Alethar led Zeron down the cold stone corridor, where flickering torchlight threw jagged shadows across the walls like claw marks. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the echo of Zeron’s footsteps—a lonely rhythm that made his nerves tighten with each step.

  Ahead, two massive wooden doors loomed, carved with symbols that looked more like scars than language. Zeron couldn’t read them, but they pressed against his skin like a warning. The doors groaned open, slow and deep, revealing a hall lined with silent figures.

  Sylvalis.

  They stood on either side of a long dark rug, cloaked in black, unmoving. Their eyes followed him—icy blue, expressionless, unblinking. Zeron instinctively stepped closer to Alethar.

  At the far end of the room, a raised platform rose above it all. A podium stood at its center, and behind it, a figure cloaked in white.

  Malgor.

  Zeron recognized him instantly. Where the others dissolved into shadow, Malgor stood like a blade of frost in a room carved from night. His white cloak rippled faintly as he turned—and his gaze locked onto Zeron with the weight of a sword being drawn.

  “Bring the child forward,” Malgor said. His voice cut through the hall like steel drawn over stone—cold, sharp, absolute.

  Alethar placed a hand on Zeron’s shoulder. It was meant to reassure, but Zeron could feel the tension beneath his mentor’s calm. Together, they stepped into the aisle.

  As they passed, the Sylvalis watched him. Not a word. Not a whisper. Just eyes like frozen glass and faces carved from stillness.

  They reached the steps.

  Zeron looked up at the podium. Each stair felt taller than the last. He climbed slowly, his chest tightening with every breath.

  Malgor stepped down from the platform like a judge descending from a higher court. In his hands, he held an orb—smooth, black, and gleaming like oil-slick obsidian. It reflected the torchlight in warped, glimmering streaks.

  “Take it,” Malgor commanded, extending the orb toward him. His tone coiled with disdain. “Let us see what sleeps in your blood. Whether you are Sylvalis… or something far worse.”

  Zeron hesitated, his brow furrowed. The orb gleamed like it had been carved from a piece of night itself, swallowing the light rather than reflecting it. He glanced at Alethar, who gave him a calm nod.

  He turned back to the orb.

  His own reflection stared back at him—distorted and warped by the curve of its surface. His blue eye shimmered faintly in the darkness, a flicker of light staring into a void.

  He reached out.

  The orb was cold. Not cold like stone—cold like something ancient. Like it had never known warmth.

  Taking a breath, Zeron gripped it with both hands.

  At first, nothing.

  The chamber was silent. Still.

  Then Malgor’s voice broke the stillness—low, guttural, in a language Zeron didn’t recognize. The words slithered through the air, thick and sharp, like barbed wire wrapped in silk.

  The orb ignited with heat.

  Zeron gasped, but his hands wouldn’t move. The orb held him—bound him. A tremor ran through his arms, and then the world lurched.

  Something pushed into his mind.

  It didn’t ask. It forced.

  A presence. Vast. Heavy. Old. It peeled back his thoughts like pages from a burning book.

  Fire.

  Shadows moving like liquid.

  A woman screaming—her face lost in flame.

  A crown sinking into blood.

  A child standing alone, surrounded by corpses.

  Stone—cold, red—

  A man screaming in betrayal.

  Another man’s face, twisted in rage—eyes glowing like dying stars.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A rock crashing into a skull. The sound wet. Final.

  And the shadows swallowed them both.

  Zeron choked on his breath. It wasn’t pain he could name—it was something cracking beneath the part of him he thought was safe.

  Then—just as the darkness began to recede—

  A voice whispered through the black.

  “Brother… why?”

  Zeron flinched.

  He wasn’t seeing these things. He was remembering them.

  The visions slammed into him like waves, each one worse than the last—senseless, fragmented, cruel. He tried to pull away, but the orb drank from him—fed on him. His gaze locked onto Malgor’s eyes, now pits of endless black. There was no recognition in them. No humanity. Just judgment.

  His chest heaved. His knees nearly gave out.

  And then—

  The heat vanished.

  The presence recoiled.

  Malgor’s eyes flicked back to blue, sharp and narrowed.

  The orb was yanked from Zeron’s hands with a force that nearly toppled him. He stumbled backward, gasping for breath, his hands trembling violently.

  “No,” Malgor growled. His voice echoed like distant thunder, low and final. His icy gaze bore down on Zeron, sharp with fury—and something else. Confusion? Dread?

  “You are not worthy.”

  “Malgor?” Alethar stepped forward, concern cutting through his usual calm.

  “Get this child out of here,” Malgor snapped, his tone like a blade unsheathed. “He has no place among the Sylvalis.”

  Alethar climbed the steps without hesitation. He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. The weight in his stride said enough. Reaching the platform, he stopped just shy of Malgor and spoke low, firm.

  “What did you see?”

  Malgor’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked away, if only for a second. Then, almost like the word hurt to say, he muttered, “Death... and destruction.”

