Will opened his eyes slowly as the blue?painted plaster above him came into focus, the familiar sweep of clouds and falcon wings, and the steady low hum of the palace settled back around his ribs.

  The mattress was solid beneath him. The sheets were a tangled knot around his legs.

  His heart hammered hard against his sternum, too fast, too loud in the quiet. The taste of static clung to the back of his tongue, sour and metallic.

  Pre?dawn light bled in around the balcony curtains, just enough to sketch the outline of the glass doors and the narrow strip of stone beside them.

  Belhaven was still asleep. No music from the town square, no distant drift of laughter—just the soft, slow hush of the sea somewhere below the cliffs.

  The mage?lights along the ceiling were dimmed to a low amber, breathing in a steady rhythm he could feel more than see.

  “Okay,” he murmured, voice rough. “Okay. I’m back.”

  A faint shimmer sparked at the foot of the bed.

  Brat resolved out of the air in stages—outline, color, detail—until the small, barefoot boy in a simple tunic and shorts was standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted just slightly as he studied Will. This morning, he was razor?sharp, every line precise. His eyes, usually full of mischief, glowed faintly at the rims like someone had left a screen on behind them.

  “Welcome back, Your Highness,” he said quietly. “No desync. Vitals steady. Neural flux high, but that’s from the adrenaline, not corruption.”

  His mouth quirked. “And before you ask—yeah. It worked.”?

  Will pushed himself upright against the headboard, the sheets dragging against his skin.

  Every muscle felt tight, braced for an impact that hadn’t come. He rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head for a moment, breathing until the pounding in his chest slid down from panic to something he could name.

  “What worked,” he asked, without looking up. “The message, or—”

  “All of it.” Brat came closer, hovering up onto the mattress without disturbing it, and dropped cross?legged near Will's ankles, elbows on his knees. “The rock?through?window moment? Perfect throw. Your speech got scooped, wrapped, and launched. It rode the architecture line clean and hit a live node.”

  “Someone out there knows you’re alive and fighting your confinement.”

  Something loosened in Will's shoulders at that, a small, dangerous shift. He made himself breathe through it. “And Mira,” he said.

  Brat's expression softened, some of the bright diagnostic light behind his eyes dimming to something more human.

  “And Mira,” he echoed. “That wasn’t some glitchy wish?fulfillment. She was really there. For a few seconds you were in both places at once—still anchored here in the Haven shard, but transmitting into the main game.’”?

  Will lifted his head. The room wavered at the edges, not from code but from something entirely more human. For a moment he could still see her the way she'd looked in that sideways place—taller now, angles where there had been softness, hair hacked short and clipped back like she'd had better things to do than care what anyone thought of it.

  Eyes still sharp like the willful five-year-old he remembered and loved.

  He blinked hard, once.

  “I keep thinking of her at five,” he said slowly. “Jumping into my arms and demanding another story. And now she’s—” He groped for a number in a world where time ran in circles. “Fifteen. A whole person.”

  His voice cracked and broke off.

  Brat shifted closer. “It’s okay, Will,” he said quietly. “They’re out there. They haven’t forgotten you. Adrian hasn’t. Mira sure as hell hasn’t.” He tipped his head, studying Will’s face. “You’re not an old save file to them. You’re still Uncle Will.”

  The words settled under his ribs like something hot and steady.

  Uncle Will.

  Not just a trapped pattern. Not just a user ID in an offline shard. A person people loved enough to keep fighting for. “I told her I’m trying to get home,” he said softly. “It felt… inadequate. I wanted to promise I would walk through the door tomorrow.”

  Brat’s mouth tugged sideways. “Will, we broke through,” he said. “And we got confirmation about the keys. We may not know everything, but we know we’re on the right path now. Four fragments, and we already have two of them. That’s not nothing.”

  Will let that settle, the truth of it slotting into place alongside Mira’s voice and the lingering taste of static. Hope and impatience crashed together in his chest, sharp enough to sting.

  “I want to go now,” Will said. “Every part of me is screaming to find the next piece and not stop until I’m breathing real air again. I don’t want breakfast. I don’t want another polite stroll while the city tells me how adored I am.”

