The battlefield lay in ruins.

  The once-solid ground was torn apart, fractured beyond recognition, deep cracks splitting the earth like scars left in the wake of a nightmare. Smoke and dust lingered in the air, a suffocating reminder of the devastation that had unfolded mere moments ago.

  There were no victorious cries, no cheers of relief—only the hollow stillness of those who had survived, trying to understand what had just happened.

  At the center of it all, Lucian stood over the broken body of Vraxxis.

  The beast—once an unstoppable force, a terror that had pushed them to their limits—was nothing more than a ruined husk, barely recognizable.

  What remained of Vraxxis lay crumbled in the dirt, half of his face missing, his body mangled beyond repair.

  His abyssal presence had vanished.

  The monster was dead.

  But no one spoke.

  Because what had killed him was something far more terrifying.

  Elara stood frozen.

  Her grip on her daggers was tight, almost painful, though she had no reason to fight anymore. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, as she tried to force herself to understand what she had just witnessed.

  Lucian…

  The boy she had thought was helpless, the one they were supposed to protect…

  Had annihilated the enemy that had almost killed them all.

  She wanted to feel relieved. She wanted to believe that this was a victory.

  But something deep in her gut told her otherwise.

  This isn’t normal.

  She looked at Lucian, still standing over Vraxxis, his expression unreadable.

  And for the first time…

  She was afraid of him.

  Holt, still gripping his axe, found his hands shaking.

  He had always believed in strength. He had trained for years, fought in countless battles, risked his life more times than he could count.

  And yet—

  Even at his strongest, he had barely managed to wound Vraxxis.

  Lucian had destroyed him.

  With his bare hands.

  “…This isn’t real,” Holt muttered under his breath. But the cracked earth, the suffocating energy in the air, and the ruined remains of Vraxxis told him otherwise.

  He turned to Elara, hoping for some kind of answer—something to ground him.

  But the look in her eyes was the same as his.

  She didn’t understand either.

  What the hell are we dealing with?

  Tarek had seen many things.

  Monsters. War. The cruelty of men and beasts alike.

  But nothing—nothing—compared to this.

  He had barely been able to move, his body still aching from the blow he had taken earlier, but his mind was sharp enough to register one thing.

  Lucian wasn’t like them.

  Lucian wasn’t even close.

  A boy—a **thirteen-year-old boy—**had just done something that shouldn’t have been possible.

  And the worst part?

  Lucian hadn’t even struggled.

  Tarek swallowed hard, his throat dry.

  A thought crawled into his mind, one he never expected to have.

  …Did Kael know?

  Did Kael, the man who accepted Lucian, know what he was unleashing into the world?

  Tarek wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

  Fey felt numb.

  She was alive.

  She shouldn’t be.

  The last thing she remembered was dying. She had felt the sword pierce her stomach, felt the agony of death closing in.

  And now—she was here. Breathing. Whole.

  Isla had saved her.

  But when she turned to look at Lucian—

  A chill ran down her spine.

  She should feel grateful.

  But when she saw his face, his eyes, the sheer destruction he had caused—

  Fey felt something else entirely.

  Fear.

  Isla was shaking.

  Her fingers still burned from overuse, her body still aching from the Ascen she had spent.

  But the worst part?

  She felt empty.

  Something inside her was missing.

  She had brought Fey back, but at what cost?

  She gasped, her body collapsing onto the ground as exhaustion finally overtook her.

  For the first time in her life, she had given everything.

  And something had broken inside of her.

  Renn had never been afraid of Lucian before.

  But now?

  As she lay in the dirt, her body wracked with pain, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at anymore.

  She had seen him fight before. She had sparred with him, watched him struggle to keep up.

  This wasn’t that boy.

  Lucian had annihilated Vraxxis. Not just killed him—destroyed him.

  And yet… Renn wasn’t thinking about Lucian’s terrifying strength.

  She was thinking about her arm.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Or rather, where her arm used to be.

  A wave of nausea hit her as she forced herself to look. Her right arm was gone.

  Vraxxis' final attack—the abyssal shockwave that had obliterated the ruins where she hid—had taken it from her.

  Her sleeve was drenched in blood, what remained of her shoulder burnt and mangled from the attack. A crude attempt at clotting had stopped her from bleeding out completely, but the damage was done.

  The realization hit her like a hammer.

  She would never wield her bow again.

  Her heart pounded in her ears, a mixture of horror, shock, and something else—something colder.

  She wasn’t mourning the loss.

  She was just staring at Lucian.

  The way he had taunted Vraxxis. The absolute coldness in his voice. The way he executed the monster like it meant nothing.

  She had thought she was watching her comrade fight.

  Instead, she had watched something else completely.

  A force beyond any of them.

  “…Lucian?” she whispered, her remaining hand trembling in the dirt.

  But he wasn’t listening.

  He wasn’t even looking at her.

  And that was what terrified her the most.

  Lucian exhaled slowly.

  The dark aura veiling his body flickered.

