Three long days passed in the Royal Archives of Wolfsbane Keep. Three days of dust. Three days of ink-stained fingers and tired eyes.

  Three days of searching through centuries, if not millennia, of Primeran history.

  The archives themselves were a labyrinth of towering shelves and narrow aisles, the air thick with parchment and candle smoke. Ancient tomes rested beside brittle scrolls, their pages filled with records of kings, wars, treaties, and long-forgotten rituals.

  For the first time in generations, nearly every table in the hall was occupied.

  Godric sat hunched over a massive history tome that looked like it had personally survived three wars. He squinted at the page.

  “…I’m convinced the person who wrote this hated the future.”

  Anarór?, seated beside him, glanced over the text. “It is simply written in Old Primeran.” Godric pointed at a particularly ugly sentence.

  “That word has twelve letters.”

  “Yes.”

  “And four of them are silent.”

  Anarór? nodded calmly. “That was fashionable at the time.” Godric groaned.

  Across the hall, Wyatt slammed a book shut with enough force to startle several nearby scholars. “I've discovered something important.” Sindras looked up from his own reading.

  “What is it, lad?”

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair, massaging a headache.

  “Human historians are terrible.”

  Vargas didn’t even look up from his scroll. “We knew this already.”

  Michael, lounging sideways in a chair nearby, raised a hand. “I would like to officially record that I am not participating in this scholarly nonsense.” Gabriel slid another book toward him without looking.

  “Read.”

  Michael stared at it. “…Tyranny.”

  Across the hall, the Azanean leaders studied texts of their own. Rashid had taken to reading trade ledgers from early dynasties, fascinated by the evolution of commerce between the continents. Khor'gul, by contrast, had finished exactly one book. He had then declared it “sufficient knowledge” and spent the remainder of the time sharpening his axe. Malrik sat quietly beside a lantern, reading religious texts that dated back to the founding of Primera itself.

  At the largest table in the center of the archive stood Byronard. He wasn’t reading. After nearly a day and a half of reading, he decided to rest instead and observed everyone reading through countless volumes and stacks of books, scrolls, and ledgers. His brother was always more scholarly than he was. The days Septimus spent in the library were days Byronard spent training and carrying out missions.

  Alexander sat alone at the far end of the table, a book open before him, but he wasn’t turning the pages. His violet eye glowed faintly in the dim candlelight. In the past, he'd always covered it with a patch to avoid attention, but after being in charge of the kingdom, planning strategies, and forming plans, he had grown accustomed to leaving it bare for all to see.

  Byronard approached quietly. “You haven’t read a single page in the last hour,” he said. Alexander didn’t look up.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “That is usually a dangerous sign.”

  Alexander gave a faint smile. “Well, sometimes.”

  Silence lingered between them. Then Byronard spoke again. “You're keeping something from us, aren't you?”

  Alexander finally lifted his head, surprised. He knew Byronard had naturally sharp senses and good intuition, and he considered himself unreadable, given his time spent as a mercenary. The sudden question caught him off guard.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because,” Byronard replied calmly, “for the past months, you’ve looked like a man walking beside a storm. I thought it might have been the sudden responsibility being thrust upon you, but I have lived a life filled with oaths clouded in secrecy, and I understand the weight of burdens more than anyone here, I'd wager.” He looked at Alexander with cloudy eyes. "Something happened."

  Alexander looked away. The memory of that conversation still lingered in his mind. The way she had smiled. The way she had spoken was as if the truth were obvious. The voices echoed in his mind.

  The debt will be reclaimed. Your brother was meant to pay it. But fate is strange, little king, and now the debt belongs to you.

  Alexander’s fingers tightened slightly on the table. Only he knew. Only he had heard it from her lips, and he had not yet decided whether the others should.

  Before Byronard could ask another question, the entire building shook. Books fell from shelves. Lanterns swayed violently. Strange noises echoed from beyond the walls.

  Godric jumped to his feet.

  “What was that?!”

  Wyatt was already standing. “Whatever it was, it sounded massive.”

  Gabriel’s hands went to her daggers.

  “Everyone, stay alert.”

  Rashid was by the window when the shaking stopped. "Ahh. It seems someone important has arrived." He cleared his throat before pointing outside. "I believe that is the cause of the tremors."

  Everyone rushed to a nearby window and immediately saw the massive ship floating in the air, suspended mid-flight by an iron anchor that was dropped unceremoniously on the keep's gardens, cracking a fountain in two.

  "By the Divines," Michael groaned. "He really needs to cut back on the entrances."

