Karin had stopped asking where they were going.

  The man moved like the wind wasn’t a thing around him—but of him. He walked barefoot over moss, stone, and riverbed. His cloak didn’t sway. His hair didn’t stir. Sometimes he’d step forward and appear ahead of her again—five paces, then twenty—like the world blinked and forgot where he was supposed to be.

  She followed. Not because she trusted him, but because he had silenced the flame inside her.

  That was enough.

  The forest changed.

  Not just in trees, but in feel. Taller trunks. Roots knotted like veins. Moss that shimmered blue in the dim light. And the light itself—it moved differently here. Slower. Bent around branches it should’ve cut clean through.

  Then, between two leaning trees, she saw it.

  A house. Or something like it.

  Sunken into a cliffside, formed from woven stone and living wood. It didn’t look built—it looked grown. As if the forest had decided to wrap around breath and shape it into shelter.

  There was no door. Just an open threshold, dark like held breath.

  The man stepped in.

  Karin hesitated only a second, then followed.

  The inside was larger than the outside. Broader. Deeper. The walls curved in smooth, impossible spirals. The air smelled like ink and cedar. Shelves floated just off the stone, scrolls drifting between them on their own. A pot simmered above a fire that gave no heat. And the light? It came from nowhere, soft and golden, like dusk held in still water.

  By the hearth sat a woman.

  She was weaving threads of light between her fingers—thin as hair, bright as memory. Her skin was pale bronze, her eyes ink-dark, and her smile was already half-formed before Karin had entered.

  “There you are,” the woman said. “I was about to come looking.”

  “He got distracted,” she added, nodding toward the man. “Found something strange.”

  “Found someone stubborn,” he replied.

  The woman turned her gaze to Karin. It was calm, and deep, like it didn’t stop at the surface.

  “Karin, isn’t it?”

  Karin stiffened. “How do you—”

  “She knows names,” the man said.

  “She knows many things,” the woman added. “And he never introduces people properly.”

  He shrugged. “Bad habit. I’m Seethar. This is my wife, Ishtania.”

  Karin blinked. Then scoffed. “Seethar and Ishtania? What is this—cosplaying gods now?”

  Neither flinched.

  Her breath caught.

  A memory surfaced—Seethar’s hand raised, and the flame inside her gone, instantly. His voice, taunting Aftree like an old, bitter brother.

  Her hand twitched. Flame flared at her palm—bright, gold, involuntary.

  Seethar lifted a hand.

  The fire vanished. Not snuffed—unmade.

  Karin staggered back.

  “You’re… really…”

  Seethar gave a small bow. “Seethar. Last of the Firstborn. Windwalker. Mood killer.”

  Her knees buckled.

  Before she could fall, wind caught her. Lifted her back upright with gentle force.

  Ishtania stood. “Come in properly. There’s food. There’s tea. There are questions you haven’t asked yet.”

  Karin hesitated.

  And stepped deeper into the house of gods.

  The table was low and wide, carved directly into the floor. Ishtania poured tea into shallow bowls. Steam rose, but there was no fire beneath it. Karin took one sip—and it filled her like she’d eaten a full meal.

  She stared at the cup. “What… is this?”

  “Tea,” Ishtania said. “You’ve burned too much. Let it mend you.”

  Before Karin could speak again—footsteps.

  Not from outside.

  From deeper within.

  A man walked in without knocking, without greeting. Boots muddy, hair wild, a travel-stained cloak flung over one shoulder. He looked mortal—but nothing about his manner was.

  He plucked a pear from the table and bit into it like he owned the place.

  Seethar sighed. “Too many visitors today. And by the gods, that includes me. How many times must I tell you to knock?”

  The man chewed. “Do you knock?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should I?”

  He dropped into a seat across from Karin, unbothered. “So. This is her? The fire-eater?”

  “She didn’t eat it,” Seethar said. “It clung.”

  “Same thing. She’s burning inside.” He looked Karin over like she was a puzzle with one piece upside down. “How’s it feel? Carrying the last breath of that mad bastard?”

  Karin didn’t answer.

  He grinned. “Oh, don’t look so grim. You’re family now, aren’t you? The broken Firstborn set—Order, Chaos, Stone, Sea, Wind… and now Fire, reborn at the end of the line.”

  Seethar muttered, “We’re more like a long civil war with the occasional holiday.”

  The man laughed. “Still not a family guy, I see.”

  Ishtania stirred something by the hearth. “You’re making her confused.”

  “I’d be more surprised if she wasn’t confused,” the man replied, reaching for another pear.

