The road to Emberfang stretched long before them, the fading light of day casting elongated shadows across the uneven path. Dust swirled beneath the steady march of hooves, the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels the only sound that dared to disturb the oppressive silence between them.

  Now escorted by Tyra and her Praevians, the group rode with unease. Their new company was clad in white robes adorned with the sigil of Emberfang, but beneath the cloth, the glint of hidden armor and the disciplined gait of seasoned warriors betrayed the sheer power in their presence.

  Elara remained at the head of their formation, eyes ever watchful. She did not trust Tyra. The Wise One had stabilized Isla, had saved her life—but the unsettling way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she knew things she had no reason to know, made the captain wary.

  Lucian rode alongside Tyra. The Wise One’s silver eyes flickered with something unreadable as she kept her gaze ahead, her posture utterly composed, utterly certain. Lucian stole a glance at her, his fingers tightening around the reins before he finally worked up the courage to speak.

  “You said you knew what’s inside me,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “What did you mean?”

  Tyra’s lips quirked slightly, though whether it was amusement or something else entirely, Lucian couldn’t tell. She did not answer immediately, allowing the silence between them to stretch thin, tight. Then, with a voice as smooth as flowing water, she finally responded.

  “A vessel unawakened,” she said simply, as if the words explained everything.

  Lucian frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

  Tyra turned her gaze upon him, and for the first time, he saw something like curiosity in her eyes. “No,” she admitted. “But it is the only answer you’re ready for.”

  Lucian’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but before he could press further, movement from the wagon caught his attention.

  A sharp intake of breath. A rustling of fabric. Then—

  A whisper.

  “There are shadows beyond life…”

  Lucian’s head snapped toward the wagon, heart hammering in his chest as Isla’s frail body stirred. Her lips trembled, her expression caught between pain and something else—something distant.

  “Voices,” she continued weakly, her breath shallow. “They see… but do not speak.”

  Fey leaned over her, gripping her hand tightly. “Isla—Isla, look at me. What are you talking about?”

  Isla did not respond. Her eyelids fluttered, her fingers twitching as if grasping at something unseen. A shudder ran through her body, and then, as suddenly as she had awakened, she collapsed once more, slipping into unconsciousness.

  The group fell into a tense silence. Fey’s shoulders shook as she held onto Isla, murmuring her name over and over. Holt and Tarek exchanged wary glances, while Renn, ever composed, only pressed her lips into a thin line.

  Elara turned her head slightly, just enough to cast a sharp look in Tyra’s direction. “What was that?” she demanded.

  Tyra remained unbothered. “The veil is thin around her,” she mused. “Between life and death, there are those who watch.”

  Elara’s grip on her reins tightened. She had expected more riddles from the Wise One, but each answer only added to the weight of her suspicions.

  They rode on, the uneasy quiet stretching between them. The Praevians remained disciplined, silent, as if unaffected by the growing tension in the group.

  Then, on the horizon, the fortress came into view.

  The towering iron gates of Emberfang loomed ahead, banners of red and black rippling in the wind. Even from a distance, the fortress was alive with activity—figures moved along the walls, watchmen stood at the ready, and as they neared, it became clear that Emberfang was expecting them.

  The towering gates of Emberfang Fortress groaned open, revealing the familiar stronghold beyond. The weight of the journey settled into the bones of the weary mercenaries as they crossed through the threshold. They were home.

  Lucian felt it—the exhaustion pressing down on him again, the cold reminder of how much had been lost. But even through the haze of fatigue, the fortress stood unchanged. Solid. Steady. Waiting.

  As the group slowed, Elara instinctively turned her gaze toward Tyra. But where the Wise One had stood moments ago, there was only empty air.

  Her expression hardened. Gone?

  She scanned the Praevians, the silent figures standing with unwavering discipline. One of them stepped forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed her.

  "The Wise One will be in her quarters," he said smoothly. "You will be guided there."

  Elara inhaled slowly, forcing herself to push aside her unease. That woman moved like a ghost, slipping from their sight as easily as she had appeared. But there was no time to dwell on it now.

  She gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

  Another Praevian approached Lucian. The young warrior met his gaze, his expression unreadable.

  "Orin Kael is expecting you."

  Lucian’s brows twitched slightly, but he was unfazed. This was what he had wanted. To stand before Kael. To learn. To move forward.

  But still—his mind lingered on Tyra’s words.

  "I know what is inside you."

  "A vessel unawakened."

  Lucian’s fingers twitched at his side. What had she meant? What did she know that he did not?

