Boaz woke to silence. Not the uneasy kind that came before danger, but the kind blanketed in snow and blocked by stone: thick, unmoving, complete. A pale light seeped in through the slats of the high shutters, softening the edges of the cabin’s rough interior. The hearth had burned low, embers tucked deep beneath a blanket of ash, but the lingering warmth held the cold at bay.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He was comfortable.

All the others were still asleep; Kiera curled near the fire with her hand resting lightly on her satchel, Jaxson sprawled on a woven rug, mouth open, one leg draped over a stool. Lyra and Theo shared the narrow bench along the far wall, boots tangled beneath them, heads tipped toward opposite corners as if in silent disagreement even in sleep.

Thorne stirred beside him, sensing Boaz was awake. The lynx rose and padded to the window, nose lifting toward the faint scent of morning frost.

Outside, the world had shifted. Boaz could just make out the edge of it through the shutter’s gap: a dusting of snow, thin as flour, clung to the stone ledge and melted slowly where it touched the wood. Winter’s breath had come in the night.

Somewhere deeper in the cabin, in an interior room, the old wizard moved.

Not footsteps, not words. Just the sound of something being set down gently: a ceramic clink, a page turned, a soft exhale. Then quiet again.

Boaz sat up, the weight from the night before pressing into his shoulders like a second blanket. His Familiar token and the Sigil both still rested beneath his shirt. The Sigil was warm against his chest, steady as a heartbeat. He touched it once, lightly, then let his hand fall.

Today, and for the next few days, he knew they would train.

By the time the others stirred, the cabin had warmed again, not just by the flames in the hearth, but by their breath and movements. The cabin floorboards creaked with the step of their boots.

Aldryn said little. He moved through the room like smoke, silent and purposeful, setting out a modest breakfast: hard bread, dried berries, a wedge of sharp goat’s cheese, some slices of cured ham, and a pot of strong tea steeped with mountain herbs. The latter tasted fruity and earthy at the same time, and gave them a wonderful kick of alertness.

They ate quietly, each still caught in the web of their own thoughts. Kiera thanked Aldryn softly for her food. Theo offered him a tired smile, mouth too full to speak. Jaxson dunked bread in his tea and put it in his mouth absently, his expression one of profound sadness. Lyra drank her tea and ate silently, her eyes on the shuttered window, already thinking beyond it.

Boaz chewed without tasting. The Sigil, now beneath two layers of wool, seemed heavier this morning.

Aldryn waited until they were done. Then, as the last mug was drained, he stood and gestured to the door leading to the outer chamber: the open stonework space where they’d seen him practice his strange runes and inkwork, now cleared and ringed with warded symbols.

“Today,” the wizard said, his voice like flint striking iron, “you begin.” No ceremony. No further explanation. Just the simple fact of it. They were ready, or they weren’t.

Boaz rose with the others, his breath fogging faintly in the chill air as they passed into the stone chamber. He thought the training chamber felt colder than the rest of the cabin, the air sharp with the tang of old stone and something faintly metallic: the ink, perhaps? High windows let in a thin gray light, but the glow from the symbols along the walls pulsed faintly with their own inner rhythm, neither bright nor dim, but steady. Watching.

“Now, you all need to understand how to call up your magic reliably, in a simple way. I say this, because in the heat of a battle, you’re likely going to be afraid for your life, and unlikely to think of anything other than self-preservation.” He looked at them shrewdly. “I know this, because this is how it was for me.

“Your magic is not yours to command, but to invite. You must partner with it, and your familiar. You will perform the strongest magic when you and your familiar are one. To do this, you must call them by name, in your mind. This is the invitation for them to join you. We shall practice. Theo, you first.”

Theo looked between the wizard and Tink, who yawned exaggeratedly and flopped onto her side. “Right. I should call her.”

Theo crouched beside a loose stone, sucking in a breath. He closed his eyes, forcing his jittering thoughts to quiet, and spoke her name in his mind. “Tink.” It wasn’t a command. More like opening a door, letting her feel his intent. The stone tingled under his palm, the air thickening. The magic stirred: playful, reluctant, like Tink herself.

The stone hovered. Shook. Then arms and legs sprouted. Next, a crude face, etched in ink, blinked into being. The little stone Golem landed with a “plunk” and looked up at Theo, unimpressed.

“Hi,” Theo said. The Golem folded its arms and said nothing. “Well,” he muttered. “That’s not unsettling at all.”

“You’ve given it shape,” Aldryn said, voice calm. “Now give it purpose.”

Theo furrowed his brow, focusing. “Uh … sweep?” The Golem stood still. Theo tried again. “Sweep the floor. Please?”

It continued to stare at him, but then slowly lay down on its side and began to roll back and forth like a log.

Lyra snorted.

Theo sighed. “Great. Of all the Golems to create, I had to imbue mine with sarcasm.”

Aldryn didn’t smile. “You reached for control, when what you needed was to establish connection.”

Tink, still upside-down on a low shelf watching the proceedings, added a squeaky little snore for emphasis.

The golem disassembled on the spot, stone limbs dropping with hollow clunks, leaving Theo alone with nothing but a puzzled look. He bent to gather the scattered stones, his shoulders hunched somewhere between frustration and embarrassment. Tink hopped down from her perch with a chirp and padded over to nose one of the stones, then looked up at him expectantly.

He stood, brushing grit from his palms, looking at Aldryn. “So … did I pass?”

“You built it,” Aldryn said, his voice level but not unkind. “That is no small thing.”