  Seethar finally gestured lazily. “Karin, this bastard goes by Elkinu. He’s… not a god. Not mortal. Something else.”

  “That’s cold,” Elkinu muttered, but smiled.

  Karin just blinked, feeling like the only sane person at a table full of thunder.

  Elkinu leaned back. “So she’s housing Aftree’s ember, and you’re not putting her down?”

  “She’s still herself.”

  “Bold. Must be nice, having faith.”

  “I didn’t say I had faith.”

  “Then what do you have?”

  Seethar looked at Karin.

  Then at Elkinu.

  “Options.”

  Karin sipped the tea.

  She didn’t understand half the names. She didn’t know what Elkinu was. Or how this place even existed. But one thing was clear:

  They weren’t joking.

  They just sounded like they were.

  And then, casually, as if finishing a completely unrelated thought, Seethar muttered:

  “And for gods’ sake, mop the floor. next time you visit.”

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  Elkinu kicked his boots up on the bench. “Never.” But he quickly put it down when Ishtania looked.

  Morning light sifted through the curtains of Zafran’s manor, painting long pale lines across the wooden floor. The faint scent of tea and bread lingered in the air, drifting in lazy spirals beneath the wooden beams.

  Zafran sat at the breakfast table in a loose undershirt, quietly buttering a slice of bread with practiced calm. His movements were precise, unhurried. Across from him, Isolde leaned back in her chair, one boot on the table leg, idly flipping a knife between her fingers. Her white blouse was rumpled from sleep, and her dark hair—normally braided with meticulous care—hung loose over one shoulder.

  The table was quiet but comfortable. A clay pot of steaming tea sat between them, flanked by plates of soft rolls and salted meat. The butter dish was half-gone. A jar of jam sat unopened, but its lid had been loosened.

  “You’re eating slow today,” Isolde said, flicking the knife once more and catching it between two fingers. “Worried?”

  Zafran didn’t look up. “Just listening.”

  “To what?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “The silence,” he replied, tearing the bread in half. “It won’t last.”

  As if summoned by his words, the door creaked open. A servant stepped in, neat and unobtrusive, and bowed lightly.

  “Sir Zafran. Captain Ealden has arrived. He requests a word—with company.”

  Zafran set his knife down, brushing crumbs from his hand. “Company?”

  “He’s brought someone with him,” the servant replied.

  Isolde groaned. “Lovely. Another bright-eyed recruit?”

  Zafran rose, already reaching for his coat hanging over the chair. “Get dressed. We shouldn’t greet a captain in nightwear.”

  Isolde muttered something under her breath but stood all the same.

  By the time they stepped into the front hall, Zafran had shifted into his dark coat and formal sash, his bearing composed. Isolde, now in her usual white sparring dress, had tied her hair back into a sharp ponytail, strands tucked with soldierly discipline. Her boots were laced high, and she wore the faintest trace of kohl beneath her eyes, though she’d never admit it was intentional.

  The manor’s front doors stood open, letting in the crisp morning air—and the faint clink of armor from beyond.

  Ealden waited near the entrance, arms crossed. At his side stood a young man—broad-shouldered, barely twenty, with bright eyes, a ceremonial blade strapped across his back, and pride practically leaking from the polished seams of his boots.

  “Zafran. Isolde,” Ealden greeted with a curt nod. “This is Roland. Newly knighted. From the Academia.”

  Zafran’s eyes drifted over the youth—first the blade, then the stance, then the eyes. “He’s young.”

  “And knighted,” Ealden replied, not without a trace of humor. “Academia raised his name. Royal Guard didn’t argue.”

  Roland stepped forward briskly and gave a polite bow, one hand to his chest. “Sir Zafran. I’ve… heard your name, of course. Mostly in passing.”

  Zafran’s brow lifted slightly. “Only in passing?”

  Roland hesitated. “Well, I mean… before your return, there wasn’t much in the records. No formal rank. No citations.”

  Isolde gave a quiet snort.

  Zafran didn’t blink. “Exile doesn’t leave a paper trail.”

  Roland shifted. “Still, it’s said you’re formidable. I look forward to learning firsthand.”

  Zafran gave him a slow, unreadable nod. “Then you’re in the right place.”

  Isolde let out a breath through her nose, sharp and loud.

  Roland turned toward her, just now seeming to notice her presence. “And you are…?”

  “No one,” she said simply, leaning against the stone archway with her arms crossed. “Just someone bored of swinging a practice swords at straw targets.”

