It is said that there is a place where the gods no longer look, where the earth holds its breath, and the stars remember things mortals were never meant to know.
Mist blanketed the ancient cliffs of Caer`Thalor, turning stone and sky into one seamless, ashen blur. The wind blew cold from the highlands, carrying the scent of frost, burnt pine, and something older. Something dead. Ysara pulled her woolen cloak tighter, the academy-issued bronze clasp digging lightly into her collarbone.
A sigil of crossed blades marked her rank: Initiate.
Not that it mattered.
She wasn't here to climb the ranks. She wasn't here to impress anyone. She was here because there was nowhere else left to go.
Below her, the Vale of Sylne spread out like a memory. Once her kingdom's breadbasket, now the feeding ground of scavengers and silence. No banners flew from the watchtowers. No flame burned in the beacon pyres. The land had been hollowed out, not by time—but by the last act of a dying king.
Her father.
She closed her eyes. The memory came, as it always did, like blood rushing up her throat: the ritual chamber lit in violet fire, the artifact pulsing like a second heart, the last look in his eyes before the veil split.
She had not seen the thing they summoned. No one truly had.
They said the dragons who came to crush the ritual site vanished in thin air by a single word. They said the gods felt it. That even the sky recoiled.
But she had only heard the silence that followed.
"Five minutes, Princess," came a voice from behind. Dry. Clipped.
Ysara didn't turn. The title meant nothing anymore.
Behind her stood Instructor Veylan, an old soldier with a limp and too many medals for someone still teaching cadets. His uniform, patched but pressed, bore the sigil of the fallen Kingdom of Cael'Nir—a broken sun. A long scar trailed down his cheek, a memory of wars past. His face bore the expression of someone who had once believed in honor, and now only believed in form.
"You'll be in Team Gray. Northwest trail. No light past the clearing," he continued, handing her a short-bladed glaive. Rune-etched steel. Basic academy issue. "Goblins nest near the marsh this time of year. Aim for ears, not kills. We're not training butchers."
Ysara nodded. Her eyes—an unusual shade of violet—remained fixed on the mist.
Veylan squinted at her. "You're not like the others. Don't try to be. Just come back breathing."
She almost smiled. Almost.
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They departed in groups of four. Eight teams total, spread across the spiraled borders of Velwyn Forest, an ancient sprawl older than the Academy itself.
Ysara's team—Team Gray—was led by Kaelen Dray, a second-year noble with chestnut hair swept back, silver-etched half-armor hugging his lean frame. His polished longsword gleamed in the sun as if trying to reflect his pride. He had a noble's charm and a chip on his shoulder twice the size of his actual skills.
Beside him was Tiren Voss, short and wiry, with close-cropped black hair and an ever-wary expression. He wore tight-fitting leather armor dyed matte gray, equipped with twin daggers and a belt of small throwing knives. He preferred shadows to words.
Last came Mira Fenley, a red-haired archer with a hunter's poise and sharp eyes. Freckles dusted her pale face, and her gear looked pieced together—a mix of academy standard and personal craftsmanship. Her composite bow was stained darker than usual and bore charms carved from old bone.
"Stick to formation," Kaelen barked as they moved deeper into the woods. "We keep to the north forks, trap the strays, collect the proof. Quick in, quick out. No heroics."
The forest was dense, sunless. Moss draped the trees like wet shrouds. Insects hummed low, restless. Somewhere distant, a branch snapped. The group fell into practiced silence, blades drawn, breath held.
But it wasn't a goblin.
Just a deer.
Still, Ysara couldn't shake the sense that the forest was breathing around them. Watching.
She had walked these woods once before. Long ago.
Before the summoning. Before the war. Before her name was something to be whispered and her blood a symbol of failure.
It happened fast.
They hit a trap—one not made by goblins. A root glyph hidden in the mud ignited beneath Kaelen's foot, sending shards of earth upward like a mine.
He screamed.
Then came the horde.
Six goblins, lean and feral, their skin marked in old paint and blood. These weren't disorganized beasts. Their armor was leather-bound, improvised yet effective. Crude spears, jagged cleavers, rusted hooks—all wielded with savage coordination.
Ysara ducked low, parried a cleaver, spun behind the attacker, and drove her blade into its spine. One down.
Tiren vanished into the trees. Mira loosed arrow after arrow, eyes sharp as flint. Kaelen—injured—flailed, blade shaking.
It was chaos. Brutal. Fast.
When it ended, Ysara was left standing, bloodied but alive.
Mira lay slumped against a tree, arm broken, breathing shallow. Kaelen was unconscious from the blast, his armor shredded at the side. Tiren—gone.
Ysara took a breath, then turned toward the deeper woods, heart pounding. She couldn't leave Tiren behind.
———————————————
She followed signs: disturbed roots, broken twigs, faint trails of blood.
Finally, a clearing. Half-shadowed, wet with fog.
And there—Tiren. Crumpled on the ground, Paralyzed with fear.
In front of him towered a serpent, black as obsidian, nearly the length of a small cottage. Its eyes glowed with molten amber, slits dilating with anticipation. Scales shimmered with a dark, oily sheen that shimmered like fire beneath water.
Ysara didn't hesitate.
She leapt between the serpent and Tiren just as it struck.
The fangs found her side. Burning pain lanced through her. She shoved Tiren back, out of range. He collapsed, either from shock or venom.
The serpent reared again.
Then—
A sound.
Not wind. Not thunder. Not magic she knew.
A figure stepped from the treeline.
Tall. Hooded. Cloaked in tattered robes. His face shadowed. He turned in their direction.
He raised his right hand.
He spoke: Æêwdßxvçb... kalash torum... eyuln.
There was no glow. No flash. Only stillness.
The serpent froze. Its hiss died. Then—it unraveled.
Its form dissolved, turned to black dust, drifting apart like scattered ash in moonlight. Silent. Absolute.
Ysara fully collapsed.
———————————————
When she awoke, warmth wrapped her.
A wooden cabin. Books. Herbs. A fire burning in a stone hearth. Everything smelled of pine and bitterroot.
Mira sat in a chair nearby, wrapped in clean bandages, blinking tiredly. Her arm splinted. Eyes puffy from sleep.
Tiren lay unconscious still, but bandaged. Resting peacefully.
Across the room stood the man.
No longer in tattered robes—now in a simple dark tunic and faded pants. Hands calloused. Skin pale, hair dark and tousled. He looked no older than twenty, but his eyes—grayish black like ancient fog.
He was tending to Mira, wrapping her wounds in silence. His movements were gentle, precise.
Ysara stirred.
He looked up. Their eyes met.
He offered no words.
Only a nod.
She felt no fear. Only questions.
And the knowledge that whoever he was—he was not ordinary.