  The imperfect Gildren gauntlets on his hands began to disintegrate, fading into nothingness.

  The power was leaving him.

  His breath hitched. His legs trembled.

  And then—he collapsed.

  His body hit the ground hard, his mind already slipping into unconsciousness.

  But before the darkness took him, a voice—low, deep, and filled with amusement—whispered in the back of his mind.

  "Till next time, foolish one."

  And then—

  Everything went black.

  Elara took a slow step forward, her gaze fixed on Lucian’s unconscious body.

  The boy they were meant to protect had ended up protecting them.

  She wanted to believe this was over.

  But as she stood there, staring at him, feeling the weight of the battle settle in her chest—

  She knew something had changed.

  Lucian wasn’t the same boy who had traveled with them.

  Something had been unleashed.

  And she wasn’t sure if they would ever be able to contain it again.

  The survivors gathered around Lucian, battered and bloodied.

  None of them spoke.

  None of them cheered.

  Instead, they simply watched the unconscious boy and wondered:

  "What… have we just unleashed?"

  Lucian stirred.

  A faint warmth covered his body—soft blankets, unfamiliar but comforting. His breath was slow, steady, yet something felt… off. The weight in his limbs, the dull ache deep in his bones—his body was not his own yet.

  The ceiling above him was wooden, faint cracks visible from age. Where was he?

  He tried to move, to raise his arm, but nothing responded. His body felt heavy, unmovable, as if it had been drained of everything. He clenched his jaw, struggling to remember.

  Then, fragments.

  Power.

  A name.

  Gildren.

  His hands—gauntlets of dark gold.

  His body—moving faster than he could think.

  Vraxxis—helpless beneath his fists.

  And then—silence.

  Lucian swallowed hard. The power had been his… but it hadn’t felt like his alone.

  It was his body, his hands, his fury—

  But something else had guided him.

  Something watching.

  Something lending its strength.

  Something waiting.

  He shut his eyes. Was it truly the right decision?

  To bargain with something so powerful—to invite it into his soul?

  A presence stirred within him.

  No words. No whispers.

  Only a lingering weight, a phantom pressure, as if something unseen was smiling.

  Lucian shivered.

  A rustle of fabric. A movement.

  Lucian turned his head—or at least, tried to. Someone was there.

  Elara.

  She was seated in a chair beside the bed, her head bowed, eyes closed, breath steady but uneven.

  Asleep.

  But not peacefully.

  Her gloved hands were clasped tightly together, shoulders tense even in rest. Her body looked stiff, worn down, as if she had spent days keeping watch.

  Then—she stirred.

  Lucian barely managed to shift his fingers before her golden eyes snapped open.

  For a brief moment, relief flooded her gaze.

  Then, her expression hardened.

  She exhaled slowly. "You're awake."

  Lucian blinked. His voice felt foreign, throat dry. He swallowed before attempting to speak.

  "How… long?"

  Elara's lips pressed into a tight line.

  "Ten days."

  Lucian’s breath caught.

  Ten days?

  His mind raced. Had he truly been unconscious for that long? The battle—**Fey, Isla, Tarek, Holt, Renn—**what happened to them?

  And then—a terrible memory struck him.

  Fey. Dying.

  His body jerked slightly, his head snapping toward Elara.

  The captain had already expected the question.

  Before Lucian could speak, she raised a hand, stopping him.

  "I’ll fill you in." Her voice was firm but quiet. "But first—"

  She leaned forward, her gaze sharp, demanding.

  "You answer me first, Lucian."

  He felt his heart pound.

  Elara’s golden eyes burned, searching him, weighing something heavy within her.

  Her next words were not an accusation—but a demand.

  "What the hell happened to you?"

  Silence.

  Lucian froze.

  His lips parted, but no words came out.

  The room felt smaller.

  Tight. Suffocating.

  The weight of her stare pinned him down harder than his own exhaustion.

  "I…"

  He didn’t know how to answer.

  A flicker of memory—the abyss, the chains, the voice taunting him.

  Elara waited.

  Lucian swallowed, his voice quiet. "Did I… scare you?"

  Elara’s jaw tightened.

  Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood abruptly.

  "Lucian—I’m the one asking questions here."

  For the first time since he had woken up, her voice rose.

  But there was no anger.

  No frustration.

  Only something deeper—an emotion she had been holding in.

  Lucian flinched.

  Then—Elara's body gave out.

  She dropped to her knees, her fingers curling into the sheets beside his hand.

  Lucian’s breath hitched.

  Elara… was breaking.

  She had been holding on—for too long.

  For ten days.

  For the entirety of that horrifying battle.

  Tears gathered at the edges of her eyes, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to sound strong.

  "Fey died before my eyes," she whispered, voice hoarse. "And Isla… burned her Ascen away to bring her back."

  Lucian’s chest tightened painfully.

  Elara shook her head.

  "I saw Holt and Tarek nearly die. I saw Renn…"

  She hesitated—her throat working as she forced the words out.

