Chapter Three - A Knights Tempered EdgeRaven

  “The Trinity have always fascinated me. They are the eldest beings in this world, their existence predating all save for the Celestial Brothers. Yet, if you were to put them in the same room, as I have been privileged to do, you would find that they bicker like no more than unruly teenagers. It is startling at first, to see beings of such ancient power reduced to petty squabbles, but also strangely... endearing. You can tell, almost immediately, that they are siblings in every sense of the word. Their arguments are sharp but familiar, tinged with the kind of warmth that comes from centuries of shared triumphs and tragedies. They interrupt each other with exasperation, roll their eyes, and mutter under their breath. And yet, beneath it all, there is an unshakable bond, a connection that even eternity has failed to erode. To witness this dynamic is refreshing, in a way I cannot quite articute. It reminds me that the gods, for all their might and majesty, are not so unlike us common folk who tread the nd beneath their gaze. They, too, are shaped by retionships, by rivalries and love, by frustrations and joys. It humanizes them—or, perhaps, deifies us. Oh, I am not a fool. I know full well that despite the forms they have taken to humor me for this dinner, their true essence lies far beyond my comprehension. They sit across from me with faces and hands, their expressions framed by mortal gestures and forms I can understand, but I know these are only masks. Should they so wish, they could unravel my existence in the space of a single thought. A whim. And yet they don’t. That, too, is something I find remarkable. Anamar, Scion of the Sun, burns with a radiant intensity even when seated at a modest table. His ughter is like the first golden rays of dawn spilling over the horizon, warm and full of promise. Yet his pride is unmistakable, a constant flicker in his words and mannerisms. He bickers most with Chronalis, as siblings often do, their arguments swift and heated, like the csh of flint and steel. Kirith, Matron of Maternity, is the peacemaker. Her presence is soft and grounding, like the embrace of fertile soil. Her voice carries a calm authority, but there is a quiet sadness beneath her words, as if she has carried the weight of their quarrels for too long. She often interrupts the two, her tone exasperated but kind, wielding her patience like a shield. And then there is Chronalis, the Lord of Time. His movements are deliberate, as though every action has been calcuted across a thousand different possibilities. His words, when he deigns to speak them, are sharp and yered with meaning. He argues with Anamar not out of disdain but out of necessity, their debates like the tides—endless, inevitable, and strangely beautiful to behold. The Trinity, for all their power, are bound by each other. And, I suspect, they would not have it any other way. As I sit at this table, their guest for reasons I may never fully understand, I find myself struck by the magnitude of this moment. They have taken the time to humor a mortal schor, to indulge my curiosity, and to speak with me as if I were their equal. It is an act of generosity beyond my comprehension, yet they treat it as something ordinary. Perhaps it is their shared eternity that allows them to see beyond their own divinity. Or perhaps they simply wished to enjoy a good meal in good company. Regardless, this is a moment I will carry with me for the rest of my days. To see the gods as they truly are—both infinitely powerful and achingly familiar—is a gift I cannot put into words.

  “Dining with the Divine. A more apt title for this account I could not conceive.”

  — Wanderer Althus, Schor of the Gods, as written in: Dining with the Divine

  I found myself frozen, unable to summon words. My thoughts churned, tangled and raw. The son of Velcrove BckRose. The realization settled over me like a heavy cloak. This wasn’t just some promising recruit fresh from the Academy—this was the son of the greatest living hero of our history. The kind of figure whose stories I had memorized as a child, recited to myself in the quiet corners of the library when I needed to believe in something greater. And yet, as I watched Zoran fight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my father trusted him in a way he never trusted me. The realization settled uneasily in my chest, though I wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or relief. Perhaps both.

  The hall slowly emptied, leaving only a handful of us: my father, mother, Aria, Rodrick, Zoran, and me. The silence was palpable, filled with the weight of what had just transpired.

  Rodrick broke it first, his voice measured but edged with curiosity. “Do you think highly enough of this boy that I truly couldn’t beat him, M’lord?” His gaze shifted to my father, but the question seemed to linger in the air, daring anyone to answer.