  Brat’s eyes gentled. “And that,” he said, “is exactly why we don’t sprint. The Keys matter, but they’re only half the problem. Hacking the block is one thing. Getting you out in one piece is another. A clean pull needs stability. Integration. Your mind has to be stitched tight enough that it doesn’t tear on the way out.”

  Will frowned. “Social Sync.”

  “Social Sync,” Brat confirmed. “The shard’s emotional checksum on you. The higher it is, the more fully your neural patterns are mapped and reinforced—habits, relationships, all the little loops that make you you. Right now you’re low-sixties. We need you pushing ninety so that when the Keys crack the lock, NeuralSync can actually re?upload you to your real body without scrambling anything important.”

  He spread his hands. “Keys give us a way to break the cage. Sync keeps you from shattering when we try to leave it.”

  Will stared at him. “So I have to… what, smile my way to safety? Drink wine at the Gilded Oar, shake hands in the square, wave from balconies, and trust that being a good little prince is somehow a medical protocol?”

  Brat winced, then shrugged. “I didn’t design it. But that’s the gist. Haven was repurposed as a recovery shard. The Sync number is literally tracking how tightly you’re woven into its people and places. High Sync means the world itself helps hold you together while we pull you back.”

  Will turned his head toward the balcony. Fog pressed pale against the glass. Somewhere beyond, the neat twenty?mile circle of his kingdom waited.

  It felt like a cage lined in silk.

  He sighed once, quiet and sharp, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “What’s next?”

  Brat brightened a fraction, seizing the opening. “Short term?” he said. “The Festival of Tides. Belhaven’s favorite excuse to put lanterns on everything and introduce half the supporting cast at once. It’s a perfect Sync engine—new faces, visiting nobles, public appearances. If you play the part properly, we’re talking an easy bump of ten, maybe fifteen points.”

  Will grimaced. “So the more convincingly I act like I love it here, the closer I get to leaving.”

  “Welcome to irony,” Brat said. “We lean into the Belhaven storyline, we ride the festival, we let the shard fall a little more in love with you. While that’s cooking, we line up the next move for the Keys. We need to pick your next class. Arcanist or Warden. We’ve got two of the keys. It’s time to aim for the third.”

  Will’s mouth tugged. “Right now?”

  Brat shook his head. “After you get dressed and eat something. The Training Room isn’t going anywhere. But your blood sugar might.”

  That, at least, pulled the edge of a real smile from Will.

  He swung his legs fully off the bed and stood. The marble was cool beneath his feet, grounding.

  He walked into the closet and reached for something simple: light gray trousers, a navy shirt with a clean line of gold at the collar, boots that would let him move. As he shrugged out of his sleep shirt and pulled on the new one, his reflection in the long mirror wavered once before catching up. The prince looked back at him, every edge neat, every flaw sanded down.

  “I still hate that the fastest way home is playing the part they wrote for me,” he said, fastening his cuffs.

  Leaning against the doorway, Brat folded his arms, expression rueful but steady. “Call it method acting with ridiculous stakes,” he said. “You charm the city, we push Social Sync, we hunt the next Key, and we keep outmaneuvering anything that wants to erase you. End result? One day Mira doesn’t have to talk to you through lag.”

  Mira’s voice surfaced again, quiet and insistent. Come home, Uncle Will.

  He drew a slow breath. “Fine,” he said. “We do it your way. Festival, Sync, smile for the crowd. Then we go after the next key the first chance we get. No distractions."

  Brat’s shoulders eased, some of the tightness around his eyes loosening. “Good,” he said, softer than before. “That’s enough for today. Breakfast first. Then we can talk about whether you’d rather be buried in spellbooks or stuck playing palace healer.”

  Will snorted. “For the record,” he said, “I’m not wearing robes.”

  “We’ll negotiate,” Brat said, the spark returning. “Over coffee.”

  “Let’s go earn our ninety,” Will replied.

  Brat stood behind him, grin sharp and determined. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “Time to be very, very likable.”