  A few seconds later, a ladder dropped from an open section of the ship, followed by three figures who slid down the ladder in haste. Jophiel was seen smirking, seemingly proud of the damage caused by the anchor. Ziyad looked on, dumbfounded, while a hooded figure in ragged clothing surveyed the area.

  "He's back. That means the rest of the fleet must have been located and accounted for already." Byronard said, squinting his eyes. "But who on earth is that one they're with?"

  Jophiel burst into the archives, full of energy, while Ziyad and the stranger silently walked in behind him, seemingly embarrassed by the attention.

  "Good day to you all!" Jophiel announced. "It's been a while since we've been together. Have I got exciting news for—ow!"

  His announcement was cut short when Azrael marched up and pinched him by the ear.

  "Ow, ow, ow! Hey, Az, calm down!" Jophiel protested as Azrael dragged him to the center of the archives. She let go and delivered a slap that echoed across the room.

  Godric and the rest winced at the sight, while Michael and the other members of the Seven struggled to hide their smirks.

  "That," Azrael began, "was for leaving the Capital without any warning."

  "I told Gabby I was leaving!" Jophiel shot Gabriel a pleading look for help. She feigned ignorance, whistling softly.

  "In my defense, I did tell Sir Byronard," Gabriel replied. "He understood. We all did." She glanced at Azrael, who was still fuming. "...everyone except Azrael, maybe."

  "Give him a break, Azrael. Without Jophiel's help, we wouldn't have been able to ferry the Azaneans across the Evergleam." Michael stepped in, raising his hands. "He was also a big asset back in Nakarrah. The Azaneans can attest to that."

  Jophiel glanced at the Azanean leaders, who nodded in silent agreement.

  Azrael stood quietly for a moment, arms crossed. Eventually, she let out an annoyed grunt and relaxed.

  "Fine. But you owe us big time."

  Azrael returned to her table, Raphael murmuring something to her as Jophiel breathed a sigh of relief. Ziyad stepped forward, hoping to continue Jophiel's interrupted announcement.

  "It is a welcome sight to see you all again."

  His eyes swept across the room before he bowed respectfully after meeting his father's gaze. The man responded with a small nod.

  "...Did we stumble into something important?"

  Godric shook his head.

  "Both yes, and no. As you can see, we're preoccupied with digging through Primera's history. Long story short, we believe the Circles are on the move again."

  He picked up a book and shook it lightly.

  "It started with someone tampering with Lord Rykard's notes. The answer lies somewhere in Primera's past. We've been reading and cross-referencing everything to make sure the history lines up."

  "And am I correct to presume you've reached a dead end?"

  Godric nodded again.

  "I see. We'll have to set that aside for now." Ziyad gestured behind him. "I believe we have someone...interesting that you'd like to meet."

  The stranger stepped forward and removed his hood.

  Caine Dewblossom flashed a smile before bowing gracefully.

  "Lords and ladies," he said, "I have returned."

  Wyatt moved before anyone could react. He grabbed Caine by the collar and lifted him with ease. Rage burned across his face as old memories surged back.

  Cassian and Michael rushed to his side, trying to pull him away.

  "Wyatt! Steady yourself!" Michael shouted.

  "Hey—hey! Calm down!" Cassian pleaded.

  Raphael joined them, and even Khor'gul himself stepped in to restrain the furious man. It took the combined strength of three men and an orc chieftain to pry Caine free from Wyatt's grasp.

  "I want to know why he's here!" Wyatt roared as the others pinned him to a wall. "What are you up to now?!"

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Alexander watched as Caine gasped for air while Gabriel helped him to his feet.

  "He speaks true, Caine," the king said calmly. "If I recall correctly, I stripped you of your title and sentenced you to Thalorim for reflection."

  Alexander stepped closer.

  "So tell me, why are you here?"

  Caine cleared his throat and met Alexander's gaze.

  "No need to remind me, Your Majesty. The memory is still quite fresh."

  He smirked faintly.

  "No day passes without thinking about what happened between us. If I were given the chance to do it again—even knowing the outcome—I would do so gladly."

  He shrugged.

  "After all, I was only defending Lord Polifio's honor."

  The old Alexander might have responded with sarcasm—or a punch. But he had endured things far worse than a duel. Perspective had a way of changing a man.

  "Your Majesty…" Caine continued with a crooked grin. "Fate has a strange way of playing things out, doesn't it?"

  "You haven't answered my question."

