The hut was quiet.

  The kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, but absence. The kind that lingered after something vital had gone out of the world.

  A single candle still burned near the wall, its flame bent sideways, flickering toward a crack in the stone. The circle was gone, smudged out by blood and boots. No trace of magic remained. Only breath.

  Ysar sat near the threshold, unmoving. His eyes were fixed on the spot where Elsha had stood—where Marelis had smiled.

  He looked smaller now. Folded inward. Nothing like the man who had once carried her body through a forest in defiance of death.

  Across the room, Grimoire slowly sat up. Her skin still bore a soft, sickly glow. Pale green light lit off of her body, the place where it seems to be broken by the Stone construct seems to be healed, somehow. Unnaturally.

  After a long time, Ysar said quietly, “It wasn’t her.”

  Grimoire didn’t answer.

  He blinked, slowly. “She looked like her. Spoke like her. Even… smiled like her.”

  A pause.

  “That was Marelis, my mother.” Grimoire said softly.

  Ysar pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean for this.”

  “You wanted her back.”

  “I thought I could bring her back.”

  “You couldn’t, no one…. no one could do that” A beat in her speech, like she’s not sure.

  Grimoire stood slowly, her body is now fully healed. And she turns to the stair case behind, stepping.

  Ysar looked up at her. His eyes were hollow, his voice dull “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m following her,” she said.

  “To stop her?”

  Grimoire didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it either.

  “She’s dangerous,” she added. “She always was.”

  Ysar didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again.

  Grimoire turned toward the door. “You don’t have to come.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  She didn’t turn back.

  “Then stay,” she said. “You’ve done enough.”

  “I didn’t want this,” he said behind her, louder now. “I just wanted—”

  “Elsha is gone,” Grimoire said, quiet but final. “You knew that.”

  Silence stretched between them like a wall.

  After a moment, Ysar whispered, “I don’t have anything left.”

  Grimoire turned halfway, her face unreadable.

  “You talked about people,” she said. “Names I don’t know. Zafran. Karin. The Azure Wind.”

  He looked at her, confused.

  “You said them like they mattered,” she added.

  He looked away. “That was another life.”

  Grimoire’s tone didn’t change. “Then go back to it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then do something else,” she said. “I’m not your answer.”

  Ysar sat motionless, staring at the floor. The glow on Grimoire’s skin had dimmed now, pulsing slower.

  She reached for the door latch.

  “I’m not letting you clean up a mess I made,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

  She didn’t move.

  “But I don’t know where to begin. So if you’re going… then tell me everything. On the way.”

  A long pause. Then a quiet reply:

  “Fine.”

  Grimoire pushed open the door. Cold morning air swept into the room.

  They packed in silence. There wasn’t much to take. A few books. The blade. A canteen. The silence between them was no longer empty—it had shape now, like something just beginning to form.

  They left the hut as the light began to creep into the trees.

  Behind them, the hollow stayed dark.

  They didn’t speak at first.

  The forest path stretched long and grey before them, trees brittle and bare, their branches tangled like old threads left to unravel. Frost clung to roots and stones. Wind whispered overhead, thin and distant, but down here, the air was hollow. Stilled.

  Grimoire walked ahead—not to lead, but to avoid being behind. Her steps were measured, barely audible on the cold earth. Ysar followed a few paces behind, each step heavier than the last, his breath uneven and visible in the morning chill.

  Twice he opened his mouth to speak. Both times, nothing came.

  The third time, his voice finally broke through. “I want to understand. About her. About you.”

  Grimoire didn’t pause. Didn’t turn.

  “Who is she… your mother?” he added.

  Still, she kept walking. Then, in her flat, distant tone:

  “I was born sick.”

  Ysar frowned, catching the edge in her voice—not grief, not anger. Just a statement of fact.

  “Weak lungs. Always cold. Couldn’t run. Barely stood some days.” She walked as she spoke. “No father. She never named one. Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe she killed him. Maybe he wasn’t human.”

  He didn’t press her.

