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"Every action taken to manifest one's power demands an equivalent from the self — not necessarily in strength, but in essence, focus, or will. Nothing is created without cost."
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….
The courtyard was cold that morning, the kind of stillness that comes only after a storm has spent itself. Snow clung to the temple eaves, glinting like powdered glass as dawn stretched its fingers across the sky. The remnants of the previous day's battle—the cracked stones, the faint scorch marks, the scattered embers—had been swept away, yet their memory lingered in the air.
Zayn stood at the center of the courtyard, breath misting in the pale light. His sword lay unsheathed beside him, and his hands trembled ever so slightly—not from fear, but from the ache that came after pushing one's body to its limit.
He exhaled, centering himself. A faint shimmer tried to form along his forearm—those familiar hints of blue and gold—but they sputtered out before taking shape.
Again.
"Come on,"
He muttered under his breath.
"I know you're there…"
The air shifted behind him. Solas had been standing quietly for some time, arms folded, expression unreadable. When Zayn finally turned, the older boy's eyes gleamed like burnished silver under the morning sun.
Solas finally spoke, voice calm but edged with curiosity.
"Perhaps it's the fact that you don't know what emotion your power is coming from."
Zayn blinked, confused.
"Emotion?"
Solas nodded slowly, taking a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly against the frost-bitten stone.
"Well, if you've been listening to anything Flokki's ever said, your magical output—your codex—is born from the heart. Your 'heart codex' is what defines your essence. What makes you you."
Zayn looked down at his hand, flexing it as if to grasp something invisible.
"Based on your eminence,"
Solas continued,
"and how unusual it appeared… this is something that hasn't been recorded. Well—"
he smirked faintly,
"—not at Valdyr at least."
"So you're saying,"
Zayn asked, voice low but curious,
"I need to remember what I was feeling when I fought my echo?"
"Precisely."
Solas folded his arms, watching Zayn closely.
"You likely forgot it in the chaos—your instincts took over. But if we can isolate the emotion, you'll find your codex again. Once you name it, you can control it."
Zayn hesitated, thinking back to that moment—the blur of blades, the echo's burning crimson fire, the feeling in his chest when the gold and blue flared. It hadn't been rage. It hadn't even been fear. It was something else.
Solas noticed the distant look in his eyes and nodded approvingly.
"Good. Think about it. Feel it. I'll help you remember—it's imperative that you do."
Zayn gave a small, determined nod, wiping the sweat from his brow. The cold wind bit at his skin, but inside, something far warmer began to stir.
Elsewhere in the temple grounds, the other three were enduring their own trials.
Chauncey sat cross-legged in the meditation chamber—a circular hall lit by a thousand hanging candles. His aura fluctuated faintly around him, flickering like ripples on a pond disturbed by unseen wind. Each breath he drew in came with visible strain, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.
He'd been here for hours. Days, even, if one counted the way he'd barely slept since he's come here. The air around him hummed with unstable light, the faint pulse of an aura trying to take form but refusing to settle.
Still, there was progress. Each breath steadied the next. Each flicker lingered a little longer before fading.
The monks passing by didn't interrupt—they simply gave him a glance that carried both respect and pity. Meditation was supposed to bring peace. For Chauncey, it brought only confrontation—with himself.
Charolette, on the other hand, was far from peace.
Her breath came in ragged bursts, white clouds trailing behind her as she dragged two bundles of frozen logs across the snow-covered training field. The weight bit into her palms, her boots sinking deep with every step. The cold gnawed at her fingers despite the gloves.
"This is stupid,"
She hissed through chattering teeth.
"Completely stupid."
Her legs shook as she forced herself onward. Flokki had assigned her this conditioning the moment she'd shown weakness in her stance and control—
"If your body cannot carry your will, then it isn't worth carrying."
The memory made her scowl.
"I'm the smart one,"
She muttered, voice hoarse.
"I should be inside—studying, planning, anything but this…"
Still, she didn't stop. Her pride wouldn't let her. Beneath the complaints and frustration was a quiet ember of determination. Every drag of the logs, every aching pull, was a war she refused to lose.
Jasmijn, meanwhile, trained under a far different light.
She stood on one of the upper terraces, overlooking the snowy cliffs that dropped into mist. A thin line of pale morning sun cut through the clouds, striking her crimson braid like a thread of fire.
Her training was not spiritual—it was technical. Precision-based.
In her hands, she wielded her twin sabers, each blade tracing careful, deliberate arcs through the air. Every movement was measured, flawless, as if she were painting lines of invisible light. Around her, petals of frost drifted lazily in the wind, caught in the rhythm of her strikes.
But her eyes told a different story—focused, yes, but distant. There was something colder in her demeanor now, a quiet intensity that hadn't been there before.
