Five quiet years had passed since Ironwill left the Citadel and walked alone into the heart of the Empire. Five years without reports, without sightings, without so much as a whisper returning on the wind. Yet in that time, the Citadel did not crumble, nor stagnate. Life moved forward in slow, steady rhythm, shaped by training, duty, and the subtle, ever-present weight of waiting.
Morning sun lay soft and pale across the high stone walls as steel clashed in the training courtyard. Miran's figure cut swift arcs through the air—no longer the broad-shouldered youth who once sparred clumsily with his elders, but a fully grown sentinel. His build was leaner now, sculpted with precision, the strength in him refined rather than raw. His heavy steel staff danced in fluid patterns, spinning, sweeping, and striking with practiced, lethal grace. The air cracked under each momentum shift, wind pressure coiling around the weapon like a drawn breath.
Kael met the blows with a wooden training blade, grinning as though none of the strikes could possibly harm him.
"You've stopped holding back," Kael said as he sidestepped a low sweep and parried the staff's upward thrust. "Finally grew tired of me knocking you flat?"
"You haven't knocked me flat in three years," Miran countered, pivoting and aiming a precise strike toward Kael's ribs.
"Ah, denial. An expected stage of maturity," Kael teased, twisting out of range. "There was that day you slipped on mud—"
"That was not a hit," Miran growled.
"It was definitely a hit."
A light voice interrupted from the walkway. "Are you two always like this?"
Miran froze. Kael raised a brow, amused.
A young woman approached—dark hair tied neatly behind her head, a soft shawl draped over her shoulders, eyes warm and bright. She carried herself with a gentle confidence, steps quiet and sure. Miran straightened instinctively, staff lowering. Kael's grin widened.
"You're early," Miran said, unable to stop the small smile softening his face.
"I finished my errands sooner," she said, folding her hands before her. "And I was curious to see how training is going. Looks like someone's improving."
"See?" Kael said. "She acknowledges it. That makes it official."
Miran shot him a glare, then turned to the woman. "You didn't have to come all the way up—"
"I wanted to," she replied simply. Her eyes lingered on him with quiet pride. "Besides, watching you swing that staff around reminds me why I married you. I always knew you'd become someone strong… someone who protects."
Miran's ears reddened slightly. Kael coughed dramatically. "I think I should leave before I suffocate on the sweetness."
Miran sighed, exasperated. "Kael—"
"I'm joking, calm down," Kael said, clapping him once on the arm. "Truly, though—well done. Continue like this, and the younger generation might actually give me hope."
Kael excused himself, leaving the pair alone. Miran's wife stepped closer, adjusting his collar with a small, affectionate gesture.
"You've grown so much," she said. "But don't overdo it. I'd like you alive when we have children."
Miran almost stopped breathing. Her words were simple, but they pierced deep, awakening something aching and earnest within him—a dream he had carried quietly all his life. "One day," he said, voice low with conviction, "I'll be strong enough to protect all of you. Stronger than I am now. Stronger than ever."
"I know," she whispered, smiling softly.
Elsewhere in the Citadel, in the high-ceilinged library chamber, Nale stood with Elder Rhyden over an array of ancient tomes. Light leaked through massive arched windows, casting pale gold over stacks of parchment and crystalline instruments humming with faint arcane resonance. Nale's posture was straight, dignified—his once youthful face now sharpened with clarity and wisdom. His hair had grown longer, tied back neatly; his expression had matured into one of serene focus.
Rhyden tapped a diagram etched into the table. "Here—the pattern again. Notice the fractures along the outer rings."
Nale leaned closer. "The anomaly is pulsing… as though breathing. Expanding, contracting."
"And shifting toward the coast with unmistakable intent," Rhyden murmured. "The purple stones, the mana haze… all emerging in correlation. But the source remains hidden."
"We've searched every documented arcane phenomenon," Nale said. "Nothing matches."
"That," Rhyden replied, "is precisely what worries me."
Nale exhaled slowly, absorbing the weight of these years of research. Standing beside Rhyden no longer felt like student beside master; it felt like scholar beside scholar. Five years of relentless study had carved him into something keen—a Vaelorian mind refined into a blade.
"If this anomaly is affecting the coast… the Choosing may also be linked," Nale said.
Rhyden's jaw tightened faintly. "Yes. And until its nature is unveiled, no new Choosings will occur. The guardian beneath us lies dormant. The old pulse has faded."
Nale closed the tome gently. "Then we will keep searching."
"And we will find answers," Rhyden said, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Your progress these years has surpassed expectation. You've become one of our finest minds."
Nale nodded, expression steady, but a faint spark of pride warmed his otherwise composed features.