  He forced the thought aside, snapping out of his daze as he turned to follow the Praevian. This was not the time to hesitate.

  Then—

  "Oi, Lucian!"

  Holt’s voice cut through the fortress courtyard.

  Lucian paused, turning to see Holt and Renn standing together, watching him. The exhaustion on their faces was clear, but something in their eyes felt heavier than mere fatigue.

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  Lucian hesitated, then smiled slightly. "It was… a nice experience." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath his words.

  A quiet farewell.

  "I'll see you both again after this." His gaze flickered toward the wagon, where Isla remained. "Make sure she’s alright."

  Holt narrowed his eyes, catching the slight strain beneath Lucian’s expression. He wasn’t just leaving—he was stepping into something unknown.

  Renn smirked tiredly, crossing her arm over the cloak that hid her missing limb. "Don’t act like this is the last time we’ll see each other, Lucian."

  Lucian blinked, surprised by the certainty in her tone.

  Then—Elara spoke.

  "We will be seeing each other again."

  She said it without hesitation. As if it were an absolute truth.

  Lucian looked at her, then at the rest of them. The mercenaries who had fought beside him. Who had bled for him, just as he had for them.

  It was enough.

  Lucian inhaled deeply before turning away. "Then I won’t say goodbye."

  And with that, he followed the Praevian toward Orin Kael’s quarters.

  The heavy wooden doors of the private quarters loomed before Lucian, carved with intricate symbols of Emberfang—a testament to the fortress's long-standing history. The Praevian who had guided him stopped just short of them, his stance rigid as he turned to face Lucian.

  "This is as far as I go," the Praevian said, his voice calm but absolute. "Commander Kael is inside."

  With a slight bow, the warrior turned on his heel and strode away, his steps silent against the stone floor.

  Lucian remained still, his gaze locked on the door. His mind churned—thoughts colliding and unraveling. Tyra’s words. Isla’s cryptic whispers. The weight of Aldric’s final lesson.

  His fingers twitched at his side before curling into a fist.

  Enough.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing the hesitation out of his body. Then, he pushed the door open.

  The room was massive—larger than Lucian expected for a commander’s personal space. Tall, arched ceilings stretched above him, lined with dark wooden beams reinforced with steel. The walls were adorned with ancient banners, each bearing the sigil of Emberfang through different eras. Some were tattered, their colors faded from time. A quiet reminder of the keep’s battles.

  A grand mosaic window dominated the left wall, depicting a stylized phoenix rising over a battlefield, its wings made of glass shards that caught the dim torchlight. The late afternoon sun filtered through it, casting a golden hue across the stone floors.

  At the center of the chamber stood a long table, a map of the continent sprawled across its surface, its edges held down by iron-cast markers. To the right, a massive bookshelf lined with worn tomes and scrolls took up nearly the entire wall.

  The scent of aged parchment, steel, and faint traces of incense hung in the air. The space was both a war room and a study—a place where command and knowledge intertwined.

  Lucian’s eyes settled on the man seated near the mosaic window.

  Orin Kael.

  He held a book in one hand, flipping a page before closing it with a quiet thud. His gaze lifted—piercing, yet familiar.

  A small smirk formed at the corner of his lips.

  "It’s good to see you again, Lucian."

  Lucian was about to respond when another presence caught his attention.

  His gaze shifted to the right side of the room, where a man sat at the long war table—his armor partially unstrapped, his posture relaxed but unmistakably alert.

  Sir Jorah.

  The grizzled warrior studied Lucian with a sharp gaze, arms crossed over his chest. His presence was one of quiet intensity, the kind that didn’t need words to command respect.

  Lucian gave them both a small bow. "Commander Kael. Sir Jorah."

  Kael rose from his seat near the window, moving toward the long table where Jorah sat. He gestured for Lucian to join them.

  "Come, sit. There is much to discuss."

  Lucian nodded and took his place at the table, his muscles still stiff from the long journey.

  Kael leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

  "I already know what happened." His voice was steady. "I had a spy within your group from the start."

  Lucian tensed. His mind raced.

  Then—a shift in the shadows.

  A figure stepped forward from the dimly lit corner of the room.

  Lucian’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even sensed him.

  "You."

  Tarek.

  The scout met his gaze, his usual lighthearted demeanor absent. His movements were silent, measured—completely different from how he had been during their journey.

  "Tarek reported everything to me," Kael continued. "Which means we can skip unnecessary details."

  Lucian exhaled, settling himself. He had no reason to be angry—Kael was a strategist, after all. Still, it was unsettling.

  Kael rested an arm on the table, his gaze leveling with Lucian’s. Then, his tone sharpened.