  Roland blinked, unsure whether to take offense.

  She tilted her head. “You’re here to train, right? Spar a little? Let’s start.”

  Zafran turned to her. “Isolde…”

  She was already stepping out into the courtyard, rolling her shoulders with a slight bounce in her gait. “I’ll be gentle.”

  “You’re never gentle.”

  “I’m never cruel,” she countered, without turning.

  Roland looked between them. “You want me to spar… with her?”

  Zafran didn’t answer.

  Isolde smirked “What’s the matter? Afraid of bruising your pride on your first day?”

  Roland’s jaw tensed. “No. Of course not.”

  Ealden muttered to himself, half-smiling. “This’ll be educational.”

  Zafran’s gaze lingered on Roland, serious now. “Keep your footing. And don’t underestimate her.”

  Roland squared his shoulders. “I never underestimate my opponents.”

  Zafran gave a dry look. “You just did.”

  And with that, they followed Isolde into the morning light.

  The courtyard had been cleared. A chalk circle marked the center, and a layer of fine sand had been spread for footing. Early light slanted through the open walls, glinting off the dew still clinging to the training posts. The air was crisp and quiet—expectant.

  Roland stepped into the ring with smooth precision. He rolled his shoulders, drew a wooden practice blade from the rack, and tested its weight with two casual swings. Confidence hung on him like a second coat.

  Isolde was already circling.

  She held her blade low, relaxed, but her eyes tracked him with the stillness of a predator. Her steps were light, toes brushing the sand. Her white sparring dress whispered with movement, and each shift of her shoulders said she was already ten moves ahead.

  The first clash came fast.

  Roland surged forward, aggressive—three strokes in quick succession. Isolde parried them all with minimal effort. Her feet barely moved, but each block turned his momentum into nothing.

  Roland reset, a flicker of irritation tightening his brow.

  He tried again—this time feinting high, spinning low, aiming for her knee. It was clean. Sharp.

  She sidestepped. Not dodged—drifted. Her counter came with a backward sweep that clipped his shoulder and spun him halfway around.

  He caught his balance, teeth clenched.

  She tilted her head slightly, waiting.

  He lunged.

  Their blades met again—quick, loud, faster now. Sand kicked beneath their boots. Roland pressed harder, his strikes sharper, more desperate. He was fast—faster than most—but he was learning the wrong lesson. He thought she was holding back.

  So he drew on his magic.

  With a sharp gesture, a flicker of fire burst from his left hand, arcing toward her shoulder. She twisted under it without blinking. Ice followed—needles forming in a crescent sweep. She batted them aside with her blade.

  Still, no magic from her.

  Not yet.

  Roland darted left, launched a burst of wind to push her off balance, then struck from behind. It would’ve worked on most opponents.

  But Isolde moved like she already knew what he’d do.

  She turned just in time, met the strike clean, then stepped in close. Her shoulder slammed into his chest. He stumbled back—

  And then she changed.

  The temperature plummeted.

  A thin, high note rang through the courtyard as frost laced over the sand. Her next strike trailed a jagged ripple of ice, lancing up from the ground like teeth. Roland stumbled again, trying to retreat.

  Too slow.

  Isolde advanced.

  Now every swing of her blade cut the air and left a trail of crystalline frost in its wake. The ground beneath her feet glazed over. Mist pooled around her calves. Her hair snapped in the sudden chill, breath pluming from her lips.

  Roland tried lightning.

  She ducked it.

  Then fire.

  She stepped through it, untouched.

  His foot slid on the ice—just enough. She was there instantly, blade at his throat. And before he could even react, a second wave of ice burst beneath his feet, locking one of his boots to the ground.

  He froze—not by choice.

  Isolde still pushing on, a swing he’ll never be able to dodge,

  Clung!

  Zafran quickly interfere, Wooden practice swords clash against each other.

  “That’s enough Isolde, you win already” Zafran said, try to use a soft voice to calm her down.

  Isolde exhaled through her nose, a plume of fog.

  “Since you’re here,” she added, “let’s spar.”

  Zafran’s brow lifted. “Isolde…”

  But she didn’t answer, an ice pillar lunching from below, Zafran need to jumped away from the place,

  Yet Isolde lunged, follow him closely.

  Wood met wood—hard. Sparks flew from nothing but speed and force. Zafran met her swing, braced her push, countered with a tight parry.

  “Are you angry?” he asked mid-deflect.

  “No.” She swung again.

  Zafran ducked. “I said I’m sorry.”