  "…lose her arm."

  Lucian stiffened.

  Renn.

  He felt cold.

  She had been an archer. A damn good one. And now—her arm was gone?

  The words hit harder than any blow.

  Elara exhaled shakily, her fingers gripping the sheets tighter.

  "You weren’t there to see it, Lucian," she murmured. "The moment she realized."

  Lucian shut his eyes.

  Elara’s voice lowered, barely above a whisper.

  "But none of us… would be alive if you weren’t there."

  Lucian’s eyes snapped open.

  Elara lifted her head, her face wet with tears.

  "I don’t care what you did." Her voice cracked, raw and honest. "You protected my team. You protected me."

  She reached for his hand, pressing her forehead against his palm.

  "Thank you."

  Lucian couldn’t breathe.

  Not because of exhaustion.

  Not because of pain.

  But because—for the first time since the battle ended—he allowed himself to feel.

  Everything.

  The fear. The exhaustion. The guilt.

  His throat felt tight.

  Elara whispered, "The price of that power… is yours alone to bear. But because of it, we are still here."

  Lucian clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, forcing back the burn in his eyes.

  He didn’t deserve this.

  Not this gratitude.

  Not this forgiveness.

  But… he had made his choice.

  Lucian exhaled sharply.

  His voice was hoarse, but firm.

  "You know I’d do it again."

  Elara lifted her head slightly, blinking through the tears.

  Lucian stared at her, unwavering.

  "If it meant stopping you from suffering again—" his voice was quiet, but steady. "I’d make the same choice. Every time."

  Elara studied him.

  She saw it.

  Not a child speaking.

  Not just a soldier.

  But something growing.

  Something terrifying.

  Something determined.

  Lucian took a breath.

  "I will conquer this power, Captain," he whispered. "I swear it."

  Silence.

  Elara exhaled, her shoulders trembling.

  Then—Lucian swallowed, his next words measured, careful.

  "I only ask one thing."

  Elara tilted her head slightly, listening.

  "Keep this between us," Lucian murmured. "Until we reach Commander Kael."

  Elara's golden eyes darkened.

  She didn't answer right away.

  Then—she nodded.

  "Fine," she said softly. "For now."

  Lucian slowly shut his eyes, exhaustion pressing down again.

  But before sleep could take him—

  A voice.

  Low. Amused. Lingering.

  "Till next time, foolish one."

  And then—

  Silence.

  The wooden door creaked softly as Elara stepped out of the room, closing it behind her with quiet care. She exhaled slowly, rubbing her forehead.

  The air outside was cool, the scent of damp earth lingering from the recent rainfall. It had been ten days, but the weight of battle still clung to the air, heavy and unshaken.

  She barely had time to collect her thoughts before two figures stepped forward from the shadows of the dimly lit hallway.

  Holt and Tarek.

  Holt was the first to speak, his voice gruff but edged with concern.

  "How is he?"

  Elara sighed, crossing her arms. "He’s awake."

  Relief flickered across Holt’s rugged face, but it was brief. He had seen what Lucian had become—what he had done. "And… is he still—"

  "He’s himself," Elara cut in, her tone firm.

  Holt’s brows furrowed, clearly unconvinced. "That’s not what I meant—"

  "He’s himself, Holt." Elara’s voice hardened, her golden eyes locking onto his.

  A tense silence stretched between them.

  Tarek shifted slightly, adjusting his stance, before clearing his throat.

  "We have another problem."

  Elara turned to him, already sensing the unease in his posture.

  Tarek’s usual sharp expression was clouded, his jaw tight. "It’s Isla."

  Elara’s stomach twisted. "What about her?"

  Tarek exhaled sharply. "She’s still unconscious, but—" he hesitated before finishing, "Her Ascen is unstable. It’s scattered inside her body, like she can’t control it anymore."

  Elara’s breath caught.

  "That’s not all," Tarek continued, his voice lower now, more urgent. "If we don’t get her to the Wise One at the fortress soon… she might not make it."

  A heavy silence settled between them.

  Holt’s face darkened. His hands clenched into fists. "How long do we have?"

  Tarek shook his head. "I don’t know. Days, maybe less. I’ve seen cases like this before, but nothing this severe. If she burns out—"

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

  Elara’s fingers twitched against her arms. Damn it.

  This was worse than she thought.

  Lucian had just woken up, but Isla was still hanging on the edge. And with the fortress so far away…

  Elara exhaled sharply. No hesitation. No delays.

  She straightened, her expression set.

  "Lucian needs to rest for now, but we don’t have time to wait." She looked at both of them. "Start preparations. We leave as soon as possible."

  Holt and Tarek nodded immediately.

  Neither of them argued. They knew the stakes.

  The fortress was their only hope.

  For Isla.

  Elara had given Lucian her trust.

  And for whatever Lucian had become.

  But deep down… she wasn’t sure if she had given it to a boy.

  Or to something else entirely.