  My father tapped his finger against the edge of his throne, the rhythmic motion uncharacteristically thoughtful. His gaze lingered on Zoran, scrutinizing him as if trying to unearth some hidden truth. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Was he impressed? Was this the kind of confidence he wished I possessed?

  The realization settled over me like a weight. My father had never looked at me the way he was looking at Zoran now. Did he see potential in me, or had he already decided I was better suited to observing from the sidelines? The question gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside, forcing myself to focus on the duel.

  Zoran wasn’t imposing—not in the way Rodrick was. Rodrick towered over him by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders and heavily muscled frame making him seem like a living fortress. Zoran, by contrast, was leaner, more refined. He wasn’t weak, not by any means, but there was something almost... unpolished about him. His hair was a mess of teal, untamed and disheveled like he’d rolled out of bed moments before the ceremony. And that sash. That ridiculous purple sash tied around his sword arm, cshing so terribly with his hair.

  “Without the risk of bystanders, you don’t have to hold back this time,” my father said finally, his voice calm but commanding. “I’d like to see the full extent of your skills before I assign you anywhere. And we’ll sit here until you stop holding back.”

  Zoran let out an audible sigh, clearly reluctant, as he drew his sword. This time, it wasn’t a wooden practice bde. The weapon he pulled from its scabbard was unlike anything I’d ever seen. The edge gleamed with a faint crimson hue, glowing faintly as if alive, while the center of the bde seemed like a river of blood, its color shifting and rippling in the light.

  The door behind me creaked open, and I turned just in time to see Aria dart out, her footsteps echoing briefly before the door smmed shut. No one else seemed to notice—or care—that she had been there in the first pce. Perhaps that was for the best.

  The csh of metal snapped my attention back to the two knights. Rodrick moved first, his bde carving an arc toward Zoran’s shoulder with the practiced precision of a seasoned warrior. Zoran met the strike head-on, his sword moving with a grace that seemed almost effortless. The sharp cng of their bdes echoed through the hall, followed by a rapid succession of strikes so fast I could barely follow.

  Zoran’s movements were fluid, each attack blending seamlessly into the next. His bde seemed alive, an extension of his will, as though the weapon itself demanded perfection. Rodrick, for all his strength, was visibly straining to keep up. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow, his jaw clenched in concentration. Gasps rippled through the hall as Zoran spun on his heel, his bde slicing downward in a move that seemed both elegant and devastating. Rodrick barely managed to deflect it, the impact forcing him back a step.

  For the briefest moment, as Zoran moved, I felt it again—that faint, elusive pull at the edge of my senses. But this time, it was stronger. Not just a whisper, but a thread woven through the very air, barely perceptible yet undeniably present. It was as though something unseen had shifted around him, a force just beyond understanding bending to his will. My breath hitched. What was that? It wasn’t magic, at least not any magic I knew. But it was there, reacting to him, fueling his speed in a way that defied simple expnation.

  ‘He’s relentless,’ I thought, unable to look away. The air in the room was thick with tension, every observer holding their breath as the duel unfolded. My mother had risen halfway from her seat, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair as if she could will Rodrick to victory.

  Rodrick fell to his knees, his breathing ragged as pieces of his armor—his chest pte, shoulder pads—shattered and cttered to the floor. Zoran sheathed his sword with a single, smooth motion, turning to face my father.

  “Is that enough for you?” he asked, his tone neutral but edged with a hint of irritation.

  My father leaned forward slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I think that will suffice. Rodrick, are you alright?”

  Rodrick exhaled heavily, removing his helmet to reveal a sweat-slicked face. His hair clung to his forehead as he stood, shaking off the remnants of his shattered armor. “Not bad, kid,” he said between breaths, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect. “I wasn’t expecting that. Twenty-seven strikes in the blink of an eye. Not the worst beating I’ve taken, but I won’t underestimate you again.”

  He turned to my father, his expression resolute. “With your permission, M’lord, I’d like to continue this match.”

  "Twenty-seven strikes?!" I muttered to myself, my thoughts spinning. I had only seen two. The csh of their bdes had been a blur, too quick for my eyes to follow. And yet, Rodrick’s armor y in pieces across the floor, and his body bore not a single scratch. Zoran wasn’t just fast—his strikes were precise, measured, and intentional.