  Another ice pillar lunched, just grazed his shoulder. The level of her seriousness exceed what Roland experienced so much.

  “I had to attend the meeting. It’s my job.”

  Isolde’s strikes grew faster.

  “I can’t ignore a summons from Seren—”

  Ealden, watching from the edge, muttered under his breath. “You fool.”

  Zafran gritted his teeth, pushing against her blade.

  She spun, brought the flat of her blade down. He caught it. Slipped. His footing cracked on the ice beneath him.

  She struck again—hard—and the wooden sword flew from his grip.

  It landed with a thud outside the ring.

  He straightened, unarmed, two hands up in the sky. She stood in front of him, breathing heavy, face unreadable, just like she always did.

  A long silence passed.

  Then she stepped back.

  “I’m done,” she said quietly, brushing her hair behind one ear. “He’s got potential.” She nodded once at Roland, who was still recovering near the wall. “But keep your ego down when fighting.”

  He gave a stiff nod.

  She turned and walked off, her steps crunching lightly over the frost she’d left behind.

  Roland said nothing.

  Zafran stood still, watching her go.

  Then he turned to Roland and offered a quiet, almost sympathetic smile.

  “She’s not cruel,” he said. “She’s a good person. Once she stops trying to stab you.” he said with a faint smile.

  The torches burned low, their blue-gold light casting slow, uneasy shadows that trembled across the stone chamber walls.

  Ysar stood motionless, still half-crouched by the altar. His hand hovered in the air—he hadn’t lowered it yet.

  Elsha had risen.

  But not all at once.

  Her breath came first—a sharp gasp, raw and strained, like someone surfacing from deep water too fast. Her chest heaved. One hand jerked upward and scraped against the edge of the slab. She winced. Her movements were stiff. Unsteady.

  Then, slowly, she sat up.

  Ysar’s voice broke the silence. “Elsha…”

  Her eyes flicked toward him, but they didn’t focus. She blinked. Swallowed. Tried to speak—failed. Her lips trembled. Shoulders sagged. She touched her own cheek like it didn’t belong to her.

  “What…” she rasped, barely a whisper. “Where…”

  “It’s me,” Ysar said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

  She looked down at her hands—both trembling slightly. She flexed her fingers with effort, then stared at the lines in her palms, as if they might explain something.

  “I was…” Her brow knit. “Azure Wind…”

  Ysar nodded, softly. “Azure Wind is no more.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Her fingertips brushed the place where Varzen’s staff had gone through.

  There was no wound.

  Her breath caught again. Her gaze sharpened slightly.

  “I… died.”

  Ysar’s voice dropped lower. “You did.”

  She didn’t respond. Her throat worked, as if she wanted to speak—but no words came.

  Grimoire stood behind Ysar now, silent. Watching. She hadn’t spoken since the first breath.

  Elsha slowly turned her head toward her. Her expression was uncertain. Distant. “You… I don’t know you.”

  Grimoire took a step closer. “No. You wouldn’t.”

  A quiet pause.

  Then: “Can you… help me stand?”

  Ysar was already there, easing her legs down, supporting her weight. She slipped slightly and leaned into him, her knees barely holding.

  Grimoire still said nothing. But her gaze never left Elsha. Not even once.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked softly, as Ysar helped Elsha sit beside the altar.

  Elsha closed her eyes. Her breath trembled.

  “Anger,” she murmured. “Pain. Then… darkness.” She shook her head faintly. “It’s all… scattered.”

  Grimoire didn’t respond.

  Ysar adjusted the blanket over her shoulders, shielding her from the cold seeping through the stone.

  “You don’t need to think right now,” he said gently. “Just rest. You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

  Grimoire still didn’t move.

  Still didn’t blink.

  Then, quietly—but not to Ysar, not to Elsha—she said:

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Elsha stirred, lips parting. But no answer came.

  Grimoire stepped back.

  “You should both stay here tonight,” she said to Ysar, her voice clipped. “I’ll check her body. If something’s wrong, I’ll know.”

  She let the words hang.

  Ysar glanced back at her. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Grimoire didn’t argue.

  She only turned toward the stairwell, the torchlight glinting once in her violet eyes.

  At the foot of the steps, she paused. “I’ll prepare the room upstairs. Come when you’re ready.”

  Then she was gone.

  Elsha looked down again. Flexed her hands once more. Her breath had steadied.

  Ysar remained at her side, silent.

  Then he turned away from her.

  And cried—quietly, shoulders shaking, no sound—beneath the breathless blue light.