The sun crept over Netharial’s rooftops, golden light spilling through the arched windows of the training yard. Birds trilled from the trees lining the stone walls, and the distant cluck of roosters echoed from the market square. A rare moment of peace—but inside the Dawnbreaker grounds, steel clashed and feet pounded against the mat.

  Sparring was in full swing. Recruits shouted instructions, encouragement, and the occasional insult. On the far end of the courtyard, Kaelen sat cross-legged on a bench, elbows resting on his knees, watching with hawk-eyed precision. Most avoided pairing with him; he didn’t blame them. Ever since the spar with Rekto, whispers had spread—Windbearer, shard’s heir, or worse.

  He exhaled, pushing the thoughts aside. I’m not here to intimidate anyone. I just want to get stronger.

  A voice cut through the clamor.

  “Can we spar?”

  Kaelen blinked. A broad-shouldered figure stood before him, calm yet imposing, muscles rippling under the morning light.

  “Sure. I’m bored,” Kaelen said, rising and stretching his shoulders. “Your name?”

  “Varen. Just want to see your skills. Didn’t get to watch your match with Rekto.”

  Kaelen grinned faintly. “Heard the rumors though, right?”

  “Yeah. Better to experience it.”

  On the balcony, Master Caelum leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He descended the stairs as the two approached the mat.

  “No shards,” he said, stepping between them. “Just fists.”

  Kaelen nodded. Varen mirrored him, eyes steady. Both took their stances, feet shoulder-width apart. Kaelen studied him—the stance was solid, confident, not flashy. He’s used to being the strongest in the room.

  Caelum raised his hand. “Ready… Begin!”

  Varen surged forward, spinning into a reverse kick aimed at Kaelen’s side. Air whistled past his ear. Fast. Heavy. Not holding back.

  Before Kaelen could react, Varen swept low, attempting to knock him off his feet. Kaelen vaulted over with a front flip, landing in a low stance. Not bad, he thought, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

  Varen closed the gap instantly. A front kick grazed Kaelen as he twisted his torso, followed by a sharp side kick snapping against his jaw. Head jerked back, he clenched his teeth. He’s better than Rekto. Time to go on the offensive.

  Kaelen moved in, jabs snapping out. Varen blocked with controlled power, then countered with a hook. Kaelen slipped under it, twisted behind him, and attempted to flip him overhead. Varen rolled mid-air, landing on his feet. A soft gasp ran through the onlookers.

  Alright… not just muscle. He’s got instincts, Kaelen thought, smirking internally.

  He dashed forward, feinting a jab, then struck with double rising kicks—ribs, chest—forcing Varen backward. The larger man grunted, skidding slightly across the mat.

  They squared off again, panting, sweat gleaming on their foreheads.

  “Enough,” Caelum called, stepping forward.

  Kaelen exhaled, lowering his guard. Varen nodded respectfully, brushing dust from his arms.

  Caelum turned to Varen. “So… what do you think of Kaelen?”

  “He’s strong,” Varen said.

  “And you, Kaelen?”

  Kaelen cracked his neck, grin widening. “Really good. Would love more time with him.”

  Caelum shook his head. “No chance. If I let you two go at it, we’d be here till nightfall.”

  Kaelen clapped Varen on the shoulder as the others scattered to shower. “Hey, let’s spar often.”

  “Finally, someone who can keep up,” Varen replied.

  Caelum chuckled. “Everyone, dismissed. You smell like a barracks floor.”

  Laughter echoed across the courtyard as the Dawnbreakers dispersed, leaving Kaelen and Varen already thinking about their next match.

  The training hall was silent. Where grunts, laughter, and the clash of fists had filled the space moments ago, now only the whisper of wind against tall windows and the occasional creak of the beams above remained. Dust floated lazily in sunbeams streaming from the skylights.

  Kaelen stood at the center mat, chest rising and falling from the morning spar. A fine sheen of sweat glimmered along his jaw. He stretched, shaking out the stiffness in his shoulders, eyes fixed on Master Caelum, calm and unreadable as ever.

  What new move is he about to teach me? Kaelen wondered.