  Will walked to the main bedroom door and opened it. Warm light from the sitting room spilled over the threshold. For the first time, it felt less like another loop and more like the start of a path.

  He stepped through.

  Will stepped out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, the smell of coffee and toasted bread cutting through the last metallic tang of static on his tongue.

  Morning light washed the space in soft gold. The table by the balcony held a neat spread—fruit, eggs, a basket of sliced bread, a pot of coffee sending up quiet steam.

  Marin stood beside it, smoothing the edge of a folded napkin with more care than it required. Her shoulders were just a little too straight, her composure a touch more formal than usual.

  Opposite her, near the long windows, Lord Derran waited.

  Tall and spare in immaculate gray and blue, silver?streaked hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, he looked like a man who had brought unwelcome news and an itemized list of how to fix it.

  Marin noticed Will first. She startled, then immediately dropped into a graceful curtsey. “Your Highness,” she said. “Forgive the intrusion,” she added with a quick glance past him at Derran. “I was just setting your breakfast.”

  Will’s mouth softened. “There’s no intrusion when you bring coffee, Marin,” he said. “Good morning.”

  Color rose in her cheeks; she ducked her head, pleased in spite of herself.

  Brat walked in behind him at an easy pace, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking around the room with quick, cataloguing interest. He flashed Marin a small grin, then strolled toward the bookshelves along the far wall, turning his attention ostentatiously to spines he’d already indexed.

  Will crossed to the table and sank into his usual chair. He reached for the coffee pot, poured a careful measure, and let the ritual of it steady his hands.

  “Thank you, Marin,” he said as he lifted the cup. “Everything looks excellent, as always.”

  “Of course, sire.” She risked another glance toward Derran, seemed to decide something, and added, “If you need anything else, ring the bell.” Then she curtsied once more and slipped out through the door, quiet as a closing page.

  The room felt larger without her, and more formal.

  Will took a slow sip of coffee—the heat, the familiar bitterness, the faint citrus note someone in the kitchens favored. He set the cup down and looked toward the chamberlain.

  “And what can I do for you, Lord Derran?” he asked, tone courteous, as if they had all the time in the world.

  Derran inclined his head, the bow measured and precise. “Your Highness,” he said. “I regret the early hour, but I thought it best to speak with you at once.”

  “Bad news or complicated news?” Brat murmured from the bookshelf.

  Derran’s gaze never flickered. “We have received updated word from the capital,” he said. “Regarding His Majesty’s travel schedule.”

  Will reached for a piece of bread, tearing it neatly. “Go on,” he said.

  “The royal carriage has made better time than anticipated,” Derran continued. “Road conditions across the Inner Reach have been more favorable than the couriers first reported. As a result, His Majesty is expected to arrive in Belhaven tomorrow afternoon.”

  He let that hang for a beat.

  “Tomorrow,” Will repeated.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Derran’s tone remained mild, but his fingers twitched once against the ring on his thumb. “The couriers have already been informed. Preparations are being adjusted. The three days of the Festival of Tides will still begin the following morning, as decreed—but His Majesty will now be present for the entirety of the celebrations, not only the final day. We have far less time than we hoped to ensure everything is in proper order for your father’s arrival.”

  Will took another sip of coffee to buy himself a second, then really looked at him.

  His Empathy skill flickered to life, a quiet pulse behind his eyes. Derran’s outline shaded over in cool tones—professional decorum, well?worn duty, and a distance that felt almost structural. No warmth. No particular resentment either. Just…cold.

  “Hey,” Will said aloud, without taking his gaze off the man. “What’s the story between the prince and the chamberlain?”

  Derran’s eyes unfocused at once, his posture holding but his expression going subtly blank—the idle drift NPCs fell into when the system knew they weren’t being directly addressed.

  Brat glanced over from the shelves. “Short version?” he said. “Before you ‘arrived’ here at seventeen, Derran was effectively running Belhaven. Duke of the port, de facto regent. Then the Crown’s favorite son shows up and the narrative pivots. He’s too professional to ever be anything but correct with you, but no, there’s not exactly a well of affection under all that starch.”