  "I have information about the enemy you face." Caine folded his hands behind his back. "And I am more than willing to share it—and lend my aid—if you'll have me."

  He glanced toward Wyatt, who had calmed slightly but still stared daggers at him.

  "Oh, please—" Caine raised his hands in surrender. "Can't you see I come in peace? If the king can forgive me, why can't you?"

  "It depends on what your next words are," Wyatt replied coldly. "Out with it."

  "Very well then."

  Caine pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "You might want to sit for this. I've had quite the experience."

  The next half hour was spent rearranging books and records as the group prepared to listen. Caine hummed thoughtfully.

  "Now, where to begin… Ah. Yes. My punishment." He glanced at Alexander, who remained silent and attentive. "I did go to Thalorim. It was not pleasant, I assure you."

  "Before departing, I bid farewell to my father and told my brothers to look after him. I spent weeks traveling with nothing but my sword, a few extracts, and a miserable excuse for clothing."

  He chuckled bitterly. "I was reduced to an exile. Even common folk looked at me as though I were lower than pig shit."

  Several people in the room exchanged uneasy looks.

  "When I arrived in Thalorim, the kingdom was already in a terrible state."

  He raised his fingers one by one.

  "Did you know that several settlements had vanished?" He stopped at nine. "Nine towns. Entirely gone. What remained were smoldering ruins."

  His expression darkened.

  "And the devastation looked eerily similar to what happened to Rosetown."

  Godric glanced at Wyatt.

  "This is news to us," Dunwick said. "Eagleview sits only a few miles from Thalorim's borders. If something like that happened, we should have heard about it."

  "Unless someone prevented the messages from ever leaving," Raphael suggested. "Primera's mana barriers would detect anyone crossing the borders."

  Rykard nodded. "It is possible." He turned to Caine. "Please continue."

  "I may have been a lord second, but I was a knight first," Caine said. "So even in a foreign land, I helped where I could. I stole food from the rich and gave it to the starving."

  He shrugged.

  "Not exactly noble conduct, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I took it upon myself to investigate the disappearances as well, searching for a connection between them and Rosetown. I reached a dead end. Until they came."

  "Who?" Godric asked.

  "The Nameless."

  The room fell silent. Caine leaned forward.

  "I returned home seeking answers, only to find Primera already at war." He paused. "And by the time I arrived…my home was in ruins. My brothers were gone, and my father lay dead where his chambers once stood."

  His voice dropped.

  "Before I could even process it, an arrow struck my shoulder." Caine pulled aside his clothing, revealing a scar. Another mark rested on his chest, just above the scar Alexander had left during their duel.

  "Two arrows brought me down. The third would have finished me. I was bleeding out, and then I saw him."

  He looked at Wyatt and Cassian.

  "Did you ever wonder what happened to your friend? The one with the bow?"

  Wyatt stiffened.

  "You have him to thank."

  "That's a lie," Cassian said immediately. "Hawk disappeared months ago. We've already assumed he's dead." Wyatt opened his mouth to agree—then stopped.

  "You don't really believe that," Caine said quietly.

  Wyatt's silence was answer enough. "Where is he?" Wyatt demanded.

  Caine sighed. "That… is complicated. I lost consciousness shortly after. But before I blacked out, I saw him retreating. He wasn't alone. A group of those…things were with him."

  Caine met Wyatt's gaze.

  "It appears your friend now fights for the enemy."

  The room was completely still.

  "You don't trust me, do you?"

  Ziyad stepped forward.

  "I can attest to his story. I fought this archer myself during the assault on Sailor's Woe. He nearly killed me." Ziyad glanced at Caine. "This man intervened and saved my life. He could have left me for dead from the poison, but cured me anyway."

  Wyatt said nothing. His instincts told him something was wrong. But those same instincts had kept him alive this long.

  Alexander glanced toward Byronard.

  "Uncle," he said, "you've been awfully quiet. You are usually the first to ask questions. Something on your mind?"

  Byronard stood slowly. His arms were crossed. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I was simply surprised. Sir Caine speaks the truth. Although his past methods may have been…distasteful, I have never known him to lie." He stepped closer.

  "And besides…"

  Byronard tilted his head.

  "It seems we have another guest in our midst."

  The room froze.

  "You can reveal yourself now."

  Caine blinked in confusion. Then he suddenly burst out laughing. "You—you can see him, can't you?" He laughed harder. "Divines be praised—I knew I wasn't going mad!"

  "Wait," Rykard said, raising a hand. "I sense something. It's faint…but there is definitely someone else here."