  Rodrick had underestimated him, like the rest of us. Now, standing as the only one in the room not sweating or even breathing heavily, Zoran looked... bored. He sighed and drew his sword once more, stepping forward as my father gave a nod of approval.

  This time, Zoran struck first.

  Rodrick, however, was ready. The metallic csh of their bdes filled the room, sounding like four or five swords colliding in rapid succession. My eyes widened. Zoran moved faster than I thought possible, but Rodrick’s skill and experience held him steady. The two circled each other, exchanging blows in a dance of precision and power.

  "Father," I whispered, leaning closer to him, "is it just me, or are they more evenly matched than you expected?"

  My father’s lips curled into a faint smile as he watched the duel. "No," he said simply, his voice calm and sure. "The boy is still holding back."

  Holding back? My eyes flicked to Zoran again, scrutinizing every movement, every strike. He was skilled, yes, but how much more was he capable of? Before I could ask, my father continued, "Zoran knows his limits. He understands that if he goes all out, he risks injuring—or worse, killing—Rodrick. His father was the same way."

  I blinked, startled by the admission. "You knew Velcrove? You never mentioned this before."

  "Never had a reason to," my father said casually, his eyes still fixed on the duel. "No one asked, and it never came up. But yes, I knew him. I wouldn’t be sitting here today if it weren’t for that boy’s father. And neither would you, for that matter."

  The weight of his words settled over me, leaving me with more questions than answers. But before I could ask, a sharp movement on the floor drew my attention back to the fight.

  Zoran stood perfectly still as Rodrick lunged forward. In one fluid motion, Zoran parried the blow with his sword, then stepped in, driving his elbow into Rodrick’s chin. The strike sent Rodrick crashing backward to the ground, his sword cttering from his grip. This time, I was certain—Rodrick was done.

  Zoran sheathed his sword, his expression unreadable as he turned to my father. "He should wake in a couple of hours. With a bit of a headache, I suspect," he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  Not a bead of sweat dotted his brow. If anything, he looked as though he had just finished a warm-up, not a duel against one of the castle’s finest knights. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of training his father must have put him through to create someone like this. And if Zoran was this good, how much greater had Velcrove been? My thoughts raced, but I forced myself to focus as my father stood from his throne, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  "Well," my father said, "I suppose you’ve proven yourself capable. The favor I would ask of you should be a simple thing—or rather, two things. Though they would both involve you staying here."

  Zoran’s brow lifted slightly, his expression curious. "I would rather go where the fight is needed," he admitted, "but if you wish to ask me here, then here is where I shall stay. What is your second request?"

  Agnam stepped down from the dais, his tone light. "Ah, yes. My second request is about my daughter."

  My stomach dropped. "Father?" I said, my voice rising slightly.

  He continued, ignoring me. "She has a tendency to slip away from her guards and wander into the vilge. She cims it’s to blend in, though I suspect it’s more about avoiding the squad assigned to follow her everywhere. My second request is this: that you repce the soldiers as her personal guard, much like Rodrick does for my wife."

  I felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Relief—he hadn’t just offered my hand in marriage like kings often did with their daughters in the stories, but also frustration. One guard would be easier to evade than ten, but Zoran seemed far too sharp to let me slip away unnoticed.

  Zoran gave a small nod. "I accept, my lord. I suppose that will keep me busy enough. I was worried I wouldn’t have anything to do in my free time."

  Agnam smiled, clearly pleased. "Raven," he said, turning to me, "would you show Zoran around the castle? While he will be following you from now on, it’s important that he doesn’t get lost when he’s out on his own."

  My heart skipped a beat. "Y-yes, Father!" I stammered, my voice more breathless than I’d intended.

  Agnam gestured for Zoran to follow me. Without a word, Zoran bent down and hoisted Rodrick onto his shoulder as though he weighed nothing. "Very well," he said, his tone dry. "The first stop should be the infirmary. I doubt this will be the st person I carry while I stay here."