  “I died when I was seven.”

  That stopped him for a moment.

  “She brought me back,” Grimoire continued. “Planar binding. She kept my planar structure from slipping into the ground. Contained it. Anchored it back into my body.”

  Ysar swallowed. “She… resurrected you?”

  He remembered the stories—whispers of a witch in the woods who could undo death. He hadn’t believed them.

  “So that’s why they talk about her,” he muttered.

  Grimoire didn’t respond. She lifted one hand as she walked, pale green light threading faintly between her fingers. It pulsed, steady and wrong.

  “After that, I changed,” she said. “My planar changed. She didn’t recognize it. No element. No echo. Just silence and precision.”

  “Pale Thread,” Ysar said quietly.

  “She called it that later,” Grimoire replied. “Didn’t know what it meant. Still doesn’t.”

  A crow crossed the sky above them, silent wings cutting through the grey. Grimoire didn’t look up.

  “She kept testing. Animals. Rodents. Birds. Most came back wrong. Twisted. Some didn’t come back at all.”

  Ysar’s voice was thin. “Why?”

  “She wanted to refine it,” Grimoire said. “To rule life and death. Perfect resurrection. On her terms.”

  He glanced at her. The glow had faded now, but her presence still felt sharp—like standing too close to glass.

  “Then she tried it on herself,” Grimoire said.

  Ysar stiffened. “She used it… on herself?”

  “That’s when it ended,” she said. “Or so I thought. The ritual went wrong. Her body unraveled. There was nothing left. Not even blood.”

  He frowned. “But she—”

  “I thought she was gone,” Grimoire interrupted. “For years, I believed it.”

  She slowed, then stopped. The wind stilled.

  “But this morning,” she said, “when she looked at me through Elsha’s eyes… when she spoke with the voice I grew up hearing—I knew.”

  She turned, just slightly, glancing through the woods behind them.

  “She didn’t move on. Her planar didn’t dissipate. It stayed. Bound to the room. To the glyphs. Maybe even to me.”

  Ysar lowered his eyes. “She waited?”

  Grimoire shook her head faintly. “I don’t think she even knows how or why. I didn’t.”

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Then Ysar asked, “The stone construct… the thing she used on you. That’s new, isn’t it?”

  “She never succeeded in binding planar to anything lifeless,” Grimoire said. “It always broke down. Too unstable. But now… somehow, she’s done it.”

  Ysar looked down the path. “It’s Lucian. He did something like it too. Maybe… maybe she took it from Elsha’s body. A fragment. A pattern.”

  Grimoire said nothing for a time. Then:

  “She’s dangerous. She always was.”

  “How dangerous?” he asked.

  Grimoire’s voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “If she’s mastered binding planar to stone… she doesn’t need life anymore. She could raise an army.”

  That thought made Ysar’s spine tighten. His breath caught, flashing back to a memory—the iron swarm, Lucian’s constructs rising from the dark, marching through smoke and ruin.

  The silence returned, wrapping around them like fog. They kept walking.

  After some time, Ysar spoke again.

  “Do you hate her?”

  Grimoire didn’t stop. Her answer came only after several quiet steps.

  “She’s the only person I’ve ever had,” she said. “I don’t know what to call it.”

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  Ysar slowed, watching her from behind.

  And then he realized—the person who truly had nothing wasn’t him.

  The lift slowed. Then stopped.

  A seam of light split the door—silent, seamless—and dissolved into a crystalline arch.

  Zafran stepped out first.

  The sanctum of the Arcane Spire opened before them—vaulted, circular, impossibly high. The ceiling shimmered with arcane latticework, catching starlight that had no source. Beneath their feet, the floor gleamed with interwoven glyphs—active, ancient, and listening.

  At the heart of the chamber, seven thrones curved inward like the teeth of a divine mechanism.

  Six were filled.

  Zafran felt their presence before he met their eyes.

  Auren Drelis, Order, radiated stillness. His white robes bore no insignia, only silver thread at the seams. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He simply observed.

