A year of training under Kael and Thaleus had reshaped the six Vaelorians into something sharper. Their steps carried weight now—not arrogance, not swagger, but the quiet steadiness born from repetition, bruises, exhaustion, and lessons drilled into bone.
The morning was cool when they set out. Dew glittered like shards of glass along the tall grass. Thaleus led the formation, cutting through the brush with the smooth, unhurried strength of someone who had lived more of his life under open skies than beneath roofs. His lighter field armor clinked softly, plates strapped only over the vitals, a travel-worn cloak hanging from one shoulder.
"Eyes up," he called. "This is wilderness, not your cozy courtyard."
The six obeyed—wordless, instinctive.
Arden walked near the middle, steps measured.
Miran moved with his usual boldness.
Lira was quiet as the breeze.
Nale mapped terrain silently.
Cerys and Jhalen guarded the flanks.
A year ago, they followed.
Now, they moved as one.
The mouth of the cave appeared beneath a twisted old oak, its roots gripping stone like skeletal fingers. A faint thread of smoke leaked from the entrance. Bones—some bleached, others disturbingly fresh—lay scattered across the dirt.
Thaleus sniffed the air. "Goblin den. Small tribe. Twelve, maybe fifteen. I'll observe. You lead."
No one hesitated.
They approached and slipped inside. The cave widened into a crude chamber lit by pulsing fungal bulbs. Three goblins hunched around a fire, tearing into raw meat. Their armor was an ugly patchwork of rusted iron, leather scraps, and bone.
Lira whispered, "Left one is a scout. His ears twitch before he moves."
Nale motioned. "Fast and quiet. Arden—right flank."
They moved.
Miran's staff cracked the scout's jaw before it could shriek.
Jhalen parried a slash and sent his foe crashing into a stone pillar.
Cerys caught the third by the wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and finished the strike cleanly.
Arden struck with a precise blow beneath the chin.
Thaleus's voice drifted from behind them—dry, amused.
"Better."
They descended deeper. The tunnels twisted into jagged stone arteries. Goblins ambushed from shelves, scuttled across ceilings, shrieked warnings into the dark. A chieftain charged with bone-plated armor; a shaman spat sparks of minor arcana.
But the six fought as one mind with six bodies.
Lira's flash stunned the shaman, followed by clean bolts.
Nale controlled spacing and angles.
Miran hammered through the chieftain's guard.
Jhalen struck at openings with surgical precision.
Cerys anchored their center.
Arden adapted to every slip—his own or theirs—bridging gaps instinctively.
When the last goblin fell, silence returned.
Thaleus stepped into the chamber.
"A year ago, this den would've killed you. Today? Not a single fatal hit. That's growth."
They emerged into the late afternoon light.
Fields rolled beneath a sinking sun. Farmland dotted the horizon, smoke curling from distant chimneys. For a rare moment, the world felt still.
Then a shout tore through the quiet.
"Help! Somebody—please!"
A farmer stumbled toward them, dirt-stained and wide-eyed with panic.
"Something's wrecking my farm! Monster—huge—just tearing everything apart!"
Thaleus inhaled sharply, reading the wind.
"Show us."
They followed him over a ridge.
The farm lay in ruin: a barn reduced to splinters, fencing scattered like toothpicks, deep gouges carved through the soil.
At the center stood a cyclops.
Towering. Moss-furred. Skin cracked like ancient stone. Its single milky eye rolled with unsettling independence. Its breath came in deep, snarling gusts.
Lira whispered, "Cyclopes never come this close to the coast…"
"Something forced it out," Nale murmured.
Thaleus nodded. "You're sharp to notice. But questions come later. This is your hunt. I'll keep villagers out of range."
They stepped forward.
The cyclops roared and lumbered toward them. Miran met it with a full-force strike to the shin, staggering it. Cerys swept low. The creature swung—massive, wild. Nale pulled Lira clear of the blow.
"Arden! Draw its eye!"
Arden sprinted forward, vaulted up its forearm, and the cyclops swatted—but he twisted off and dropped behind its ankle. Lira released a burst of white light that seared the creature's eye. Jhalen leapt onto its back and locked his staff against its neck.
"Now!"
Miran and Cerys struck the knee together.
The giant toppled.
Arden climbed its chest and drove his staff beneath its eye.
The monster went still.
Thaleus approached, expression tinged with a grin.
"That was respectable."
Night settled as they camped beside the ruined farm. Firelight flickered across tired faces while Thaleus carved a hawk from driftwood.
"You've improved," he said. "But improvement isn't mastery."
He pointed the carving at each of them in turn:
"Miran—too aggressive. You'll get yourself killed."
"Lira—your instincts are sound. Trust them sooner."
"Nale—good strategy, but when your plan breaks, you freeze."
"Cerys—solid stance. Slow follow-through."
"Jhalen—stop hesitating when you see an opening."
