The Vaelorian training yard basked in the pale morning glow, its runic stones humming softly as if remembering every footstep that had ever struck them. In the center of that ancient ground stood six figures—no longer children, no longer the frightened novices dragged through ruins and corruption.
They were grown.
And they were formidable.
---
Twenty-one now, Arden's boyish lines had sharpened into the angles of a young warrior. His shoulders were broad, corded with honed muscle, his stance grounded with the confidence of one who had fought—not sparred, not practiced, but fought for real. His brown hair, once messy, now fell in disciplined waves just past his ears, tied loosely when training intensified. His eyes—the same steady amber—held focus like a blade's edge. His movements were fluid, efficient, his mana aura simmering with steady heat rather than wild sparks.
Beside him, Miran had become a wall of iron. Massive, towering, with arms, legs and a chest like a siege shield. His body bore the map of battles—healed scars, mana burns, claw marks from beasts he'd wrestled into submission. Despite his intimidating frame, his grin was unchanged… wide, bright, and reckless.
Jhalen stood calm and collected, a contrast to Miran's brute presence. His once-shifting, uncertain stance had become methodical. Controlled. Every breath seemed timed, every motion measured. His dark hair was shorter now, swept aside neatly, his posture straight as a spear. Where Miran was power, Jhalen was precision.
Cerys had grown into a shadow with a woman's poise. Slender, toned, fast—blessed with a dancer's grace sharpened into a fighter's lethality. Her blonde hair was cut shoulder length, always shifting in the wind. Her steps made no sound on stone. Her mana aura flickered like wavering moonlight—subtle, disciplined, lethal.
Lira looked least like a warrior, yet most unmistakably Vaelorian. Slim, delicate-faced, with eyes that glowed faintly silver when her mana stirred. Her robes, embroidered with intricate glyphs, fluttered around her as if weightless. Where others radiated physical force, Lira radiated Arcane pressure, like a well of untapped storms beneath soft calm.
And Nale—once the quiet, awkward boy—now carried himself with composed confidence. Tall and fit, long dark hair tied in a loose tail, glasses reflecting runic light. He had the air of a scholar who had seen war. His gaze was sharp, almost dissecting the world. Mana shimmered around his fingers constantly, responding to every passing thought.
These were the six Vaelorians.
The youngest of a fading people.
At the far end of the courtyard stood the last of the original Vaelorians.
Elder Marath, robes slightly faded, hair more silver than white. Lines carved deeper across his brow—stress, grief, years of dwindling numbers—but his eyes still carried that sharp, unyielding brilliance. Like a man who refused to bow to time.
Elder Rhyden stood beside him, leaning slightly more than before on his staff. His once-unshakeable frame bore signs of age: stiffness in the shoulders, slower breath, a weariness in his gaze. Yet when he straightened, he still radiated a calm power.
Behind them, the two masters:
Kael—now with streaks of silver in his beard, but still alert, posture rigid, always scanning.
Thaleus—proud as ever, armor polished, though a faint heaviness clung to him… something unspoken.
Only five years had passed, yet time had taken its price from them.
The wind curled through the courtyard, brushing over runic stones that pulsed faintly at the gathering.
Marath stepped forward.
"Five years," he said.
His voice warm… but weighted with a somber echo.
"You entered these walls as children—unproven, frightened, unsure of your path."
He looked over them proudly.
"Today you stand before us as adults. Victors of real battles. Survivors of ruin and corruption. You have spread our name across Falren… and you have honored our ancestors."
He placed a hand over his chest.
"You are Vaelorian."
His gaze swept the six.
"The last true heirs of our bloodline."
Silence settled—deep, reverent.
Then Marath raised his hand, runes shimmering around his palm.
"Today, you choose your path.
Your role.
Your duty."
The air seemed to vibrate as he spoke the titles:
"Sentinel."
Wielders of mana-forged arms and immovable resolve. Shields of the citadel.
He glanced briefly at Thaleus and Kael—the greatest Sentinels still alive.
"Battlemage."
Warriors whose magic strikes as fiercely as steel.
Eyes shifted to Cerys and Jhalen—one fluid as shadow, one precise as a blade.
"Arcane Scholar."
Keepers of ancient spells and lost tomes; protectors of forbidden knowledge.
"Hunter."
