They returned to the village as dusk bruised the sky purple, the sea wind carrying salt and the faint clang of hammer on steel. The road leading toward the Citadel wound through small stone houses and narrow market lanes. Villagers paused mid-task when they saw the six approaching—battered, limping, but standing on their own strength.
What silenced the street, however, was what waited ahead.
Rows of armored Crown soldiers guarded the Citadel's gates, their polished breastplates catching the evening light. Among them stood Sun Church followers draped in gold-threaded robes, silver masks gleaming like cold moons. Their banners rippled above the entrance—sunburst sigils stitched in radiant thread beside the royal crest of the Imperial line.
Ironwill took one look and his expression darkened.
"We're not staying at the keep tonight," he said. "You six will rest at the inn. Don't wander, don't speak to anyone bearing a crest, and don't provoke the villagers. Understand?"
They nodded. Even Miran didn't argue.
Ironwill walked them to the inn on the lower street, a modest building with lanterns glowing warm behind fogged windows. He spoke to the innkeeper quietly, paid in advance for rooms, then turned back to them.
"Rest. Wash. Heal. I'll return when I can."
And with that, he left—moving uphill toward the keep with the heavy steps of someone heading into a storm.
The six watched him disappear through the crowd before turning into the inn's warmth.
...
The keep's entrance vibrated with tension, like a hornet nest shaken awake. Ironwill pushed through the gathered envoys and passed through the gates, spotting Thaleus standing rigidly in full armor. The carved glyphs across Thaleus's plates glimmered faintly, his staff strapped across his back as he held position between two ordinary citadel guards. He met Ironwill's gaze with a brief, knowing glance. At once, the guards shifted aside—opening a path for Ironwill while holding the envoy's men firmly in place behind him.
Thaleus spoke quietly, almost under his breath. "Meeting hall. Upstairs."
Ironwill nodded and moved on.
He climbed to the upper levels where the stonework shifted from utilitarian to ceremonial, passing through a long corridor lined with tall windows that overlooked the darkening ocean. At the far end stood a pair of great doors—heavy, old, and shut tight.
And pressed right against them was Kael.
Kael jerked upright the moment he noticed Ironwill, nearly springing out of his own boots. "I—I was just… checking the hinges—"
Ironwill raised an eyebrow.
Kael swallowed hard, straightened, then gave a tiny nod of honesty.
Ironwill sighed. "Stay alert. If anything go wrong, you move."
They didn't need to strain their ears. The argument inside was already spilling through the thick wood.
Ironwill pushed the door open and stepped in.
The meeting hall was wide, lit by pale crystals that hummed softly overhead. At one end of a long antique table sat a nobleman draped in fine cloth embroidered with the royal crest. Two Sun Church envoys flanked him—hooded figures with silver masks, the rigid posture of people who believed themselves untouchable.
The noble was speaking with a smug superiority that crawled across the room.
"We require only a small inspection," he insisted, lounging back as though he owned the hall. "A demonstration of the First Protector's miracle. A full survey of your mana stones. And—naturally—records for our scholars. In exchange, His Highness Prince Harlen promises full support. Materials, trade… resources the Vaelorian family desperately needs."
His tone dripped greed.
At the opposite end of the table sat Elder Marath. Calm. Dignified. Tapping one finger patiently against the polished surface. He didn't bother responding. He simply held the noble's gaze in a steady, unblinking challenge.
Elder Rhyden stood behind him, arms folded. It was him who answered.
"Since the First Pact, our family has upheld every obligation. But only the Emperor may request access to our secrets. We refuse. Respectfully."
The noble's arrogance sharpened.
"His Highness Harlen will *become* Emperor soon enough. Unless you're placing your hope in his disabled brother…" A snort. "A fool's gamble. Choose the winning side, old man."
Ironwill's steps echoed as he approached.
"Who," he said with a low chuckle, "are you to advise us on anything?"
The noble stiffened.
Ironwill stopped beside Marath, looming over the table. "The prince has no grounds to demand an inspection. No authority to pry into us. And certainly no right to come here dripping entitlement, pretending the empire holds dominion over us. The pact binds us as equals."