  "Now, let’s begin with something simple."

  "What exactly did Father Aldric teach you?"

  Lucian blinked, caught slightly off guard by the directness of the question. He expected something else.

  Still, he answered.

  "Basic swordsmanship. Basic control of my Ascen."

  Then, he hesitated. A memory surfaced.

  "He once sent me into the forest to kill a beast. Varr’Gorrath."

  A brief silence.

  Jorah’s brow arched.

  "Varr’Gorrath?" The knight’s tone shifted slightly. "You’re certain?"

  Lucian nodded. He remembered it vividly. The fight. The struggle. The moment he killed the beast with his bare hands.

  "Father Aldric told me my Ascen improved significantly after that fight."

  Kael exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a slight chuckle.

  "Of course, that was his plan from the start."

  Lucian frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

  Kael studied him for a long moment before speaking.

  "The thing inside you… is not an ordinary Relicarn."

  Lucian’s chest tightened.

  Kael’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

  "And your Ascen?" Kael continued. "It is far from normal as well."

  Lucian’s hands clenched against his lap. He had suspected this, but to hear it confirmed...

  "Then tell me," Lucian said finally, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. "Tell me something I don’t already know."

  A beat of silence.

  Then—Kael and Sir Jorah chuckled.

  The commander shook his head with mild amusement. "Hah. You really are Aldric’s boy."

  Then, Kael leaned forward, his expression darkening.

  "Fine. I'll tell you something you’re not aware of."

  Kael's gaze sharpened as he leaned forward slightly, his presence looming even as he remained seated. "That craving… that desire for destruction," he said, his voice steady yet laced with something unreadable, "it isn’t just an instinct born from power. It’s something deeper, something ingrained in you."

  Lucian's fingers twitched slightly. He could still feel the weight of the chains, the way the gauntlets coiled around his arms like living shackles when he fought Vraxxis. The memory sent a cold pulse through his veins.

  Sir Jorah, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke. "Your Relicarn is not like any I’ve encountered before. Most warriors wield theirs as an extension of their will, but yours…" He exhaled sharply, narrowing his eyes. "Yours is waiting. Watching. And it wants more than just to serve you."

  Lucian swallowed, forcing himself to meet their gazes. "I don’t understand. A Relicarn is supposed to be a part of the wielder’s soul, isn’t it?" His voice was steady, but uncertainty crawled at the back of his mind. "Then why does mine feel like… something separate?"

  Kael exchanged a glance with Jorah before answering. "Because it does."

  The words landed heavy in the air.

  Kael rested his forearms on the table, his fingers interlaced. "It wasn’t simply forged in battle like any other Relicarn. It was sharpened over countless lives, molded through obsession, reforged by something far beyond fate. It was earned—at a cost you do not yet remember." His eyes locked onto Lucian’s. "And that is why it feels so dangerous."

  Lucian’s breath hitched slightly. "Older?" His mind reeled. "You mean—?"

  "It’s not just tied to your Ascen," Kael interrupted, his tone firm. "It’s tied to you. To the very essence of who you are." He exhaled, as if weighing his next words carefully. "Your Relicarn has a will of its own because, in some way, it was forged by a past that even you don’t remember."

  Lucian stiffened.

  Shadows of memories he couldn’t place flickered at the edge of his mind—visions of endless struggle, of unyielding perseverance, of an insatiable need to rise above everyone and everything. He felt it in the way his body moved, in the way his instincts sharpened in battle, in the way he adapted, survived, and pushed beyond his limits without hesitation.

  Jorah’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Tell me, Lucian. When you fight, when you push yourself further—do you ever feel a sense of… familiarity? As if your body knows what to do before your mind does?"

  Lucian’s jaw clenched.

  He did.

  Every battle, every clash, every test of strength—it all felt like something he had done before. As if he had spent an entire lifetime refining himself for war, for victory. But that was impossible.

  …Wasn’t it?

  Kael’s voice lowered slightly. "That hunger inside your Relicarn, that need to dominate and conquer—it mirrors something from long before you ever held a blade in this life."

  Lucian’s mind raced.

  A past he didn’t remember.

  A power built on relentless pursuit.

  And a Relicarn that refused to be just a tool.

  Lucian took a slow breath, gripping the edge of the table. "Then tell me," he said, his voice calmer than he expected. "If this power is tied to something before me… then what am I supposed to do with it?"

  Kael studied him for a long moment, then smirked slightly. "That depends, Lucian." His eyes gleamed with something between intrigue and warning. "Are you going to master it?"

  Or let it master you?