  Will nodded once, plating some eggs. As his attention locked on Derran again, the man’s gaze sharpened, animation sliding smoothly back into place.

  “You made the right choice coming to me,” Will said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Of course there is,” Brat muttered, turning so he could watch them openly.

  “High Priest Merov of the Temple of the One sends his compliments,” Derran said. “And a polite request that you attend him at the temple this afternoon. He wishes to offer the formal blessings of the One upon your household before His Majesty’s arrival and to speak with you regarding certain ceremonial details for the opening of the festival.”

  “That’s the pretext,” Brat said under his breath. “He wants something.”

  Will let the corner of his mouth curve a fraction. “What time does he expect me?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Any hour that suits your schedule after midday,” Derran replied. “He suggested the early afternoon, that the light through the dome might be…appropriate, I believe was his word.”

  “That tracks,” Brat said. “He does love his theatrical sunbeams.”

  Will nodded slowly, turning the information over. Temple this afternoon. King tomorrow. Their window for class choice and planning had just gotten tighter.

  “Very well,” Will said. “Send word that I will attend the High Priest after the twelfth bell. That should give the temple time to prepare.”

  Will took a slow drink of his coffee, eyes tracking the steam for a moment before continuing. “After my visit at the Temple, I will make myself available to you, my Lord, for whatever last-minute preparations are needed for the palace to adjust for the early arrival.”

  Relief flickered across Derran’s features. “I will see it done at once, Your Highness,” he said. “The staff will circulate an updated schedule within the hour.”

  “I’ll review what you send,” Will said. “For now, proceed as you see fit. You’ve never let Belhaven embarrass itself yet.”

  A brief, genuine smile broke the chamberlain’s composure. “You are kind, my prince,” he said. “We will do all we can to merit your confidence.”

  He bowed again, then stepped back toward the door. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

  “Good morning, Lord Derran.”

  The door closed with a soft click.

  For a moment, the only sounds were the faint clink of porcelain against porcelain as Will set his coffee down and the distant, steady hush of the sea.

  Then Brat abandoned the bookshelf and walked back toward the table, dropping into the empty chair opposite Will with a long exhale.

  “Well,” he said. “We’ve our days cut out for us. Temple, King, festival. Comms lock poked. Keys on the board. Social Sync at low?sixties.” He spread his hands. “Absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  Will picked up his fork.

  “Eat,” Brat added. “We’ve got a lot of acting, and at least one class selection, to get through before the twelfth bell.”

  Will and Brat stood before the four class statues recessed in the training room's rear wall.

  Polished stone gleamed under the steady mage-lights, each figure carved with lifelike poise that made the shadows play across muscle and cloth.

  The Champion statue stood proud in its alcove, glowing steadily gold and casting a warm pool across the floor like spilled sunlight, while the Shadow glowed dim purple, its cowl concealing features in slate darkness veined with pulsing violet threads.

  The statues of the Arcanist and Warden waited cold and unclaimed, their matte surfaces dull and expectant under the mage-lights, silent invitations carved in unyielding stone.

  Will shifted his weight, eyes tracing the dormant pair as memories of Champion's brutal precision and Shadow's elusive grace and stealth flickered through his mind.

  Two paths down, two left.

  The weight of Haven's fractures pressed closer now: Edras' warnings, the hidden Key's silent glow in his inventory, the threat of Gareth and whomever he stood for.

  He needed more than steel or silence to pry open the cracks. "Run it by me one more time," he said, voice steady in the hushed space. "What sets them apart?"?

  Brat snapped his fingers sharply.

  The Arcanist alcove kindled with faint azure shimmer. "Basically your wizard class," he said. "Spell weavers and throwers—masters of magic who bend reality through intellect, with tons of versatility in the type you select."

  Robes flowed in deep indigo edged in gold, and a heavy staff was gripped in one hand, its surface etched with glowing runes. At the figure's side, a tome drifted as if weightless, its pages whispering open in an invisible wind while blue energy tendrils coiled from outstretched fingers. The air hummed with crisp ozone.

  "Standard glass cannons," Will noted, arms crossing as he sized it up.?

