The walls of the Citadel breathed with quiet life in the early hours, each corridor carrying the soft echo of training steel, hushed conversation, or the murmurs of waking mana.
Above it all, the old alchemy hall shimmered with thin blue arcs of energy—ripples of failed mixtures signaling Arden's latest attempt at stability.
Elder Marath stood behind him, the faint outline of a smirk beneath his grey beard as Arden held up a flask containing what looked suspiciously like smoking mud.
"Drink it?" Arden asked, eyebrows raised.
Marath's laugh shook the dust on the nearby shelves. "Drink it and you'll grow a second spine, boy. Throw it in the containment basin before it decides to crawl out."
Arden hurriedly dumped the bubbling mess. The basin sizzled and glowed red.
"Again," Marath said. "Slow the mana stream this time. Your flow is too forceful—you're overwhelming the substrate."
Arden let out a breath, rolled his shoulders, and tried again. The boy is learning, that much Marath could not deny. But alchemy was precise work, and Arden's natural affinity leaned more toward instinct than patience.
He dropped the powdered roots into the cauldron and began the mana infusion. The mixture glowed… then vibrated dangerously. Marath tapped the edge of the cauldron with his staff, quickly stabilizing it.
"Mana control," he said. "Again."
Arden's shoulders slumped. "I swear it hates me."
"It does," Marath replied dryly. "Most things do until you master them."
Arden cracked a tired smile.
After a series of sputtering failures and two mildly explosive successes, Marath finally waved him off.
"That's enough," the elder said. "Your core is straining. Go take a break—and practice guiding your mana threads with precision, not force. You'll need that discipline."
Arden wiped sweat from his brow, nodded, and stepped outside.
The morning light fell across the training courtyard where Miran stood alone, practicing the same sequence of swings he had repeated since dawn. The rhythmic whistle of his heavy staff sliced the air, followed by a pivot, a slide, a blurring forward lunge.
Arden approached. "You're at it again?"
Miran spun the staff once and rested it on his shoulder. "If I stop, Kael will sense it. That man is everywhere."
"He's probably watching from the shadows right now," Arden joked.
"Probably."
They shared a grin, and for a moment the Citadel felt warm—stable, familiar.
Then Miran's expression softened. "How's alchemy?"
"Terrible," Arden replied. "Elder Marath says my mana control is 'a disgrace to structured weaves.'"
"That means you're improving."
Arden snorted. "How?"
"He usually starts with harsher insults."
Their laughter faded into a quiet moment. Miran looked toward the sky, voice lowering.
"You know… my mother was an alchemist," he said. "She used to say that mistakes were part of learning. Necessary, even."
Arden blinked. "You've… never mentioned her before."
Miran leaned on his staff. "She died when I was four. A sickness no one could treat. My father died two years later—torn apart by beasts while protecting the village." He exhaled, but his eyes didn't lose their warmth. "So I learned early. Loss happens. You keep moving anyway."
Arden felt a tightness in his chest. "Sorry, Miran. I didn't—"
"Don't be." Miran nudged him with the staff hilt. "I plan to become a master Sentinel. A real one. The kind they write songs about.
Then maybe someday start a family. Carry what my parents couldn't."
Arden smiled faintly. "That's a long path."
"Everything worth reaching is." Miran's eyes glinted. "Speaking of paths… want to see something?"
He stepped back and shifted into a stance Arden had never seen. A slow, spiraling breath. A faint pulse of mana that coiled around his arms like threads of silver.
"This," Miran said, "is Sentinel advanced arts. Only those who've passed vocation tasks can even attempt them."
Arden's jaw dropped. "You can do that?"
Miran grinned. "Barely. Elder Rhyden says I have potential, but I'm still a long way from mastering them."
He demonstrated a flowing sequence—each motion clean, sharp, carrying a depth that Arden could feel even without understanding the technique.
It wasn't physical. It wasn't magical. It was both, intertwined in a harmony only trained Sentinels could shape.
Arden whispered, "I can barely make mid-grade mixtures. And you're already doing this."
"You'll get there," Miran replied. "If I had an elder teaching me alchemy, I'd be twice as jealous."
Arden laughed softly. "Thanks."
Their moment was interrupted by footsteps. Kael approached, cloak shifting with each step, his presence always sharp and aware.
"Miran," Kael said. "Elder Rhyden wants you to assist with the some array calibration."
Miran groaned. "Already?"
"Already," Kael confirmed, then turned to Arden. "And how is Elder Marath's torture?"
"Effective," Arden muttered.
Kael smiled. "Good. Keep at it. We'll need every ounce of strength soon."
Then he departed with his usual smothered urgency.
The next day passed quietly—almost too quietly. Arden trained. Miran studied. The Citadel carried on.
Until dawn broke with hurried footsteps echoing through the walls.
Miran was the first to reach the gates. Arden followed seconds later.
Ironwill stepped into the courtyard.
His cloak was torn. His eyes shadowed. Lira leaned on his arm, exhausted but alive. Nale walked behind them, silent and worn, her expression set in a grim mask.
They had been gone for days.
And they looked as though they had walked out of a battlefield stitched with nightmares.
Miran ran forward. "Ironwill!"
Ironwill's gaze softened, barely. "Good to see you standing," he said. "Both of you."
Arden moved beside Miran. "What happened? Where are—"
Ironwill didn't let him finish.
"It's good that your tasks are done," he said, his voice low, steady, but frayed at the edges. "Let Lira and Nale rest. I need to speak with Elder Marath immediately."
He walked past them without another word.
Arden and Miran exchanged a look—one of dread.
Something was wrong.
Something big.
Later, Arden found Lira and Nale seated in the west hall near a hearth, Nale was writing something, Lira wrapped in blankets. He approached hesitantly.
"What happened out there?"
Nale looked up first. Her face was pale, jaw clenched.
"We found Cerys and Jhalen," she said quietly. "Or rather… what was left of where they were taken."
Arden's heart dropped. "Taken? By who?"
"Sun Church operatives," Lira whispered. "And someone far, far worse."
Nale continued, "We faced beasts, cultists, and corruption we've never seen. They had plans… experiments… and Cerys and Jhalen were at the center of it."
Arden's hands tightened. "Are they alive?"
"We don't know," Nale said. "They were captured… and teleported. To gods know where."
Arden felt his stomach twist.
His friends.
Gone.
Before he could say more, the hall doors closed, and Ironwill's steps echoed through the stone corridor, heading toward the elders' meeting chamber.
His posture was rigid.
Controlled.
But Arden could feel it—the terrifying calm beneath his skin. A quiet storm forged of rage sharp enough to wound.