  Suddenly, Caine convulsed violently and collapsed to the floor. Several people rushed forward—only to stop when the shaking ceased. Caine slowly stood, but something was wrong.

  His eyes had turned jet black.

  When he looked up, his smile felt…different.

  "Well, hello there!"

  A new voice spoke from Caine's mouth.

  It sounded youthful, mischievous, and powerful.

  "Young Dewblossom is perfectly alive. I merely…borrowed his body for a moment." He looked at Byronard and smiled. "You are very perceptive, Byronard Ilyn." Then he turned to Rykard. "And you as well, Wintertomb. Your ancestors would be proud."

  Weapons were drawn instantly.

  "Who are you?" Wyatt demanded.

  The stranger sighed and placed his hands on his hips.

  "My goodness. The youth these days are exhausting. Must we always jump straight to violence?"

  No one lowered their weapons. He rolled his eyes and glanced at Byronard.

  "Any help?"

  Byronard raised a hand.

  "Lower your weapons." The command stunned everyone. "It is disrespectful to threaten a divine being who comes in peace. Stand down."

  "A divine being?" Gabriel asked.

  "Who in the—"

  "Thank you!" the stranger said cheerfully. He gave an exaggerated bow. "I go by many names. But you know me best as—" He flashed a mischievous grin. "The Thief."

  The Thief straightened Caine’s posture as though adjusting a borrowed coat. Several weapons were still pointed in his direction.

  He sighed dramatically.

  “Must we begin like this?” he asked. “I came all this way to help, and the welcome is steel and suspicion.”

  “No one invited you,” Wyatt replied coldly.

  “Technically,” the Thief said cheerfully, “that’s not entirely true.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly across the archives, inspecting the towering shelves of books.

  “I spoke with the others before coming here.”

  That immediately drew everyone’s attention. “The others?” Michael asked.

  “The Divines, my dysfunctional, ” the Thief answered casually.

  The room grew silent.

  “Yes, yes,” he waved a hand. “The old council still exists, though we rarely bother with formal gatherings anymore. Very tedious affairs.”

  He stopped and turned toward them.

  “But after recent events… the rest of us decided it was time to intervene.” His black eyes scanned the room. “Which brings us to our little arrangement.” He tapped Caine’s chest lightly.

  “I required a Vessel.”

  Cassian stepped forward.

  “Out of everyone in this room,” he said carefully, “you chose him?”

  The question carried more suspicion than insult, though Wyatt clearly shared the sentiment. The Thief tilted his head.

  “What an interesting question.”

  He leaned against a nearby table.

  “You see, each Divine chooses their Vessel differently.”

  He pointed toward Wyatt first. “The Smith chose this one.” Wyatt frowned. "For his willpower,” the Thief continued, “and the inheritance he carries in his blood. That fire inside him? That stubborn refusal to break? The Smith loves that sort of thing.” He grinned.

  His gaze shifted toward Byronard.

  “And the Mother…”

  He placed a hand over his heart in mock reverence. “She chose Byronard, long ago, too, if I may add.” Byronard raised an eyebrow but remained silent. “A pure heart,” the Thief explained, “and a man who has dedicated his entire life to protecting others. Even when it cost him everything.”

  He chuckled softly.

  “The Mother has always favored souls like that.”

  Then his gaze slowly moved across the room until it rested on Godric. For the first time, the playful expression on his face faded.

  “And the Stranger…”

  He pointed directly at him. “Decided to create Godric.” Godric stiffened at the sudden attention from everyone.

  “Why?” Dunwick asked quietly.

  The Thief shrugged. “Because it was written. My brother is quite an enigmatic figure, even for us divine beings. He sees the future, but never finds time to share things.” The words hung in the air like a prophecy already fulfilled. Godric didn’t respond.

  After a moment, the Thief clapped his hands once and returned to his usual playful demeanor. “And that leaves me.” He gestured toward himself proudly. “I chose Caine.”

  Wyatt scoffed. “A disgraced noble and former criminal.”

  “Ah,” the Thief said, raising a finger, “and there it is.” He walked toward Wyatt and leaned forward slightly. "That word, a 'criminal', you say." He shook his head. “You see, most thieves are misunderstood.” His voice softened. “They are not villains. Many steal because they must. To feed a starving child. To help a dying friend. To survive when the world has abandoned them.”

  He glanced toward Cassian. “This man did no wrong.”

  Cassian frowned.

  “He fought us.”

  “Yes,” the Thief replied calmly. “Because he followed orders.” He looked at Alexander. “He defended his lord’s honor.” Then he looked back at Wyatt and Cassian. “And for that, he was branded a villain.”