  Brat nodded. "Sure, but not in your case. With Champion resilience and Shadow evasion already stacked, you'd be throwing spells from behind actual staying power—no shattering after one hit."

  Brat snapped his fingers again. The Warden alcove kindled with quiet silver radiance.

  "Basically your healer class," he said. "Life-channelers and seers—restore, reveal, rebalance through deep connection." Cream robes draped simple lines; a soft-glowing azure pendant pulsed at the throat like a heartbeat, right palm open in steady welcome. The air warmed faintly, carrying a clean scent of rain on stone. "Pivots easy to the traditional monk class."?

  Will raised an eyebrow.?

  Brat waved his fingers mysteriously in the air. "Hand-to-hand mastery, mystic mental powers—dodging fists or truths with inner focus and flow."

  Will lingered on the Warden, drawn despite himself. Its poise promised a steady bridge between the Champion’s raw power and the Shadow’s lethal slyness. It was power and stealth held in a delicate, versatile balance.

  He pictured it: channeling life mid-brawl, sensing feints through mystic focus, fists flying in disciplined fury when blades missed.

  Real-world echoes tugged too—memories of dojo sessions long abandoned, the appeal of discipline amid unraveling nerves.

  He drifted closer to both statues, tension coiling quiet in the lit space, boots scuffing soft against the resilient floor. The mirrors threw his reflection back a dozen times over, each version weighing the choice.?

  But Arcanist drew him back.

  Those energy coils promised spells he could hurl—it would be a lot of fun to finally throw a spell. Shadow slipped through cracks; Champion smashed them. Magic wrenched them open.

  Winking at Brat, he reached out, his fingers grazing the robe’s carved fold.

  Bright azure light blazed from the statue, flooding the alcove. The statue's form filled with color as it took on more lifelike detail—a touch of Will's familiar smile on its lips. The hovering tome's pages whipped into frenzy.

  Next to it, the Warden statue reverted to dull stone, its silver glow fading to nothing.

  [SYSTEM LOG: CLASS CONFIRMED | ARCANIST] ?

  Will turned to Brat expectantly. A faint static prickled under his skin—as if the system was opening mana channels throughout his body.

  Brat moved closer, eyes scanning invisible readouts. "Okay, you know the process. All your XP reset to zero. Going forward, Arcanist gives five health, five stamina, and twenty mana per level. You ready for skill selection? It's a bit different from the other classes."

  Brat snapped his fingers with his familiar cheeky grin, eight blue icons shimmering into view midair—each a distinct sigil of light, circling Will like a lazy constellation of captured stars, their glow reflecting faintly in the mirrors and off the waiting statues.

  "Alright, magic time, Your Highness. Arcanist's got real versatility—you pick a primary and a secondary school of magic to specialize in. Each one comes with a starter spell that grows with you, upgrading as you level. Anything beyond that, we shop for at the Arcanum."

  "Arcanum?" Will echoed, eyeing the icons.

  Brat's grin turned sly. "Mage Guild. The fancy call it the Arcanum."?

  He waved a hand through the sigils, sending them spinning with casual flair; as he named each school, its icon slowed and brightened before drifting on.

  "Quick tour: Evocation—your classic blasts, fireball, lightning, anything that wants to delete a problem fast. Conjuration calls things in—creatures, weapons, gates. Abjuration throws up shields and wards, scrubs hostile magic. Divination digs for secrets, reads patterns, peeks a few steps ahead. Enchantment leans on minds—charms, fear, obedience. Illusion lies to the senses—invisibility, doubles, false terrain. Transmutation rewrites the rules—speed, form, weight. Necromancy plays with life and loss—drains, withers, curses."

  Will studied the circling sigils, light sliding over his features as Brat planted his hands on his hips. "Ok, so I only get two spells to start?"?

  Brat shrugged. "To start. You can pick up more later in the Mage’s Guild—sorry, now that you’re a professional Arcanist, the Arcanum."

  Will tore his gaze from the sigils to Brat. "Wait. I can get new spells, but not new skills for Champion or Shadow? Why’s that?"