  Marrivelle Vhostra, Chaos, reclined with one elbow on her armrest, idly spinning a silver charm between two fingers. Her expression danced between boredom and private amusement.

  Hallas Vendrin, Flame, sat rigid—his red mantle sharp, eyes fixed on Zafran with deep-set disdain. He looked ready to burn the conversation before it began.

  Tyrell of Galden Rock, Geo, appeared half-asleep. One boot crossed over the other knee, a polished stone rolling slow loops in his palm.

  Sesryn Valora, Water, was composed precision. Hair tightly braided. Robes perfect. Her eyes were knives waiting for excuses.

  Ronver Tal, Wind, the youngest, stood behind his chair. Hands clasped, gaze unreadable. Already measuring everything, including Zafran.

  The seventh seat—raised at the center—remained empty a breath longer.

  Then Vaelion, Supreme Archmage of Arcane, entered, crossed the chamber without a word, and sat.

  The room shifted.

  Even the light dimmed.

  “You have the floor,” he said.

  Zafran stepped forward. His voice was calm, even.

  “Velgarth has fallen. Clouspeak is gone. Fyonar is moving. Days, maybe less.”

  A ripple passed—not surprise, only confirmation.

  Auren spoke first. “We’ve heard. Too much of it.”

  “And so he comes to demand we kneel under steel,” Hallas muttered.

  “Knight-commander arrogance,” said Sesryn, barely above a whisper.

  “He’s not even a mage,” Marrivelle added, almost conversationally.

  Ronver broke rhythm. “He’s Azure Rose.”

  Several heads turned.

  “Princess Seren’s knight,” he clarified. “Officially named.”

  “Ah,” Hallas sneered. “So we bow because some girl pinned a flower on his shoulder?”

  “She is the Princess, Hallas,” Auren said mildly.

  “It’s the name,” Sesryn said flatly. “Zafran Whise.”

  “Son of Balin?” Marrivelle echoed, more curious than accusatory. “Now that’s a name from an old mess.”

  “The traitor’s son,” Hallas said, voice like a drawn blade.

  Zafran remained still. “That charge was lifted. Unless this council now overrules the crown?”

  Marrivelle arched an eyebrow. “Sharp tongue. Dangerous place for it.”

  Zafran didn’t flinch. “Not as dangerous as delay.”

  Sesryn snapped, “You have no seal. No post. You don’t belong in this chamber.”

  “And yet you want our military,” Hallas said. “You want us to bend to a knight?”

  “I want you to look past titles,” Zafran replied. “To see what’s already here.”

  Another voice cut in—dry, cutting:

  “He wants the Academy’s forces. For himself.”

  “Not just any knight,” someone muttered. “One who killed his father, if I recall.”

  They weren’t speaking to him anymore. They were speaking about him. Dismissing him.

  Zafran said nothing.

  But Isolde scoffed. Loudly.

  All heads turned.

  “Oh, gods,” she said. “What a waste of breath.”

  “Watch your tongue, woman,” Sesryn snapped.

  Isolde stepped forward. “Last I checked, it still works. Unlike your sense of urgency.”

  Zafran shifted slightly, tried to quiet her with a glance. She ignored it.

  “I see a circle of overgrown egos too scared to admit the sky is falling. Cities are burning, and you’re squabbling over protocol.”

  “Careful,” Sesryn warned, rising partway.

  “I am careful,” Isolde said. “Careful enough to notice when blind pride turns into institutional stupidity.”

  Hallas stood. Flame burst from his sleeves, crackling toward Isolde—

  —at the exact moment she thrust her hand forward, a jagged spear of ice erupting from her palm.

  The two spells collided mid-air.

  The chamber lit in white and orange—heat and frost crashing with a violent boom. A pulse of pressure rippled through the air—

  —and then Vaelion moved.

  No gesture. No word.

  Just a surge of pure planar command radiating from his throne.

  The explosion died instantly. Flames vanished. Ice disintegrated. What remained was steam and silence—seared and stinging.