"Arden—good adaptability. Bad habit of overreaching."
Arden nodded. "Understood."
Miran poked the fire. "What about the cyclops? Do we take anything? Sell parts?"
Thaleus chuckled.
"You learn extraction, butchering, and monster harvesting from one man—Ironwill. And he's not back yet."
His tone darkened.
"And monsters are moving from deep territories. Something's stirring them."
Sleep didn't come easily.
The next morning they returned to the keep. After rest and food, they were summoned to Rhyden's workshop—a vaulted stone chamber humming with arcane pressure. Crystal lamps washed shifting colors across rows of mana stones arranged with obsessive precision.
Rhyden pushed up his spectacles, robes dusted with crystal powder.
"Ironwill is still absent," he said. "And since you cleared every request this month, you'll learn what most mages don't touch for years. Sit. A full month."
They obeyed.
The first week was devoted to containment and discipline. Rhyden drilled them on sealing leaking stones, using their own aura as thread. Miran overheated his stone twice. Lira's wrap flickered. Arden nearly cracked his. Nale was precise enough to earn a rare approving grunt.
By week's end, even Rhyden's detection wards struggled to sense their presence.
The second week focused on absorption—drawing mana into tissue, nerves, and bone. They learned to heal faster, strengthen reserves, sharpen senses, and power runic tools. Arden absorbed mana too fast and nearly burned out. Cerys trembled when she overcharged. Lira fainted once. Jhalen took in too little. Nale stayed balanced.
Every evening ended with faint blue glow coating their fingers.
The third week tested their ability to channel under stress. Rhyden filled the workshop with floating glyphs and made them maintain incantations while dodging projectiles and stabilizing each other's auras. Sweat dripped. Air crackled. Only three glyphs exploded by week's end.
Rhyden almost smiled.
The final week turned to corruption and rupture. He laid fractured stones before them.
"Identify the fault before it detonates."
They learned to read cracks by sound, temperature, and aura stutter. Miran's stone hissed. Cerys's pulsed dangerously. Nale spotted fractures instantly.
By the final day, they were exhausted and faintly glowing.
"You're almost ready," Rhyden said quietly. "Not impressive. But promising."
A week later, just as they headed toward Rhyden's workshop, a deep horn bellowed across the keep.
A returning elite.
They sprinted to the courtyard.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure walked through the gate, arcane plate glimmering beneath a torn cloak. A staff-sword hung across his back. Silver hair tied loosely. A scar cutting from temple to jaw.
Ironwill.
Kael was the first to greet him.
"Ironwind, you old wraith—you're still alive?"
A warm rumbling laugh.
"The road tries. I refuse."
Rhyden bowed.
Marath nodded.
The six whispered among themselves.
Miran groaned, "Finally—no more mana drills."
Lira frowned. "It was useful."
Nale nodded.
Miran muttered, "You're all boring."
Before the argument continued, Ironwill released a pulse of aura—a predator's declaration.
He vanished—
and reappeared in front of them.
"You're the hatchlings Kael and Thaleus brag about?"
Silence.
Ironwill snorted.
"We'll see."
He led them to the training yard and struck without warning. A sweeping kick Miran barely blocked. Jhalen's weapon flicked aside. Arden charged—Ironwill stopped him with a single palm. Lira spun when he feinted. Nale held strong until his stance shattered. Cerys's spear was redirected like it weighed nothing.
He saw everything. Every hesitation. Every flaw.
When the exchange ended, he sheathed his weapon.
"Rough," he said. "But workable. Barely."
He nodded toward the distant wilderness.
"Your first lesson is survival. I'll tell you when we leave."
Then he disappeared into the inner halls.
...
Only four voices spoke in the library: Marath, Rhyden, Thaleus, Ironwill.
Thaleus began, arms crossed.
"The Empire's changing. The emperor is dying. His eldest son reeks of the Sun Church."
Marath's nodded grimly.
"The Sun Faction has supported him for months. And the nobles line up for scraps of promised power."
Rhyden eyes were shadowed.
"This means we receive no more support. No resources. No mana stones. The Empire turns its back on us."
Ironwill leaned against the table, face unreadable.
"They were neutral for a century. Now they wake? The freaks never moved without reason."
Rhyden stepped forward, lowering his voice.
"And mana… its frequency shifts. I've observed changes in every stone I've examined. Something is altering the flow."
Thaleus added, "Monsters are acting wrong. Harpies spotted near the coast. A giant boar terrorizing roads. And yesterday—a cyclops on farmland. They shouldn't be leaving the deep places."
Ironwill's expression hardened.
"If these signs are connected, I know where to look."
Marath nodded.
"Take the six with you tomorrow. Keep them close. And all of you—lay low. Observe the world's change. Report everything."
The four veterans fell silent.
The world was changing.
And the ground beneath them had only just begun to move.