  Alethar followed that gaze—down to Zeron, who stood at the base of the stairs like a discarded blade, too young to understand the weight just placed on him.

  He looked like a child caught in a war he didn’t start and would never understand.

  “He’s just a boy,” Alethar said, voice quiet but steady. “Sold by his father. Alone. What threat could he possibly—”

  “He’s not my concern,” Malgor snapped, stepping in close. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “The survival of the Sylvalis is my concern. And that boy...”

  He paused, his lip curling as if the truth tasted rotten.

  “That boy will be the death of us all.”

  Alethar held the stare. His hands were clenched at his sides now, white-knuckled. But his voice didn’t rise.

  “Then let me take him.”

  Malgor scoffed. “To train him?”

  “To protect him,” Alethar replied. “I’ll keep him close. Teach him discipline. Keep him from becoming what you fear.”

  “You’ll fail,” Malgor said flatly.

  “Then I’ll carry the blame.”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Malgor spoke again—quieter now, but colder than ever.

  “If he stays, he does not train. He learns no shadow magic. No Genesis. Nothing.”

  Alethar frowned. “Then what does he do?”

  Malgor looked past him, down at Zeron.

  “He serves.”

  His voice was full of frost.

  “He cooks. He cleans. He waits on the ones who do matter. He will never become one of us.”

  Then his gaze snapped back to Alethar, sharp enough to draw blood.

  “If he so much as stumbles into the wrong room—you answer for it. Do you understand me?”

  Alethar’s jaw flexed, his frustration bleeding through in the tightness of his stare. But he kept his voice measured.

  “I understand,” Alethar said—quiet, but edged like steel left in the cold too long.

  Then he turned and walked away. He didn’t look back.

  Alethar stormed out of the chamber, his grip firm on Zeron’s shoulder—but not harsh. He didn’t speak as they made their way back through the winding halls, though his silence said more than words ever could.

  The corridor was quiet. Too quiet. Every footstep echoed with a tension Zeron couldn’t name.

  When they reached Alethar’s quarters, the door creaked open and shut behind them with a weighty finality. Alethar crossed the room in sharp, purposeful strides, yanked the firewood from its pile, and tossed it into the hearth. Sparks leapt upward, crackling violently as flames surged higher.

  His movements were rough—angry.

  Zeron had never seen him like this.

  Alethar had always been calm. Collected. Controlled.

  Now, he looked like a dam on the verge of breaking.

  Zeron hovered near the door, arms wrapped around himself. The silence pressed down hard—thick and awkward.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. “I didn’t mean to fail the test.”

  Alethar paused, his back still to him. For a moment, the firelight flickered against the lines of his face, drawing long shadows beneath his eyes.

  “It’s not your fault, Zeron.” His voice was quieter now. Tired. “Malgor’s always been paranoid. He was the same with Lucien.”

  Zeron blinked. “He was?”

  Alethar turned then, nodding as he moved toward the chair by the fire.

  “He’s the head of the Shadow Blades. It’s his choice who belongs. No one else’s.”

  Zeron hesitated. “Sir… what are the Shadow Blades? Is that different from being Sylvalis?”

  Alethar sat slowly, the firelight dancing in his eyes as he leaned back into the worn chair. He was quiet for a moment, fingers steepled under his chin.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said at last. “Especially with Malgor forbidding your training.”

  He sighed.

  “But you deserve the truth.”

  Zeron stepped closer.

  “Sylvalis is what we are. Our blood. Our origin. But the Shadow Blades…” He trailed off, stroking his beard. “They’re something else. Something forged.”

  “Forged how?”

  Alethar’s voice lowered, thoughtful. “We do what needs to be done. Mercenaries, sometimes. Assassins, when we have to be. We don’t serve crowns—we serve results.”

  Zeron’s eyes widened. “But… you fight for good, right?”

  Alethar gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes. When the coin agrees.”

  Zeron said nothing.

  He could feel the conversation slipping into a place Alethar didn’t want it to go.

  “What—” Zeron began, but Alethar cut him off gently.

  “Zeron.” His voice was firm now. “It’s late. Malgor will expect you to start your duties tomorrow. You need rest.”

  Zeron’s shoulders sank. The question died in his throat.

  “…Yes, sir.”

  He crossed to the chair near the fire and curled into it. Alethar brought over a blanket and a pillow, setting them down without a word. For a moment, his hand lingered on Zeron’s shoulder—gentle, steady.

  “Get some rest,” he said softly. “Good night, Zeron.”

  “Goodnight, sir,” Zeron murmured, pulling the blanket tightly around him.

  His thoughts swirled. About the orb. The vision. Malgor’s hatred. The memory that didn’t feel like a memory.

  And Lucien. Blessed by something no one could name.

  The fire crackled, soft and steady.

  Sleep crept in, heavy and slow.

  And Zeron drifted into sleep, the whisper of that voice—Brother… why?—still burning behind his eyes.