  The Thief folded his arms.

  “He could have become exactly what the world accused him of being. A bitter man. A true criminal. But he didn’t.”

  He tapped Caine’s chest again.

  “Instead, he continued helping strangers. Stealing food for the starving. Protecting people who would never know his name.” The Thief smiled. "Now that is a thief I understand.”

  He stepped back and spread his arms.

  “So yes. I chose him.”

  He looked around the room.

  “And frankly, I think I made an excellent decision.”

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Weapons were slowly lowered, though none were fully sheathed. The room had fallen into a strange, uneasy silence. Several of the knights exchanged uncertain glances, while the scholars and leaders present seemed unsure whether to kneel, speak, or simply stare.

  A Divine. One of humanity's five gods now stood in the middle of the royal archives. Even the usually composed Raphael looked unsettled. Only three people in the room appeared unaffected.

  Wyatt, Godric, and Byronard. They had seen their gods before. Everyone else was still trying to comprehend what stood before them.

  The Thief noticed immediately.

  “Oh, please,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If you all start bowing and chanting prayers, I’m leaving. I find that terribly awkward.”

  A few awkward chuckles escaped the room, though most remained frozen in place. Godric finally stepped forward, rubbing his temples as though trying to ground himself in reality.

  “Then allow me to ask something,” he said.

  The Thief leaned forward eagerly.

  “By all means.”

  Godric crossed his arms.

  “How are you able to do this?”

  He gestured toward Caine’s body.

  “My father—the Stranger—never once appeared to us in such a manner. He spoke to me only from a secluded and holy place of the Dhilal. Even when I stood within his domain, he never crossed into our world.”

  The Thief groaned loudly. “Oh, don't remind me.” He began pacing again, clearly amused.

  “My dear brother and his eternal struggle against destiny.” He rolled his eyes. “You see, the Stranger has always had a… complicated relationship with fate.”

  Godric frowned slightly.

  “Despite his resistance,” the Thief continued, “he still follows the rules. It is his own power that binds him to them.” He tapped his temple thoughtfully. “Divine law, cosmic balance, boring old things like that.”

  Azrael spoke up.

  “You mean the Divines are forbidden from interfering directly?”

  “Correct!” the Thief chimed. “Well… mostly.” He turned around and raised a finger. “But unlike my brother, I possess a certain… flexibility.” He grinned mischievously. “I am the Thief, after all.” He tapped Caine’s chest again.

  “I can steal things.”

  He spread his arms dramatically.

  “Gold, secrets, shadows… and occasionally a body.”

  Several people shifted uncomfortably at that. “Relax,” the Thief added quickly. “Young Dewblossom is perfectly safe. I’m merely borrowing him for a time.” Caine’s body stretched slightly as though testing its joints. “Besides, it’s the only way I can interact with you lot without causing a cosmic headache for the rest of the heavens.”

  Michael sighed.

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Well, of course it does,” the Thief replied proudly.

  Then he clapped his hands once.

  “Now then!” He looked around the room expectantly. “Enough about me. You all seem to be in quite the predicament.” His playful smile faded slightly, replaced with something more focused. He leaned back against a table.

  “So tell me, what exactly have you discovered so far? I’d like to know what we’re dealing with before I start offering my brilliant insights.”

  Several members of the group glanced at one another. Godric looked toward Alexander. The king had been silent for most of the exchange, his expression unreadable.

  Now he slowly stepped forward.

  “If you truly intend to help,” Alexander said calmly, “then there is something you should know.”

  The Thief tilted his head.

  “Oh?”

  Alexander folded his hands behind his back.

  “Months ago, shortly after accepting who I really was, I spoke with someone.” The room quieted again. “Lilith.”

  Several people reacted immediately. Raphael stiffened. Michael narrowed his eyes. Byronard remained silent, but nodded slowly after his suspicions were proven right all along. Even Wyatt looked slightly surprised.

  The Thief, however, simply raised an eyebrow. “Well now,” he murmured. “That is already far more interesting than I expected.”

  Alexander paused for a moment, clearly weighing his words. Then he continued.

  “She told me something about the enemy we face.” His purple eye glinted faintly in the dim light of the archives. “They are not merely invading.” He looked around the room before finishing the thought. “They have come to collect a debt.”

  The Thief’s playful expression slowly faded. For the first time since his arrival…He looked serious.

  “…Ah,” he said quietly. “Well, that certainly complicates things.”