Flokki's voice echoed faintly in her memory:
"Perfection without intent is hollow. Fight with meaning, or your precision is just vanity."
So she trained—again, and again, and again—searching not for flawlessness, but for purpose.
The cliffside wind howled. Her sabers cut through it, clean and unrelenting.
Back in the courtyard, Zayn stood at the edge of exhaustion once more, but his eyes gleamed with something new. Solas watched him quietly, hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"You're getting closer,"
he said finally.
Zayn exhaled, chest heaving, gaze fixed on the faint shimmer along his fingers—gold and blue, barely there, but flickering stronger than before.
"I can almost feel it…"
"Good," Solas replied, voice calm and knowing.
"Because once you do, Zayn—your story really begins."
The wind swept across the courtyard, carrying the faint toll of the temple bell. The morning sun caught the cracked stones, turning the frost into threads of gold.
And for the first time since his victory, Zayn felt the echo of that same heartbeat—the rhythm of something greater, waiting to awaken.
The courtyard rang with effort — metal clashing, snow crunching under desperate feet, breath fogging the cold air.
From the temple's shadowed balcony, Kael watched. The four below trained in silence save for the harsh rhythm of their movements. Zayn's strikes were relentless, his breath visible in sharp bursts. Jasmijn's aura flared and receded in graceful arcs, her control almost surgical. Charolette trudged through the snow, dragging a bundle of timber twice her weight, muttering curses between gasps. Chauncey sat cross-legged, still, his aura flickering like an unstable flame.
Kael's gaze moved between them, unreadable, until it hardened.
His gloved hand clenched at his side.
Four outsiders, brought to our doorstep. Four chances for everything to burn.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of snow and steel. He turned sharply, descending the stairway into the inner temple. His boots echoed faintly through the hall — a measured rhythm, but faster than usual, as though he were walking away from a thought he didn't want to finish.
He reached the lower corridor, heading toward the outer gate — his escape route. The massive wooden doors loomed ahead, faint runic light flickering across their surface.
He almost made it.
"Kael?"
He stopped dead.
Mira stood in the archway behind him, wrapped in her white shawl, hair unbound for once. Her eyes softened when she saw him, but beneath it — something else. Concern.
"You're leaving again?"
She asked quietly.
Kael's tone was even, but too quick.
"The perimeter doesn't watch itself."
"You said that yesterday."
She took a step closer, voice lowering.
"And the day before that. And the day before that."
He turned slightly, the light catching the faint scowl on his face.
"You're keeping track now?"
"I'm keeping watch," Mira replied.
" You've been different since they arrived, Kael."
Kael didn't answer. His hand twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for something.
"They train, you vanish,"
she continued, tone still calm but probing now.
"You won't meet their eyes, you won't spar with them, you barely speak to the rest of us. Tell me what's really going on."
He turned fully then, expression still controlled — but his eyes gave him away. There was weight there, a heaviness Mira hadn't seen since they had been kids.
"You wouldn't understand," he said finally, the words almost gentle.
"Then help me,"
She pressed.
"Because I see the way you look at them — like they're a threat you can't name."
Kael exhaled sharply, a hint of frustration leaking through.
"You think too kindly of them. Strangers never come without reason."
"Neither do storms,"
She countered.
"But we don't curse the snow before it falls."
That gave him pause. His jaw tightened, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between disdain and guilt.
"You sound like Flokki," he said. "Always believing the storm will pass if you just stand still."
"And you sound like someone who's already chosen to walk into it,"
Mira replied softly.
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the runes near the gate. Kael's eyes drifted toward them, faint reflections of light flickering in the ice-blue of his irises.
"I'm doing what must be done,"
he said at last — quiet, almost to himself.
Mira frowned.
"What does that mean?"
But before she could take another step, Kael turned sharply, cloak snapping in the cold draft.
"It means you should focus on your duties. Leave mine to me."
He brushed past her, not roughly — but firmly enough to make it clear: the conversation was over.
Mira didn't follow. She stood there, watching his back as he strode toward the gate, the heavy doors creaking open just enough to swallow him whole.
The wind hissed through the hall as silence settled once more.
In her peripheralvision, she noticed movement.
A figure stood in the shadows at the end of the hall — Erik.
His face was bruised, a faint cut beneath his left eye, but his expression was distant. Haunted, almost. He wasn't looking at Kael's back. He was looking at her.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, Mira swore he was trying to tell her something — a warning, a secret, something too dangerous to say aloud. But no words came.
The moment passed. Kael's footsteps faded into the storm outside, leaving only the sound of the wind and the quiet echo of unease lingering in the corridor.
Mira exhaled softly, her breath forming a cloud in the cold air.
Whatever Kael was running from… it was catching up fast.
And Erik — for the first time since she'd known him — looked afraid.