly, a faint star shape emerged—a map he’d mentally pieced together countless times before. Each line was drawn with deliberate care, a silent signal to Viha and Aargon of the calculated purpose that guided him.
Izzar paused, his gaze lingering on Viha’s sword, appreciating its elegant design and lethal precision. The black metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, and the subtle engraving of the Gandron Champions’ crest on the hilt caught his eye. It was a symbol of defiance, power, and purpose, and it fit Viha perfectly. Without breaking his composed expression, he knelt and began tracing lines in the dirt.
At first, Izzar’s strokes appeared chaotic, lines crossing over one another without a clear direction. But slowly, a pattern emerged—a map of the valley in the shape of a star, each line connecting points where fragments had been found before.
“If my theory holds,” Izzar said, his tone steady and confident, “the stones are arranged in a star formation throughout the valley.” He pointed to specific marks in the dirt. “These points are where I’ve previously found pieces.”
Aargon leaned in, his curiosity piqued, studying the sketch intently. “It fits. If this pattern is accurate, then we’re near the centre of the force that scattered them. The smaller fragments should be close by, while the larger pieces are probably farther out.”
Izzar’s nod was barely perceptible, his focus unbroken. “Precisely. The centre holds the lesser shards, while the outer regions may reveal the true power of the fragments.” His words carried a weight of control, reinforcing his place as the one who would guide this search.
Viha, silent until now, suddenly spoke, her tone edged with intrigue. “Unless,” she interrupted, drawing Izzar’s attention, “the force that scattered these stones didn’t work that way. When a large stone shatters with enough power, the biggest pieces usually stay close to the impact, while the smaller shards are flung farther out.”
Izzar raised an eyebrow, briefly impressed by her insight. “It’s possible. From what I’ve observed, the stones don’t follow a strict pattern. Some large, some small—almost as if they were… placed, intentionally, waiting for us to find them.”
His words lingered in the damp air, wrapping around them like the fog itself, deepening the mystery with a purpose yet unknown. Viha and Aargon exchanged uneasy glances, each wrestling with the unsettling implication that this wasn’t a natural scattering, but a guided path—one created by forces they could barely understand.
Izzar’s gaze turned toward the mist-covered valley, his mind darkening with frustration. This wasn’t the first time he had combed through the valley, only to be presented with the same elusive, almost mocking pattern. The true power-laden fragments, he suspected, had been long claimed by Torne himself. What remained were carefully scattered tokens, remnants of little consequence, waiting for them like pawns on a chessboard.
“Grand Master Torne expects us to find stones that resonate with each of us,” Izzar said, his tone clipped, laced with controlled irritation. “The fragments we’re after aren’t scattered by chance. Torne placed them here long ago, testing us with something he already knows inside out.”
Viha’s gaze sharpened, catching the tension in his voice. “So why waste time pretending we’re actually searching?” she retorted, her impatience flaring. Izzar noted the fire in her eyes—it was defiant, undeterred, and it cut through the heavy air around them.
He shrugged, masking his own frustration. “Because if we bring him something unexpected—a fragment he hasn’t catalogued—he might finally pay attention,” he replied, his fingers tracing lines with renewed purpose. “That’s why I’m mapping this out. It’s not random. It’s a trail, a deliberate path he wants us to follow.”
Aargon’s eyes lit up, a glimmer of eagerness breaking through the tension. “Then let’s find it! What are we waiting for?” His enthusiasm was almost infectious, a counterpoint to Izzar’s simmering frustration, grounding him, if only briefly.
Yet, as Izzar glanced back at the mist-cloaked valley, a sense of foreboding crept over him. This wasn’t merely a trial; it felt like a trap laid with Torne’s careful precision.
As they pushed through the dense undergrowth, the fog thickened, closing in around them like an ancient shroud, cloaking the path ahead in an impenetrable haze. Distant calls and the rustling of unseen creatures grew louder, the sounds almost sentient, as if the valley itself were observing their every move. Izzar moved with calm precision, navigating twisted roots and sidestepping thorn-laden vines with the ease of someone who had tread this ground before.
He cast occasional glances back at Aargon and Viha. Uncertainty marked their faces—Aargon’s eyes were wide, filled with cautious curiosity as he absorbed each foreign sound, while Viha’s jaw was set, her stance poised and tense, like a predator ready to strike. The confidence she had shown in the Citadel seemed to waver, if only slightly, in the face of this uncharted wilderness. Yet, she pressed forward, her resolve unyielding.
“This place…” Aargon’s voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with awe as he glanced around the dense mist. “It feels… alive. As if it’s watching us.”
Izzar’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk. “It’s the valley,” he replied, his tone almost mocking the ominous fog around them. “It has a way of testing you, showing you things that don’t make sense, things that don’t exist. It knows when you don’t belong.”
Viha scoffed, folding her arms with a challenging glint in her eye. “Please, it’s just fog and noise. A few ghost stories won’t scare me.”
But Izzar could hear the tension beneath her defiance, the slight edge in her voice betraying a simmering unease. He knew this valley could find its way under anyone’s skin, exposing fears they weren’t prepared to face. He’d felt its effects before, seen the shadows twist and shift with malicious intent.
“Stay close,” he said, a rare gentleness in his voice that softened his usual edge. “There are traps out here, relics of older paths laid to guard the stones. It’s easier than you’d think to wander into one.”
Viha threw a defiant glance in Izzar’s direction, her expression hardening, as if daring the valley to challenge her. But beside her, Aargon’s confidence faltered, a flicker of unease darkening his gaze as he instinctively edged closer to Izzar. The mist thickened with each step, swallowing the light and muting the world around them in shadows and strange, distant sounds.
Branches seemed to bend under an invisible weight, leaves rustling with a whisper that felt unnervingly sentient. The valley closed in, a living maze of shifting paths and hidden dangers, its depths unreadable to all but Izzar.
For Izzar, this was familiar ground—a place designed to deceive, to test. The stones lay scattered somewhere within this twisted landscape, wrapped in mystery and danger. But for Aargon and Viha, the valley was a new world, a hostile expanse that felt like it was watching them with hidden eyes. As they ventured further, Izzar felt a new weight pressing on him—not merely to find the stones, but to guide his companions through whatever trials awaited.