  I nodded, leading the way out of the hall. The castle’s corridors stretched before us, twisting and turning like a byrinth. Zoran followed silently, Rodrick slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. When we reached the infirmary, he id Rodrick on one of the beds before turning back to me

  The castle felt quieter as we left the infirmary, the echo of our footsteps bouncing softly off the stone walls. Zoran followed closely behind me, his movements deliberate, his eyes taking in every detail as though he were already memorizing the yout. I couldn’t quite decide if his sharp focus made me feel reassured or self-conscious. Maybe both.

  “If you’re going to be stuck following me everywhere,” I said after a moment, my tone light but edged with a hint of irritation, “you might as well know where I spend most of my time.”

  Zoran raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his silence infuriatingly calm. It was as though he already knew I’d continue without prompting.

  I sighed, gesturing toward the corridor ahead. “Come on. I’ll start with the ballroom.”

  We descended a grand staircase, the intricate ironwork of the banister cool under my hand. I remembered my first ball—a dizzying blur of faces, gowns, and masks. My mother had held my hand, her smile warm but distant. 'You’ll learn,' she’d whispered. But I never did. Even now, I felt like an imposter beneath the chandeliers. The ballroom was directly above the throne room, its double doors fnked by two guards who bowed slightly as we passed. With a push, the heavy doors creaked open, revealing the cavernous space beyond.

  The ballroom was easily the rgest room in the castle, its polished floors gleaming under the light of massive chandeliers that hung like consteltions from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight poured in through towering stained-gss windows, casting vibrant patterns of color across the floor.

  “This is where we host most of the kingdom’s grand events,” I said, stepping inside and letting my voice echo faintly in the vast space. “Balls, gas, diplomatic meetings—anything that involves pomp and circumstance happens here.”

  Zoran followed me in, his gaze sweeping over the room with measured interest. “And how often do you attend these... events?”

  “More often than I’d like,” I admitted, my lips curving into a faint smile. “The first few were exciting when I was younger, but now? They’re just exercises in tedium. Everyone’s dressed up, pretending to be something they’re not. Half the guests are only there to curry favor or secure alliances.”

  Zoran nodded, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that’s the nature of politics.”

  “Exactly,” I said, crossing the floor toward the center. “That’s why I usually sneak out before they’re over. Sometimes I make it all the way to the kitchens before someone notices I’m missing.”

  I gnced at him, expecting a scolding remark about how I wouldn’t be able to do that anymore, but he simply tilted his head, considering. “Do you dance?” he asked instead.

  The question caught me off guard. “I... Yes, I do,” I admitted, a faint blush creeping into my cheeks. “It’s expected of me, but I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite pastime. Why?”

  “Just curious,” he said with a shrug, though the faintest flicker of amusement pyed at the corner of his mouth.

  Zoran’s gaze swept over the ballroom again, lingering on the chandeliers. “You talk about balls and gas like they’re a chore,” he said, his tone neutral. “But from what I’ve seen, they’re an important part of your world.”

  I stopped near the center of the room, turning back to face him. “They’re necessary,” I admitted. “But important? That’s debatable. Half the people who attend these events are more interested in gossip than governance.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “And the other half?”

  “Politics,” I said simply. “Securing alliances, maintaining appearances, trading favors—it’s all part of the dance.”

  Zoran folded his arms, leaning against one of the pilrs. “Sounds tedious.”

  “It is,” I said with a faint ugh. “But it’s also powerful. A single word whispered in the right ear during a ball can achieve more than a thousand soldiers on the battlefield.”

  “That’s a dangerous way to live,” he said, his expression darkening. “Trusting words over action.”

  “Not all battles are fought with swords, Zoran,” I replied, my tone soft but firm. “And sometimes, words are the only shield we have.”

  He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You sound like a politician.”

  “I sound like someone who’s seen what happens when diplomacy fails,” I countered, crossing my arms. “And as much as I dislike these events, I understand their purpose. If a single night of feigned smiles can prevent war, isn’t it worth it?”

  Zoran didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting to the stained-gss windows. The colors painted his face in shifting hues, making it hard to read his expression. “I’ve never been one for politics,” he said finally. “It’s easier to fight an enemy you can see.”