  No one spoke.

  Tyrell finally exhaled and flicked his stone into the air.

  “You know… this could go on for hours. Possibly years. We’ll still be arguing while Fyonar sets fire to the gates. I might die of old age before you lot settle the decision.”

  The stone hovered—then dropped.

  “I say we let him prove it.”

  Sesryn narrowed her eyes. “Prove what?”

  Tyrell shrugged. “Let’s do it the barbarian way. Classic.”

  “A duel?” Hallas scoffed, incredulous.

  “With an Archmage?” Sesryn said. “You want us to fight him? You want him dead?”

  Marrivelle spun her charm. “He challenged our unity. Might as well see what his steel can hold.”

  Tyrell added, “And no Archmage would kill the Azure Knight, right? It’s just a sparring trial.”

  “I’ll do it,” Hallas growled.

  Sesryn glared. “Of course you will. You’ve been itching to burn someone since he walked in.”

  “He insulted this council,” Hallas said, rising. “Let’s see if his sword has more respect.”

  Marrivelle smirked. “Someone’s having fun.”

  “I’m not afraid of a sword,” Hallas said. “He wants to prove himself? Let him try.”

  Zafran nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Ronver raised a brow. “You’re agreeing?”

  Zafran stepped back. “I came ready to fight a war. One pyromaniac relic isn’t going to stop me.”

  Hallas’s gaze darkened. “Then let’s see what the traitor’s son has learned.”

  Vaelion stood. The silence that followed was absolute.

  “Take it to the training terrace,” he said.

  No one argued. The council rose—each in their own time.

  Zafran turned. Isolde stepped beside him, face steady, voice low.

  “You ready?”

  He exhaled. “Not even close.”

  She gave a sharp smile. “Good. That means you’re alive.”

  And they walked.

  The duel circle gleamed, still hot from Vaelion’s planar reset.

  Zafran stepped into place, sword drawn. His breathing was shallow, but his grip was steady.

  Across from him, Hallas Vendrin barely moved. His mantle flicked in the windless air, his gaze cold and fixed.

  Above, the sky cracked faintly with distant stormlight—some long-sustained planar experiment still pulsing in the heavens. Below it, two figures faced one another in the etched dueling ring.

  The seven Archmagi sat in a half-moon above, watching from the observation tier—expressionless, save for one or two who already looked bored.

  Isolde sat lower, closer. Eyes sharp, unmoving.

  Other mages had gathered too—news moved faster than light here. But only named mages, the kind with standing, had dared to come and witness a duel like this.

  “It’s just a sparring match,” Auren’s voice echoed from above. “Though it carries the council’s voice—don’t go overboard.”

  Neither Hallas nor Zafran seemed to hear him.

  Vaelion exhaled. “I’ll count. Begin on zero.”

  “Three.”

  Both sides readied.

  “Two.”

  Hallas smirked.

  “One.”

  Zafran’s muscles tensed. Green and blue planar threads surged around his feet, coiling tightly.

  “Zero.”

  The dueling circle pulsed once.

  And Zafran moved.

  He exploded off the ground—planar threads lashing like lightning through his limbs. The glyphs beneath him hadn’t even faded before he was gone, a blur of pressure and steel.

  Across the ring, Hallas’s eyes widened.

  Too late.

  With a hiss and a flick of his fingers, he unleashed his planar—Chaos and Fire twining into a jagged curtain of black flame, erupting upward in a semicircle.

  Gasps echoed.

  It wasn’t a wall.

  It was a furnace.

  The temperature snapped. The air screamed.

  But Zafran didn’t stop.

  He drove straight into the inferno—like a spear through canvas.

  The flames devoured him.

  A split second passed.

  And then—he came through.

  The fire clung to him like living things—flame laced with entropy, biting into more than skin: into memory, thought, identity.

  The taste of scorched metal filled his mouth. His ears rang, sharp and high, like something inside him was cracking.