  Brat blew out a breath, shrugging like it should have been in the tutorial. "Different system. Martial skills only get added by a trainer—someone to literally map new moves into your reflex grid. Haven’s sandbox skipped those. Probably so the bordello had enough… processing power."

  He tipped his chin toward the royal dagger at Will’s hip. "Think of it this way: with Light Blades, you can use your royal sword or that dagger, and the system’s just as happy if you sweet-talk Bruna into a rapier or a shortsword. Same skill, different expression. Arcanist works like that with schools—you could take Illusion as your primary and fill it with different spells inside that lane."

  Will nodded, brow furrowing. "Still feels like an oversight, no trainers in Haven."?

  Brat rolled his eyes with theatrical flair, hands up like he'd been accused. "What do you want from me? I didn't write the damn game. Want my recommendations on which spell school would best fit your current build?"?

  Will slowly fixed his eyes on Brat. He enunciated very carefully, "Fireball."

  Brat's eyebrows shot up, half-impressed, half-resigned. "Yeah, that's a riot—total chaos—but maybe start with Enchantment, given your whole diplomacy-prince-thing—"?

  "Fire. Ball."?

  Brat sighed, shaking his head with a smirk, and snapped his fingers.

  The Evocation icon blazed gold.

  [PRIMARY SKILL: Evocation — BASIC]

  [STARTER SPELL: Fireball]

  [EFFECT: Launches a focused burst of Azure flame at a single target, dealing moderate fire damage and minor splash damage to nearby enemies. (Costs 50 MP to cast; 10-second cooldown.)]

  For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

  Then Will felt it—something bright and hot threading into place beneath his ribs, a new circuit coming online. A tingling warmth rushed down his arms as he lifted his hands, and a thin murmur of blue flame flickered to life around his fingers, dancing in fragile curls before guttering out. He stared at his empty hands for a moment, then looked up at Brat, grinning like a kid handed illegal fireworks.

  Brat shook his head, but smiled. "Alright, pyro. You got another idea for your secondary school, or do you actually want to hear my recommendation this time?"?

  Will chuckled, flexing his fingers where the flames had been. "Okay. What do you think we should choose?"?

  "Your defenses are solid for steel and fists—Champion and Shadow have you covered there," Brat said. "But you should look at Abjuration. Its starter spell, Mantle, bumps your arcane resistance and lets you throw up a shield against incoming spells. Very handy once things start casting back."

  Will nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense."

  Brat nodded back and flicked his fingers toward the hovering sigils. The Abjuration mark flared in answer, lines sharpening as it blazed gold.

  [SECONDARY SKILL: Abjuration — BASIC]

  [STARTER SPELL: Mystic Mantle]

  [EFFECT: Permanently increases arcane resistance by 10% and allows the caster to summon a protective mantle that absorbs up to 250 HP of incoming arcane damage before collapsing. (Costs 150 MP to cast; lasts up to 12 hours or until depleted.)]

  Will frowned at the prompt. “One hundred fifty MP seems like a lot for a shield.”?

  “Yeah, with your current pool it is,” Brat said. “But the cost will drop as you level the spell up. And you need to get in the habit of having it on all the time anyway.”?

  He gestured vaguely, like sketching out a schedule. “You cast it in the morning, go about your royal business, and you’re still wrapped in two-fifty HP of arcane padding when something tries to melt you that afternoon.”

  Will nodded almost immediately. “Yeah, okay. If it’s always on, that’s worth the hit.”?

  “Alright, Your Highness, you’re all set,” Brat said, flicking the last prompt away. “We’ve got that appointment at the Temple to make, but we should grab your Royal Arcanist Tome before we head out.”?

  Will frowned, thinking back to the gear closet. “The book in the gear closet—the one with the crest. What’s it actually for?”

  Brat nodded. “That’s the one. Royal Arcanist Tome.” He moved closer, expression brightening. “You don’t need it to cast anything, but Haven uses it to handle all your spellwork on the back end.”??

  He tapped his temple, then mimed opening a book. “Any time you pick up new Evocation or Abjuration spells—or upgrade them—the system records the matrices there first. It’s basically your spell library and upgrade key in one, hardwired to the Arcanist slot.”