In a smaller wing of the Citadel, footsteps echoed lightly through the corridor as Lira returned from the open wilds, brushing dust off her cloak. Her appearance had changed—her features sharpened with maturity, her posture now graceful, her presence radiant. A subtle gold luminescence clung to her, the sign of a true cleric. Her eyes held a depth of wisdom carved from years of service, healing, and relentless work with both Elder Rhyden and the lands beyond.
She made her way toward a familiar door and knocked lightly before pushing it open.
Inside, Arden sat hunched over a table crowded with glass vials, runic burners, and neatly arranged reagents. The room had once belonged to an elder, and though the furniture was new, the walls still carried the lingering ghosts of generations of alchemical work. Arden did not look up. The flame beneath his cauldron burned steady, and his entire focus was anchored on the shifting color within a simmering mixture.
"You didn't even turn around," Lira said, leaning against the doorframe. "Every time I come in here, you're more and more like Elder Marath."
Arden's brow twitched. "I'm nothing like him."
"You're worse," she teased. "You've become an old man at twenty-seven."
He sighed but did not lift his eyes from the mixture. "I'm close. This batch… I think it's the one."
"You say that every time."
"Because every time, I get closer."
Lira stepped forward and set a small pouch on the table. "Your ingredients. That was the last of the list."
"Thank you," Arden murmured, adjusting the flame slightly. "Sorry for making you fetch so many rare herbs."
"It's fine," she said, then looked at him more seriously. "You know… you could come with us sometimes. You don't have to be locked in here for weeks just because you want to perfect elder-level alchemy."
"I'm almost done," Arden insisted. "Once I finish this research, I'll go out myself. Maybe hunt a few lesser monsters to clear the air."
"That will be the day." Lira smiled faintly.
Silence settled until she asked gently, "How's your mother?"
Arden paused, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Better… I think. She opens her eyes now. Briefly. But she still can't move. Still bedridden. Still trapped by that curse." His voice lowered. "But my potions help. They ease the pain. At least… I'm close to matching Elder Marethyn's quality."
Lira looked around the room. "This used to be her quarters."
"I know," Arden whispered. "I kept it that way out of respect."
Lira nodded sympathetically. "The Choosing stopped happening since... the last... ah, Nale thinks it's tied to the anomaly. Elder Rhyden agrees."
"Then we solve it," Arden said simply. "We will find out. One way or another."
Lira turned toward the door. "I'm going to report to Elder Marath. Want to come?"
"I can't," Arden replied. "The mixture will destabilize. And I'm almost there. Really."
"You sound exactly like Elder Marath," she said. "Old man."
Arden waved her away without looking back. Lira chuckled and left him to his work.
High above, in the Citadel's meeting hall balcony, Elder Marath stood alone, hands clasped behind him as he gazed toward the ocean beyond the walls. The barrier shimmered faintly along the horizon—a thin line of radiant light flickering like a wounded pulse. His mind churned with unspoken concerns.
Five years. Five years with no word from Ironwill. No signal from the guardian beneath the Citadel. No new Choosing. And the anomaly—always present, always shifting—growing with a will of its own.
He remembered the guardian's aura, once steady as the deep tides. Now silent.
He stared into the distance, anxiety etched into the folds of age that even his power could not hide. "Something is changing," he murmured to the empty hall. "Something we do not yet understand."
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Marath said.
Lira stepped in, bowing her head lightly. "Elder. Reporting from the perimeter patrol."
Marath turned to her, expression calm yet weighed. "Speak."
"No further movements from the Church," Lira said. "Monster activity remains controlled. The village has grown into a full town now—new merchants, new guilds. The purple mana stones brought people from everywhere. Adventurers, mercenaries… even small traders hoping to secure fortunes."
Marath gave a slow nod. "The stones have become both blessing and burden."
"They discovered a new large deposit along the cliffs," Lira continued. "Miners are rushing to claim sections. It's… becoming a center of attention."
"As expected," Marath said quietly. "Power attracts hunger."
Lira hesitated, then asked, "Anything from Ironwill?"
Marath's voice softened slightly. "No. But he's alive. I can still feel it faintly. His crystal remains untouched. Whatever he is doing… it is important enough for silence."
Lira lowered her gaze. "I see."
"Our task," Marath continued, "is not to worry. Our task is to be ready. Strong. Prepared to protect him if he ever needs us."
Lira nodded. "Understood."
"Go rest, child," Marath said. "You've done well."
She bowed again and departed. When the door closed, Marath exhaled deeply. His gaze drifted once more toward the horizon—toward the barrier that flickered with unsettling irregularity.
"It isn't the guardian's slumber," he whispered. "Nor the purple stones. Something else gnaws at the Tower of Enclosure. Something unseen… something sentient."
The wind shifted across the balcony, carrying the faint scent of sea brine and cold stone. Marath closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the anomaly like a distant pressure against his senses.
"It's there," he murmured. "Hidden. Quiet. Watching."