  “Spoken like a true soldier,” I said with a faint smile. “But you’ll find that not all enemies wear armor.”

  He gnced at me then, something unreadable in his eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re here—to fight the battles I can’t.”

  “And vice versa,” I said, holding his gaze. “We’re stronger together, whether we like it or not.” I decided not to linger on his comment and gestured for him to follow me. “Come on. I’ll show you the kitchens next.”

  The kitchen was a sharp contrast to the ballroom, its warmth and bustling energy enveloping us as soon as we stepped through the doorway. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasting herbs filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of smoke from the ovens. This was where the real heart of the castle beat—where flour-dusted counters and shouting cooks repced the stiff formality of court. It was life, unvarnished and honest. Dozens of cooks moved with practiced precision, chopping, stirring, and shouting instructions over the din.

  “This,” I said, gesturing grandly, “is where you’ll find the heart of the castle.”

  Zoran’s brow furrowed slightly. “The heart?”

  “Of course. The kitchens are where the magic happens.” I leaned closer, my voice dropping conspiratorially. “This is also where I come when I need to get away from... everything.”

  Remora, spotted me and gave a cheerful wave. “Your Highness! Have you eaten yet?”

  I smiled at her. “Not yet. But don’t worry, I’m just passing through this time.”

  “Shame,” she said, grinning. “We’ve got a new batch of pastries just out of the oven.”

  “Later,” I promised, gncing at Zoran. “Besides, I think my shadow would have an aneurysm if I stopped to steal pastries.”

  Zoran raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained neutral. “Noted.”

  Finally, we climbed another set of stairs, this time to the east wing of the castle. The library doors stood at the end of a quiet hallway, their carved oak panels etched with scenes of Egrana’s founding. I pushed the doors open, stepping into what was, without a doubt, my favorite pce in the entire castle. This pce felt like a refuge, where the weight of expectations melted away in the quiet hum of countless stories waiting to be discovered.

  “This,” I said softly, my voice almost reverent, “is the library.”

  Zoran followed me inside, and I watched as his expression shifted ever so slightly. His gaze swept over the towering shelves, each one filled with books that stretched all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The air was cool and carried the faint, comforting scent of parchment and leather bindings.

  “I spend most of my time here,” I admitted, moving toward the nearest shelf and running my fingers lightly along the spines of the books. “There’s something about this pce... It’s quiet, but it’s alive. Every book, every scroll—each one is a doorway to something new.”

  Zoran stepped further in, his eyes lingering on the mural of the Trinity that adorned the eastern wall. The morning light streaming through the stained-gss window cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the room, illuminating the intricate scene of Anamar, Kirith, and Chronalis in all their divine glory.

  “I can see why you like it here,” Zoran said finally. “It’s... peaceful.”

  “Exactly,” I said, my smile softening. “And now that you know where to find me, I guess you won’t have to follow me like a shadow every second of the day.”

  His lips twitched into a faint smirk. “That’s exactly what a bodyguard does, Princess.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as I turned away.

  "Ah, I thought I might find you here," came a familiar voice from behind us. I turned to see Uncle Alexander stepping through the doorway, his usual blend of warmth and sharpness in his expression. "The library is as much your sanctuary as the kitchen is mine, isn’t it?"

  I offered a smile. "Something like that. I was just showing Zoran around."

  Alexander’s eyes flicked to Zoran, appraising him with a gnce that felt both casual and piercing. "Ah, the new shadow," he said, his tone light but not unkind. "You’ve inherited quite the responsibility. Keeping track of this one," he gestured toward me, "is no easy task."

  "I’ve gathered," Zoran replied with a faint smirk. "Though so far, she’s been remarkably cooperative."

  I rolled my eyes. "Let’s not pretend I had much choice."

  Alexander chuckled, then turned his attention to the shelves lining the walls. "I imagine you’ve been working your way through these," he said, running a hand along the spines of a row of books. "Still focused on diplomacy and history? Or have you finally taken my advice and started reading about strategy?"

  I hesitated, caught between annoyance and amusement. "I’ve... broadened my scope," I said diplomatically. "Though some of your recommendations were a bit dry."