  Caelum’s pale eyes were distant, calculating. He’s ready for it. One of his father’s favorites… I’ll keep it tempered for now, just enough to test him, he thought.

  Without a word, Caelum walked to the corner and retrieved a thick training log, bark still clinging to it. He set it upright on the mat with a solid thud. Kaelen’s brow rose in curiosity.

  “All right,” Caelum said, folding his arms. His voice carried weight, personal and deliberate. “You’ve come a long way. Your wind and lightning control is solid. Time to teach you one of your father’s signature techniques.”

  Kaelen blinked. “Wait—one of his? What kind of move?”

  “The Wind Blade,” Caelum replied. “His version was far stronger than anything I can do. I’ll show you the concept.”

  He stepped back and raised his right arm. In fluid motion, white fur erupted down his forearm, claws extending into black talons that caught the light like polished obsidian. He angled his fingers into a knife-hand, stance rooted, breath steady.

  Kaelen tensed, sensing the shift in air pressure around him. Then—snap.

  A sharp arc of compressed wind shot from Caelum’s hand, nearly invisible save for the distortion in its wake. It struck the log dead center with a crisp shhhck, splitting it cleanly. The halves tilted apart as if stunned. Caelum exhaled, letting the beast form fade.

  “Gather the wind. Compress it into a fine line. Release it in one clean strike,” he said, tapping a clawed finger to his temple. “Precision. Control. Aim carefully.”

  Kaelen stepped forward, eyes on the split log. “You make it sound so easy…” He planted his feet and shaped his arm into the knife-hand form, reaching for the wind. The air swirled, pressure building—but when he tried to compress it, it burst outward in a sudden gust. His mink-brown hair whipped into his face, Caelum’s cloak rippled, and a few old scrolls fluttered loose.

  “You’re forcing it,” Caelum said, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t about strength. Remember your lightning training—how you willed it to dance around your fingers? Same here. Don’t pull the wind. Shape it.”

  Kaelen inhaled slowly, narrowing his eyes, centering himself. Fingers steadied, arm lifted again into the knife-edge form. He visualized a narrow, taut line.

  This time, the air gathered cleanly, shimmering faintly along the edge of his hand like a trembling veil. He swung.

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  The Wind Blade shot forward—silent, impossibly fast, slicing through the replacement log with a clean crack, scattering chips as both halves toppled. A flicker of a grin touched Kaelen’s lips.

  Damn, he caught that fast. But… still too thick, Caelum thought, crouching beside the log and running a clawed finger along the uneven edge.

  “Not bad. But see this?” he asked, pointing to jagged splinters. “It’s not thin enough. A sharper blade would leave a flat, clean slice. More control.”

  Kaelen studied the log with scrutiny, nodding.

  “And the prep time—it took you ten seconds. In a real fight, that’s ten seconds too long. You need to summon and fire this in half a second.”

  Kaelen’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. “Half a—Master, seriously? That’s insane.”

  “It is,” Caelum admitted, voice lowering. “But it’s a move that can save your life. Your father used it to cut through oncoming attacks—energy bolts, arrows, even shockwaves. He never used it directly on someone. Too dangerous.”

  Kaelen clenched his fists, determination flaring. “All right. Let’s do this. I’ll master it.”

  Before Caelum could respond, the hall door creaked open. Footsteps echoed sharply. Verona entered, urgency etched on her face, a sealed scroll tucked under her arm.

  “Master. Urgent mission request—immediate attention.”

  Caelum’s brows drew together. “Understood.” He turned to Kaelen, voice crisp again. “You’re coming. Let’s go.”

  Kaelen spared a final glance at the split log, a whisper of wind trailing his steps as he followed, determination simmering behind his eyes.

  The heavy door creaked open, letting in the faint scent of night air and dust as Verona, Kaelen, and Caelum stepped into the chamber.

  The soft glow of a wall-lantern flickered over aged maps and ink-stained notes scattered across the long oak desk. Luka stood nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set. Against the shadowed far wall, Lysera leaned on a towering bookcase, eyes narrowed, foot tapping lightly on the stone floor.

  But it was another presence that drew attention—a man as still as a statue in the corner, half-shrouded in shadow. Lean frame, cloak pinned at the shoulder, ash-gray hair tied back, revealing sharp cheekbones and eyes like cold slate. Alert. Watching everything.