  Will nodded, then shot Brat a sideways look, eyes a little too bright. “So… when exactly do I get to practice actually throwing magic around?”?

  Brat snorted. “Hold up, spell slinger. You’re going to get plenty of practice with the novice quest.” He flicked open an invisible menu, grinning. “In fact—let’s get that activated right now.”

  Brat’s eyes lit up and he laughed. “Oh, shit—you are just going to love this.”

  With a snap of his fingers a familiar gold prompt filled Will’s vision.

  [NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: “Gnats in the Granaries”]

  Objective: Purge corrupted gnats infesting the grain lofts on the outskirts of Edenbrook.

  Reward: Experience + Item Drop + Local Standing

  Will stared at the prompt, then muttered under his breath, “What the actual fuck.”?

  Brat’s gaze stayed fixed on his invisible screens, a low chortle slipping out.

  “Oh, god. Just pulled up the Arcanist class quest line.” He grinned wider. “I do not want to spoil any surprises, but you are going to have an encounter with a bright young Arcanist… named… wait for it. You ready?”?

  Will narrowed his eyes at him. “Ready for what?”?

  Brat lost it.

  He doubled over, clutching his stomach as his outline started to de-pixelate at the edges. “Ohmygod—today is the best day of my life. SHANE!”?

  Will just stared, baffled, the names tripping over each other in his head. “Thane… Zane… Shane.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Are you kidding me? Are the devs really that lazy?”?

  Brat could barely get the word out between wheezing laughs. “SHANE!”

  Will just stared at him, exasperation flattening his expression. Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the training room without another word.?

  Behind him, Brat’s laughter echoed off the marble. “It rhymes with… ARCANE!”

  Will stepped into the Temple of the One's main sanctum, the vast white-marble chamber unfolding around him like a held breath caught in eternal suspension.

  Gold-veined columns rose in graceful arcs, their surfaces etched with faint falcon motifs that seemed to shift under the eye, converging toward a massive central dome overhead.

  The oculus at its peak filtered the afternoon light into dramatic blue shafts, each one spilling across intricate mosaic floors—tides curling in silver and sapphire threads around the repeated crest of House Valcairn, waves crashing eternally against a stylized shore.

  Incense smoke curled lazily from bronze censers nestled in shadowed corners, carrying a clean, bracing scent of salt and polished stone, while distant chants hummed low through the air, rhythmic as the sea breathing against Belhaven's cliffs.?

  Brat strode along at Will's side, barefoot and casual as ever, with Captain Taren following a few steps behind, his boots whispering against the stone, gaze sweeping the vaulted space with the quiet vigilance of long habit.

  As the group reached the center of the temple, High Priest Merov approached from the nave's far end, his cream robes embroidered with silver waves whispering softly against the stone with each measured step, the sound of his staff making a clean clink with every step.

  Tall and lean, with the silver chains in his hair gleaming under the shafts and eyes like polished agate—deep, unreadable pools—he extended both hands in warm greeting, the heavy staff of office cradled in the crook of his elbow. His palms were upturned in the temple's ancient sign of openness.

  "Your Highness," he intoned, voice resonant yet gentle, carrying the trained cadence of a thousand sermons. "The One's light honors your presence this day. Thank you for accepting my summons."

  Will inclined his head, matching the priest's poise with the easy grace the system had woven into him. "High Priest Merov. I'm always happy to receive a request to visit the Temple. How can the Crown assist you today?”

  Merov's smile deepened, genuine lines crinkling at his eyes. "The Festival of Tides draws near, and with His Majesty's arrival tomorrow afternoon, our rites carry added weight across the realm."

  He paused, eyes warming with approval. "The citizens have already heard that their prince has listened to their wishes by hosting the final feast in the town square, allowing everyone to dine with the royal family. The people speak of you with even greater affection, as if the One itself sent word through your deeds."

  "They're kind to say so," Will replied.