  His coat burned away mid-air. His right shoulder split open, blistered red and white. His breath didn’t come—his scream never reached the air.

  But the blade—the blade kept moving.

  And then—

  Steel kissed flesh.

  A single, perfect arc.

  Zafran landed hard, feet skidding across scorched stone as he twisted. His blade stopped at Hallas’s neck—flat, deliberate.

  A thin line of blood welled just below the jaw.

  Everything froze.

  But not the flame.

  The black fire still howled behind him, clawing at the ground, licking the edges of his coat, curling around his back like a second skin. It clung to him—alive, hungry, chaotic.

  Zafran stood there, shaking.

  And then his knees buckled.

  He dropped—hard. One hand hit the ground, the other still gripping the sword as if his life depended on it. His right arm, from shoulder to wrist, was charred black—the skin split, raw, and steaming. Smoke rose in thin curls off his back.

  The fire didn’t stop.

  It crept along the glyphs behind him, threatening to spill forward again.

  Only then did Hallas raise his hand—and with a flick of his fingers, extinguished the flames.

  A planar ripple passed through the ring. The air snapped cold. Silence dropped like a stone.

  And still—Zafran held the sword.

  Isolde was already running. “Ocean Tide!”

  Her voice cut through the silence like a bell in the fog.

  She dropped beside him, grabbing his arm, her hands already glowing faintly with ice-threaded healing magic.

  “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Just breathe.”

  Zafran didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  Above them, Hallas raised one hand. Calmly. Clearly.

  “Someone get a healer,” he said. His voice was low. Steady. “Now!”

  From the council seats, Auren was already standing, weaving a thread of restorative planar into the air. Another mage stepped forward briskly from the arch.

  Hallas looked at the blood on his fingers. Touched the line at his throat again.

  Then—to the stunned chamber—he muttered:

  “This kid… what a crazy bastard.”

  He looked up, voice heavier.

  “At least he’s alive.”

  Marrivelle knelt beside them. “Gods,” she murmured. “He took it head on.”

  Ronver, arms folded, stared without comment.

  All seven Archmagi now stood at the lower tier.

  Sesryn said nothing—but her eyes moved like she was already revising everything she knew.

  Tyrell chuckled under his breath. “Never seen you bleed before, Hallas.”

  “Shut up,” Hallas muttered.

  But he didn’t protest the result.

  Vaelion stepped down from his seat, his voice quiet—like the closing of a great book.

  “The trial is complete. The proposal stands.”

  No one objected.

  Isolde, still kneeling, whispered, “You insane bastard…”

  Zafran, barely audible, rasped, “Did I… win?”

  “You’re half-broiled, bleeding, and unconscious in ten seconds.”

  She smiled despite herself.

  “Yeah. You won.”

  The infirmary smelled of cooling salve, scorched cloth, and quiet.

  Zafran lay on his side atop the padded cot, shoulder wrapped in a mesh of planar threads that pulsed faintly with healing light. His skin was blistered and raw where the fire wall had eaten through armor and flesh. Each shallow breath marked the limit of what his body could still manage.

  Isolde sat beside him, arms crossed, coat tossed over the back of a chair. Her sword leaned against the wall, the hilt still rimmed with frost from earlier.

  “You look like a smoked ox,” she said.

  Roland, already present after hearing about the duel, blinked at her, visibly unsure if she was serious.

  Zafran coughed, then winced. “Still hungry, then?”

  “You jumped through a black-flame wall. Did you think the fire wouldn’t follow physics?”

  “I thought I was fast enough.”

  “You should study more magic. Chaos-fire clings even on a split-second touch.”

  Zafran didn’t argue. He just exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “Especially at that level of power.”

  The door opened with a faint planar hum.

  Ronver Tal stepped in, posture straight, eyes already assessing. Behind him, Vaelion entered without ceremony, quiet as drifting shadow.

  Ronver glanced at the bindings. “You should be unconscious.”

  “I’m working on it,” Zafran muttered.