  Luka broke the silence, nodding toward him. “Sir, this is Riven. He brought the intel. One of our best.”

  Without fanfare, the man stepped forward, movements clean, deliberate. His voice was clipped, calm, each word cutting with purpose. “The prison’s buried beneath a ruined tannery. Southeast quarter of the Black Span. Four floors down. Old tunnels. Reinforced stairwell.”

  He drew a set of rolled parchments from his belt and handed them to Caelum. “Guard rotations—light but layered. Six at the gate. Two posted per floor. Three mobile patrols, twelve-minute circuits. Overlapping routes. Two low-tier branded stationed inside at all times.”

  Caelum unrolled the maps, scanning the hand-drawn layouts and meticulous notes. Riven’s tone remained flat, precise. “I couldn’t access the lower chambers fully, but I transcribed what I could—prisoner lists, intake records, status tags.” A pause. “Most are political hostages. Family of defectors. Blackmail bait. A few flagged for… something else. Moved rarely. Never leave once they go below level four.”

  Kaelen’s posture stiffened, jaw tightening, arms folding. Lysera’s fingers twitched subtly, as though already reaching for hidden blades.

  Caelum looked up, eyes sharp. “You got this close?”

  Riven met his gaze evenly. “Close enough. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.”

  He stepped back, as if his role was done, then paused. “Transfer logs indicate flagged prisoners move in the next cycle. Could be hours. If you’re going… move fast.”

  Then, like smoke, he melted into shadow. Silence claimed the room.

  Caelum lingered, flipping through the pages, absorbing every detail. He closed them with a crisp snap and turned to the group. “Excellent work. Luka—keep him on hand. Updates on the Black Span every two hours.”

  Luka’s eyes flicked toward Riven, respect quiet but evident.

  Caelum’s gaze swept over the room. “This mission—”

  “Let me do it,” Lysera interrupted. Every head turned. She pushed off the wall, boots clicking softly against stone. Posture sharp, eyes burning. “I want this one.”

  Caelum studied her, expression unreadable. “You’re sure? This won’t be simple. Alone. No backup in the lower halls.”

  Lysera’s gaze didn’t waver. “You know I can do it, Master.”

  A tense beat. Kaelen stepped forward, brows drawn tight, voice low but urgent. “Sir, let me go with her. She’ll need backup.”

  Caelum’s voice cut through instantly, stern and unyielding. “No. You’re not ready.”

  Kaelen’s jaw clenched. He didn’t argue, but frustration—and a sliver of fear—flickered in his eyes. His gaze lingered on Lysera just long enough to read her unspoken reassurance. I’ll be fine. I’ve got this.

  The weight pressing on his chest didn’t ease.

  Caelum clapped his hands sharply, final. “Lysera, prep your kit. You leave at nightfall.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, voice steady.

  The spell of tension broke. Luka moved to brief the rest of the unit. Verona gathered Caelum’s next schedule. Riven had already vanished, a phantom slipping silently from the chamber. Kaelen lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes following Lysera as she turned, armor catching the lanternlight like fading stars.

  One by one, they scattered to their duties. But the chill didn’t leave with them—it lingered in the air, like a whisper of something unseen, waiting to rise.

  The room was quiet, save for the soft clinking of metal. Lysera sat on the edge of her cot, meticulously inspecting Triastra, piece by piece. She extended the rifle into sniper form, checking the sight calibration, then snapped it back into its compact mode with practiced grace. The gears clicked smoothly—no jams, no resistance. Satisfied, she rested it gently across her lap.

  Moonlight spilled through the window slats, cutting silver streaks across the floor. Her cloak was folded neatly nearby, boots lined up straight. Every strap checked. Every buckle secure. Every movement precise, deliberate, focused.

  She tugged her gloves tighter, flexing her fingers once… twice.

  A knock interrupted the rhythm.

  “…?” she murmured, standing and brushing loose strands of hair from her face.

  Kaelen stood at the door, awkward but composed, brow faintly furrowed, one hand curled around something he held tightly.