Stalkers of corruption, trackers of beasts, masters of terrain and stealth.
"Battle-Healer."
Warriors of light—able to wound and restore in equal measure.
Marath lowered his hand.
"Whichever you choose… you must prove.
With a trial.
A challenge tailored to the weight of your chosen path."
Arden felt the words settle inside him like stone.
This was the beginning.
The step that would define him.
He already knew his choice.
Sentinel.
Like Kael.
Like Thaleus.
The path of his mentors. The path of his father.
They were given one week to choose.
But fate intervened long before the week ended.
It struck without warning.
The citadel bells rang without sound—deep, resonant, that made blood freeze.
Every Vaelorian knew it.
A Choosing.
The Guardian of the Sanctum—ancient, unseen—had called for a challenger.
And it called… Thaleus.
The courtyard erupted with movement.
Some assembling. Guards rushing. Mana runes burning bright.
Mariel—Thaleus's wife—fell to her knees as the reality struck.
Maids surrounded her, trying to support her trembling frame.
Kael, Arden , and Miran rushed to Thaleus, helping him don his full armor.
An armor carved with glyphs of the first pact, now glowing with soft blue radiance.
Arden tied the leather straps with stiff fingers, fighting the lump in his throat.
Thaleus looked at them with a steady, proud smile.
"Do not look at me with fear," he said quietly.
"Whatever lies ahead… I will win."
Nale arrived with Elder Rhyden, handing Thaleus small enchanted tools and mana stones.
Thaleus exhaled slowly… and turned to face the gathered Vaelorians.
"Do not mourn me," he said.
"I was born for this moment. A Vaelorian stands without fear. If the Guardian challenges me, then it believes I am worthy."
He looked at the six young ones.
"You gave me hope. Each of you. I watched you grow from frightened children… into warriors I would trust with my life."
He nodded once—to Mariel, who wept silently.
"And whatever happens within that Sanctum… I go as I have lived: proud."
He walked to the Sanctum doors.
He did not look back.
The doors closed behind him with a deep, final thud.
...
..
.
They waited.
Hours passed.
Mana tremors shook the citadel stones.
They could feel Thaleus's aura—a blazing storm—clashing against something vast, ancient, impossible to comprehend.
Roars of force.
Surges of corruption.
Silence.
Then more shaking.
Then…
Nothing.
The aura vanished.
A hollow stillness spread through the citadel.
Mariel's cry pierced the silence like a knife.
....
At the end of the week, the citadel was quiet—too quiet.
The training grounds were empty, the halls quieter than they had ever been
The six gathered to give their choices, though grief and hollow shock weighed heavy on them.
Mariel had found Arden earlier that day at the cliffside overlook where he liked to train. Her eyes were red and swollen, her voice barely holding together.
"He believed in you," she murmured. "He believed in who you're meant to become. If you want to honor him… follow the path he chose, but don't repeat the mistakes that cost him everything."
Arden chose Sentinel.
So did Miran, lifting his head despite the grief that smoldered beneath his heavy steps. Lira chose to become a battle-healer, her hands trembling but her resolve firm. Nale chose the path of the Arcane Scholar. Cerys, confident and sharp as lightning, chose Battlemage. Jhalen selected Hunter, the discipline that suited his precision best.
When they assembled, Elder Marath and Rhyden stood waiting. Rhyden looked more tired than ever, yet his voice was steady. "Your paths are chosen," he said. "Now your trials will begin."
Their missions were given. Lira and Nale were to return to the northern ruins where corruption still lingered, to destroy the lesser lich that had regrown in the shadows.
Cerys and Jhalen were sent south toward the swamps, where a giant serpent had been sighted slipping in and out of the waters, hunting travelers.
Arden and Miran, both Sentinels, were sent northwest toward a small settlement harassed by bandits. Their duty was to eliminate the threat, find the one leading the raids, and restore order.
As the sun dipped behind the western cliffs, the six Vaelorians stood together one last time. No one spoke. Words felt too small, too fragile. Their paths had diverged, and though the same blood tied them, destiny was pulling them in different directions.
Arden tightened his cloak, feeling the mountain wind brush against him. His father's final words echoed deep inside. Ahead of him lay the road northwest—the place where his first true duty as a Sentinel awaited.
He stepped forward, Miran at his side.
The path before him opened.
And Arden walked into it.