  Vaelion made a low, amused sound. “Well, don’t die. I’ve had enough paperwork for one day.”

  Zafran blinked. “You do paperwork?”

  “I delegate paperwork,” Vaelion corrected, inspecting a sigil glowing at the foot of the bed. “Badly, according to Ronver.”

  Ronver shrugged. “That’s accurate.”

  Zafran tried to sit up and gave up halfway.

  Ronver stepped closer. “You understand what just happened, don’t you?”

  Zafran met his eyes.

  “You crossed blades with the strongest war mage on the continent. And lived.”

  Zafran exhaled slowly. “If Hallas hadn’t underestimated me—if he hadn’t opened his guard so wide—he could’ve incinerated me in a blink.”

  Ronver nodded. “He could’ve. Hallas is…” he exhaled. “He’s the most powerful among us. He’s seen real war. There’s a record—burned half a fortress by himself. Cold-blooded. And you—” he motioned to Zafran’s shoulder—“jumped straight through his fire like it was a warm bath.”

  “I assure you, it wasn’t,” Zafran rasped.

  “He underestimated you,” Ronver nodded. “And overestimated how much time he had left.”

  Vaelion spoke, voice dry. “Welcome to power, Sir Zafran. People only recognize it after they bleed from it.”

  Zafran chuckled—then grimaced from the effort.

  Isolde leaned forward, glancing at Vaelion. “So. What now?”

  “Now?” Vaelion arched a brow. “I’ve sent for Ealden.”

  Zafran blinked. “Ealden’s coming?”

  “You thought you’d coordinate the Academy’s forces alone? With third-degree burns?”

  “I can delegate.”

  “To who? Isolde?”

  She shot him a pointed look.

  Roland tried—and failed—to stifle a laugh.

  Vaelion folded his arms. “The council approved your role. You’ll be the sword when we need to swing. But Ealden’s the hand behind the blade. He’s a tactician. You’re—”

  “A scalpel,” Zafran muttered.

  “I was going to say hammer. But sure, romanticize yourself.”

  Ronver smirked. “You were right, by the way. About the fire.”

  Zafran opened one eye.

  “If it were me,” Ronver continued, “I’d have dodged. But dodging would’ve given Hallas time to counter. And that would’ve ended it.”

  He paused. “That’s why I want to test you myself.”

  Zafran raised a brow. “In this state?”

  Ronver tilted his head. “Not today. You look like cooked meat.”

  Isolde raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

  Ronver considered. “Five minutes against Marrivelle. Maybe ten against me.”

  Isolde leaned back. “And then I’d kill you.”

  “You’d almost kill me,” Ronver corrected. “Then I’d trip and land on you by accident. Traditional mage victory.”

  She scoffed. “That’s why I hate mages. So full of themselves.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Zafran laughed. Then winced again.

  Vaelion stepped toward the door. “Rest while you can. Ealden arrives tonight. You’ll be called back to council tomorrow.”

  Zafran raised a brow. “Still want me on the council?”

  Vaelion glanced over his shoulder. “You bled on our stone, Zafran. That’s more commitment than most have shown in a lifetime.”

  He paused, then added:

  “And Hallas respects you now. Or at least, he respects the part of you that nearly died.”

  He opened the door.

  “Rest,” he said. “I don’t want to find your corpse on my floor again.”

  And then he was gone.

  Ronver gave Zafran a brief nod and turned to leave. But before exiting, he glanced at Roland and jerked his head toward the door.

  “Let the lovebirds have their moment. Out.”

  Roland bowed and lingered at the door. “Damn,” he muttered, “You really just ran through black fire That’s so dumb it’s legendary.”

  Isolde waited a beat longer, then looked down at Zafran.

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “Debatable.”

  She stood, reached for her sword, and added, “You’re lucky it was Hallas. If you’d tried that on me, I wouldn’t have stopped the fire.”

  “Duly noted,” Zafran muttered.

  And as the door shut behind her, the light dimmed—and for the first time since stepping into the tower,

  Zafran slept.