  "Dry?" Alexander repeated, mock offense in his voice. "Strategy is the art of preparation, Raven. A sharp mind is just as important as a sharp sword."

  Zoran’s gaze shifted between us, his expression unreadable. "Preparation seems to run in the family," he said, his tone measured.

  Alexander gnced at him again, this time with a flicker of curiosity. ‘A bde forged beyond the hell rifts, if I’m not mistaken? A weapon like that carries weight, both literal and metaphorical. But it’s not just the weapon—it’s the one wielding it that matters. Do you understand the responsibility that comes with it, Zoran?’

  Zoran inclined his head slightly, his expression measured. ‘I understand enough to know it’s not a burden to take lightly.’

  Alexander hummed thoughtfully, then turned back to me. ‘And you, Raven? Have you thought about the weight of the choices you’ll make? Weapons and words—they both shape the world, for better or worse.’

  I hesitated, his words striking deeper than I expected. ‘I... I suppose I have,’ I said quietly, though the uncertainty in my voice betrayed me.

  ‘Good,’ Alexander said with a faint smile. ‘Keep thinking about it. You’ll find the answers in time.’ With that, he turned and strode toward the far end of the library, disappearing between the towering shelves.

  "Where to next, Your Highness?" he asked, his tone ced with faint amusement.

  I rolled my eyes, brushing my hair behind my ear. "Not sure. There’s a lot to see," I admitted, thinking aloud. "I suppose the training grounds would be a good pce to start. You’ll be spending a lot of time there."

  He nodded, following me through the castle’s winding halls until we emerged into a rge courtyard. High stone walls fnked the northern and southern edges, while rows of arches framed the eastern and western sides. The sandy expanse within stretched nearly two hundred feet square, scattered with cobblestones forming strange rune-like patterns. I watched as Zoran’s gaze lingered on the rune. 'Three stone sbs above an upside-down horseshoe... and three more below. I’ve seen this symbol before. Somewhere,' he murmured, almost to himself. His tone carried a weight of curiosity that mirrored my own. My mother had once told me a story about a symbol like that—a tale of a champion who could bind chaos to his will. The memory surfaced unbidden, and I found myself speaking before I thought. 'That symbol,' I said, pointing to the rune, 'it’s from an old tale. My mother used to tell me about a champion who could bind chaos. His strength wasn’t just in the sword he wielded but in the threads of magic he commanded.' Zoran’s gaze flickered to me briefly, unreadable, before returning to the rune. 'Interesting,' he murmured, but said no more. Finally, I broke the quiet. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Ask away, Princess Raven Galewing," he said, leaning against the wall. His voice was casual, but something about the way he said my name made my skin prickle. Hearing my full name like that felt... unsettling.

  Agnam

  The torches along the stone walls flickered, casting long, shifting shadows in the chamber. I stood alone, staring at the lifeless body of Mak’rk, suspended in the golden glow at the center of the room. The faint hum of the enchantments reverberated through the stone, the only sound in the stillness. A year had passed, and yet the mystery remained unsolved. No wounds, no poison, no sign of struggle—just an unshakable certainty that he should not be dead.

  My fingers traced the edge of the stone pedestal before me, mind turning over the same conclusions I had revisited countless times. If Mak’rk could not die naturally, then what force had undone his divine boon? What presence had the power to sever a god’s will?

  The door creaked open behind me, and I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

  "Agnam," Alexander’s voice carried a tone of weary patience, ced with something sterner. "We've been at this for a year. Why do you insist on dragging this investigation on? What more do you hope to find?"

  I closed my eyes briefly before speaking. "Because Mak’rk couldn’t have died naturally. He was given a boon by Kirith at the end of the Demon War. Eternal youth was his gift—so long as he wasn’t sin, he would live until the world ended. There is no way he simply passed in his sleep. That is why we cannot stop. Someone, something, defied the will of the gods themselves to bring him to this state."

  Alexander sighed, stepping closer until he stood beside me, his gaze fixed on the floating corpse. "We've known this for a year, Agnam. We've circled around the same conclusion, yet we have nothing concrete. The gods have remained silent, and we’ve chased shadows. What piece of this puzzle are we missing?"