The noble slammed his hand on the table and rose.
"The audacity!" he shouted. "You isolated hermits think yourselves equals to the Empire? Based on what—old legends? Crumbling myths? Even if they were true, the Empire no longer needs your ancient magic. Our mages have long surpassed—"
A hand touched his shoulder.
One of the Sun Church envoys leaned in and whispered something.
Whatever it was, it drained the fury from the noble's face. He straightened his clothes, forced a thin smile, and gave a short bow toward Marath.
"We understand your… stance. We have your reply. We will take our leave."
The three left quickly, brushing past Kael in the hall—who pretended he had simply been walking by, poorly.
Silence settled once the doors closed.
Marath exhaled softly, turning his gaze to the darkening ocean beyond the balcony. "War is coming," he said quietly. "tell Thaleus, prepare our people. No more distant expeditions. We must be ready at all times."
Then he turned toward Ironwill. "You found what you were looking for."
Ironwill nodded grimly. "During training, I left the young ones once they could stand on their own. I followed the mana trail until it led me north—two days from the ruins to the coast. An object washed ashore. It wasn't corruption. Not anything from beyond the barrier. But its mana… Something in the ocean is changing, and it's drifting toward us."
Rhyden frowned. "So it wasn't a corrupted beast after all. But something foreign… carried by the tides. Strange."
Ironwill loosened his satchel and placed it gently on the table.
Wrapped in layers of leather sat a stone—glowing a brilliant violet.
A color no mana stone should ever be.
Marath's eyes widened. He summoned mana vision, the air around him shimmering.
"…I've never seen anything like this," he whispered.
Ironwill nodded. "It's volatile. I tried to extract samples from the deposits near the mine. Several stones exploded. This one survived only after careful handling."
Rhyden examined it with awe. "So the deposits themselves are changing. Altering. Becoming… something new."
"Something unstable," Ironwill said.
Marath closed the leather very delicately. "We must study this. Immediately. This could become catastrophic."
Rhyden bowed. "I'll see to it at once."
Marath looked up again. "And the younglings?"
Ironwill's expression softened. "Resting in the village inn. They were injured when I found them—but alive. They survived a lesser lich."
Elder Marath's voice softened. "They're growing fast… faster than any generation I've seen. It feels like the old days again."
A shadow crossed his face. "We won't have long. The next Choosing is drawing near."
---
The inn's hallway smelled of soap, warm bread, and damp travel cloaks. The six Vaelorians washed the ruin dust from their skin, cleaned wounds, bandaged what mana stones could not fully heal, and changed into fresh clothes. When they gathered downstairs, the dining hall was alive with murmurs, clattering mugs, and the warmth of lanternlight.
The villagers stared at them with a mixture of awe and unease—as strangers. carrying scars and weapons that didn't belong to coastal folk.
They found a table near the window and sat heavily.
"Feels strange," Lira said softly. "Sitting somewhere that isn't collapsing."
"Or cursed," Arden added.
Miran inhaled the smell of roasted meat dramatically. "Or full of undead."
Nale sighed. "Yes, well. Try not to drink anything fermented. Elder Marath made us study an entire book on intoxication."
Miran's grin fell. "Right. The book with seventy pages on liver poisoning."
Lira snorted. "Gods, that book."
Their food arrived—thick soup, roasted fish, soft bread, and sweet carrots. Steam curled up in comforting waves. They dug in immediately, hunger taking over.
"This," Jhalen said through a mouthful, "might be the best thing I've ever eaten."
Cerys nodded. "Feels unreal. Like we finally caught a moment of normal."
They laughed, light and weary. The inn hummed around them. For the first time in weeks, they weren't fighting, fleeing, or bleeding.
Miran leaned back with a satisfied groan. "If this is what the outside world is like, maybe we should get nearly killed more often."
Lira flicked a breadcrumb at him. "Shut up."
They relaxed, unaware of what had truly arrived at the keep… or the storm that had begun the moment those royal and Sun Church banners touched Vaelorian soil.