  “Kaelen? Is this going to be a habit—knocking on my door every time Master Caelum shoots you down?” Her tone was teasing, though edged with fond exasperation.

  “What? No. I’m not that predictable,” he replied, rolling his eyes. Then he held out his hand, revealing a small rolled messaging scroll, tied in black string. Rune etchings traced its outer layer—standard Dawnbreaker issue, reserved for extreme circumstances.

  “Here.”

  Lysera tilted her head, puzzled. “What’s this?”

  Kaelen’s voice was quiet but firm. “If you get into something you can’t handle, use it. I’ll come running. No matter what.”

  She took it slowly, eyes flicking between the scroll and his expression. Her lips pressed into a line.

  “Kaelen… I don’t need this. Do you not trust me?”

  “No,” he said without hesitation.

  Thud. Her fist connected with his shoulder, making him stagger back.

  “Idiot,” she muttered.

  “Ow—! Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!”

  She opened her mouth for another jab, but Kaelen caught her wrist. His grip was gentle but firm. And then, without warning, he pulled her into a hug. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just solid, anchored.

  Lysera blinked, stunned for half a heartbeat. Then she felt it—the steadiness, the unspoken worry he carried beneath his composure.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do,” he said quietly. “But missions can go sideways. If it happens… just message me. Keep the scroll. For my peace of mind.”

  She exhaled slowly against his shoulder, tension easing.

  “Alright, alright… don’t start crying on me now.”

  “What? I don’t cry. I’m a man,” he said.

  “Yeah, right. You sniffled when you stubbed your toe last week.”

  “That was tactical,” he replied, voice earnest.

  They both laughed softly, the sound small and private, then let the hug end.

  Kaelen’s expression shifted to seriousness as he stepped back. “Good luck tonight, Lysera.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back. So get stronger while I’m gone,” she said, nodding, a faint smile touching her lips.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t boss me around,” he said, grinning faintly.

  Her gaze lingered—steady, fierce, confident—before she turned and closed the door gently behind her.

  Back in his room, Kaelen dropped to the floor and began slow, repetitive training motions: push-ups, breathing drills, one-legged squats. His body moved, but his mind was elsewhere. The scroll rested on his table, still within reach, and he kept glancing at it as if expecting it to spark.

  He told himself she would be fine. She was trained, capable, prepared. Yet the worry gnawed at him quietly, unrelenting.

  The chamber reeked of burnt incense and old iron. Flickering lanterns cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, shadows that seemed almost alive, echoing the ghosts of past failures. Maps, bone-etched diagrams, and crimson-streaked notes lay scattered across the ritual table in front of Renore.

  He stood, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed, muttering beneath his breath.

  “Too many failures. The boy slips further from reach. The girl’s the key. Always watching, always protecting. Take her away, and the boy crumbles,” he murmured, low and measured.

  Footsteps echoed down the stone hallway—deliberate, calm, heavy, as if each step pressed into the air itself. Renore didn’t glance up.

  A cultist arrived, bowing slightly. “Silla is prepared, sir. Awaiting your orders.”

  “She’s not enough,” Renore replied, voice sharp. “I need someone who won’t fail. Not like the Jackals. Not like the others.”

  The temperature seemed to drop as a new presence entered unannounced. Flamelight dimmed slightly, the shadows twisting. A tall figure stepped in, robe trailing like smoke. His face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but the air around him coiled with malice, tightly restrained yet palpable.

  He stopped just within the lantern’s reach.

  “I heard… the girl is dear to that boy with the storms,” the figure said, voice smooth, curious.

  Renore’s gaze followed him, calculating. “Yes. She is.”

  A smile flickered beneath the hood—feral, hungry.

  “Then I’m in.”

  Silence stretched. The fire cracked, shadows flickered. Renore stared, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  “Fine. Raen Varos, you’re good enough. But no mistakes this time. That botched ritual a month ago cost us months of work.”

  Raen tilted his head, chuckling coldly. “I got… creative. Won’t happen again.”

  Renore’s fingers drummed once on the table, then he turned. “You’re going with Silla. Follow the plan. Take the girl. Leave a message the boy can’t ignore.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave more than a message,” Raen said softly.

  The firelight flickered violently—and then returned to stillness.