  The air in the chamber felt heavier, the glow of the enchantments pulsing like a slow heartbeat. If something had the power to undo the divine, then our enemy was not merely mortal. And if we had been searching for a year without answers, then perhaps we had been looking in the wrong pce altogether.

  I hesitated, then spoke. "I received a letter a few nights ago, from someone I once trusted. An old friend. He hinted at something... troubling. There are whispers that the demons are returning, that the Empire has been meddling with the Weave in ways that could tear open the barriers between worlds. They are experimenting, Alexander—pulling things through from other pnes. Things they do not understand."

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed. "And you think this is connected to Mak’rk?"

  "I don’t think it’s a coincidence," I admitted. "If the Empire has found a way to reach beyond our pne, to draw power from pces even the gods dare not tread, then we may have been looking for an assassin when we should have been looking for something much worse."

  Alexander studied me, then exhaled through his nose. "Is that the real reason you wanted to keep the boy here?"

  I met his gaze squarely. "You think I would keep the boy locked away in this pce for nothing? It's clear he hates the fact that I had asked him to stay. If the Empire has been pying with the Weave, if they have been calling forth things that have no pce in our world, then we have no way of knowing what walks among us. Illusions, shapeshifters, creatures that can bend their forms and wear human faces—we could already be surrounded, and we wouldn’t know it."

  Alexander’s expression hardened. "And you think the son of a demon hunter is our answer?"

  I nodded. "His father would have trained him to see what others couldn’t. He knew how to unmask them, how to sense their presence even when they thought themselves hidden. If there are things lurking in Egrana that shouldn’t be here, the boy may be our only way to see them. I may have been a skilled warrior during the war, but this is a skill that I ck."

  Alexander was silent, his gaze flickering between me and the floating corpse of Mak’rk. "And if you're right? If demons or something worse have already crossed through?"

  I looked back at Mak’rk’s unmoving form, suspended in golden light. "Then we’ve already lost more time than we can afford."

  Alexander crossed his arms. "So where does that leave us? You’ve held onto this secret for a year, and now you tell me demons might already be here? That they’ve walked among us while we grasp at theories?"

  I let out a slow breath. "I needed to be sure. And even now, I don’t have proof—just whispers and the weight of a truth I can’t ignore. But if we move too te, we may never have the chance to act at all."

  Alexander paced, his boots echoing against the chamber floor. "We can’t just go running to the Council with this. Half of them would dismiss it outright, and the other half would start accusing each other of consorting with whatever lies beyond the Weave. We need more than specution."

  "Which is why the boy stays," I said, my voice firm. "If we are already being infiltrated, we need someone who can see past illusions. If we fail, we could wake up one day to find Egrana no longer our own."

  Alexander rubbed his temple. "And how do you pn to test this? To prove what he sees is real and not just the wariness instilled in him by his father’s training?"

  I exhaled, weighing my words. "I've been thinking about that. We can't rely on stories or suspicions—we need something tangible. There’s a pattern to all of this, a connection we haven’t seen yet. I think the boy might sense it, even if we don’t understand how yet."

  Alexander frowned but said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

  "We need to start looking for inconsistencies," I pressed on. "People who don’t act like themselves. Pces where the Weave has been disturbed. There was a report not long ago—a merchant cimed he saw his own face walking through the market, a perfect copy of himself. He thought he was losing his mind, but what if he wasn’t? What if something was mimicking him?"

  Alexander’s frown deepened. "And you think this is tied to the Weave experiments?"

  "I think it’s possible. If the Empire has been tearing at the Weave, something could be slipping through. Mak’rk’s death may not be the only sign we’ve ignored. The boy may not just help us see them—he might be able to confirm whether these creatures are already among us."

  Alexander’s jaw tensed. "Then we need to test him. Not in an abandoned temple, but here. In the city. If these things have infiltrated Egrana, we won’t have to look far."

  A silence settled between us, but the weight of it was different now. Less uncertain, more resolved. We both knew this was the only way forward. And if we were already too te—if the enemy had already embedded itself within the heart of Egrana—then we were about to find out the hard way.