  Will's Empathy pulsed then, unbidden—a quiet flare blooming behind his eyes like ink in water. He felt a sudden warmth radiating from the High Priest, shades of soft amber highlighting his obvious affection for his prince. But then, Merov's aura shaded over in cool grays beneath that serene gold overlay, anxiety threading tight like knotted rope around a core of scripted reluctance. It wasn't fear, precisely—more a dammed urgency, words pressing against ritual bounds.

  Brat leaned in at Will's periphery. "Skill check pending," he muttered. "He's flagged for a handoff. Rhetoric'll crack it clean."

  Will leaned in slightly, his voice soft but kind. "Merov, is there something else on your mind that we should discuss?"

  Merov's smile held steady, but his fingers tightened fractionally on his staff, knuckles paling.

  He glanced toward the alcoves, then lowered his voice. "Your insight cuts true, Your Highness. There is a matter best shared away from open ears."

  He gestured with a subtle tilt of his staff. "If you would step this way—to the alcove where the light falls private."

  Will nodded once, keeping his expression calm.

  Merov led him toward the side alcove screened by heavy velvet drapes the color of deep ocean, the fabric parting with a soft rasp of rings on rod.

  Captain Taren held position at the alcove’s edge, posture shifting to watchful sentinel; Brat trailed unseen, matching Will's stride.

  The alcove's walls gleamed with ranks of sealed scrolls in cedar cases, their wax sigils catching the private skylight's beam, which fell precise on a small altar cradling a crystal orb that glowed soft azure, pulsing like a contained heartbeat.

  Merov drew a missive from an inner robe pocket, its parchment crisp and bearing the broken seal of the Grand Temple's falcon-and-sigil stamp.

  "This arrived by royal courier from the capital's Grand Temple, just this morning—marked urgent, for your eyes alone through me. I've read it, and its weight demands your counsel." He unfolded it for Will's eyes.

  His voice dropped to a grave murmur. "Gareth stirs—the Archmage of the Shifting Glass, whose throne lies amid the Wastes' eternal dunes. Strange mists swallow patrols whole, glass-storms twist the sands into treacherous paths, mirages lure the lost with honeyed lies. They masquerade as natural woes to slip past our wards, but the Grand Hierophant recognizes the touch of the Glass all too well."

  Will took the parchment, scanning the tight, angular script—warnings etched in ink that seemed to shimmer faintly, urgent calls for vigilance.

  He held it down slightly, angling it for Brat to read. "Gareth," he echoed. "And the Grand Temple suspects intent? During the festival?"

  Merov nodded gravely, folding his hands over the staff. "The tides amplify all magic in these days; he fears Gareth may test our borders when the lanterns rise, when our gaze turns seaward. The message urges utmost discretion—no public alarm to unsettle the rites."

  Brat leaned in close, eyes flicking across unseen screens and cascading code streams only he could track, his small frame tensing as data scrolled invisibly. "We know Gareth's been invading your dreams," he muttered low, voice sharp with analysis. "But I don't know how Gareth—whatever he is—would obtain the processing power to actually enact an attack on Haven. The system would shut that down in a second."

  As Brat concluded, Merov's eyes focused back to Will, animation sliding smoothly into place.

  Will weighed the words, the missive's weight lingering in his hand like a live wire. Gareth's shadow stretched too far—dreams, borders, Haven's erratic code. "What does the Grand Hierophant propose?" he asked Merov, voice level. "Specific wards? Scouts dispatched?"

  Merov straightened, the crystal orb's glow reflecting in his agate eyes. "Reinforcements for the border shrines—priests versed in Glass-warding rites. But time presses; the festival draws all eyes towards the sea. Your voice at the procession, sire—a simple affirmation of the One's shield—would steel the faithful without stirring panic. Their unified faith channels raw power into our wards, a bulwark against the Glass stronger than any stone. I've the phrasing ready: 'Let the tides bear our light unbroken.' It binds hearts and magic as surely as these columns."

  Will folded the parchment with deliberate care before handing it back. "Consider it done," he said. "I'll speak the words. But send word if there is anything else we can do—Belhaven stands ready."

  Merov's relief washed visible, grays fading from his aura. "The One blesses your resolve, Your Highness."

  Will inclined his head, stepping from the alcove as velvet drapes sighed shut behind him.?

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