Theo glanced over. “Didn’t feel like much.”

“You shaped matter. Awakened motion. Even gave it a face.” The wizard stepped closer, crouching to examine the ink-stained stone. “But your intent was fractured. You gave it limbs before you gave it purpose. Command without connection becomes confusion.”

Theo squinted. “So I should’ve … what? Had a heart-to-heart with a rock?”

Aldryn looked at him, slightly smiling. “You must first know what you want it to ‘be.’ Then let that desire shape it.”

Theo scowled. “You say we’re supposed to just … feel it. Like it’s supposed to make sense.” He threw the stone down. “But how do you know? You act like there’s a handbook for this.”

Aldryn, standing near the entrance to the inner chamber, but near the hearth, didn’t even glance up from the small pot of tea he was brewing. “Handbooks are for money-changers,” he muttered. “You want one of those, go back to your tidy little village.”

Jaxson, leaning against the wall, folded his arms. “You didn’t answer his question.”

Aldryn sighed theatrically, as if the very act of explaining bored him more than walking off a cliff. “Because,” he said, finally looking up, “I’ve seen this before. I’ve been this before.”

He gestured vaguely to his side, where Nevara perched on the beam overhead, glossy feathers catching the firelight. “Your mistake,” he continued, “is thinking you’re the first ones to walk this road. You’re not. You’re just the first in a long, long time.”

He sipped his tea, grimaced, and set the cup aside. “When I was your age — well, slightly younger, and considerably more handsome — I was bonded to my familiar. Like you. Nevara found me when I was a boy.”

Jaxson raised an eyebrow. “So … what? You think that makes you qualified to train us?”

Aldryn gave a thin smile. “It means I know enough not to let you burn your eyebrows off in the first week. The rest?” He shrugged. “Trial. Error. Observation.”

He tilted his head, watching them now with that unsettling stillness that always made Boaz uneasy. “You think you’re that mysterious to me? I’ve watched the way you move, the way your familiars move. I see what’s in your grip, your posture, your breath. I know the tells.”

He pointed his staff toward Lyra. “You flinch before you fade. That’s your tell.” Toward Theo. “You force form before intent. Yours.” Then Boaz. “And you, boy? You think the Sigil’s a sword, or a blacksmith’s hammer. It’s not.” Silence stretched between them.

“You know all this just by watching?” Kiera asked, carefully.

“No,” Aldryn said, picking breakfast crumbs from his robe. “I know it because I’ve failed at it myself. I’ve seen others fail worse.”

He looked up at Nevara then, and something softened in his face: almost a private conversation passed between them.

“She remembers more than I do,” he added, quieter now. “But what we both know? This isn’t about power. It’s about listening.” He tapped his staff once, the sound sharp in the quiet. “You can’t teach that from a book.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then Theo, cautiously: “You could’ve just said that at the beginning.”

Aldryn blinked. “Where’s the fun in that?” And with that, he turned, Nevara gliding down to his shoulder as he muttered something about “youths and their need for straight answers.”

However, he turned back, eyes sweeping across the rest of the recruits. “Who’s next?”

Kiera stepped forward without being called. Her face was calm, but her hands twisted the edge of her sleeve as she passed Theo on his way back.

He gave her a nod. “Don’t let the wizard upset you. Although, his bird’s probably smarter than I am.”

Kiera didn’t answer. She was already concentrating, but on what, Theo couldn’t guess.

Aldryn gestured toward a low, dark platform set against the far wall, upon which lay a small creature: a fox kit, breathing shallowly, one paw curled unnaturally beneath it. It had been there the whole time, in the shadows.

“It was wounded by a hunter’s snare,” Aldryn said. “I found it last night. I have dulled its pain, but the damage remains.”

Boaz shifted where he stood. “Wait, that’s a real fox?”

“Yes,” Aldryn replied without looking at him. “This makes the lesson more personal, as it would be in a real-life situation.”

Kiera knelt beside the injured fox, her breath fogging in the cold air. She pressed her hands close, not yet touching, and closed her eyes. She breathed in, slow and steady, and whispered Eira’s name in her mind — not aloud, but like reaching for a hand in the dark. The world seemed to quiet around her. She felt Eira’s presence settle beside her thoughts — cool, steady, waiting. The magic stirred at the edges of her senses, not rushing, not forcing, but opening like a slow exhale. Kiera let it flow, as gently as she could.

The air around her hand shimmered faintly, not with light but with warmth, like the breath of the cabin’s hearth on a cold morning such as this.

The fox stirred. Its breathing deepened. The twisted paw stretched once, then tucked beneath it naturally. Kiera opened her eyes. Tears welled there, but she blinked them back. She wasn’t done yet.

Only when the fox let out a sigh and curled into sleep did she lower her hand. Aldryn approached. He knelt beside her, not to check her work, but to study her face.

“You gave more than energy,” he said. “You gave stillness, and contentment.”

Kiera swallowed. “It felt like … like I was listening. Not doing.”

“That’s because you were.” He nodded slowly. “Your magic does not force balance. It ‘remembers’ it. Restores it. You have the rarest gift: ‘presence.’”

She bowed her head slightly. “But, it hurt. Not my body. Just … inside.”

Aldryn’s voice was quiet. “It probably always will. That is the price of healing what others would rather not feel.”

Kiera rose. Eira followed close behind.

“Take time to rest,” Aldryn added, before his gaze returned to the group. “Next.”

Jaxson cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, grim resolution in his eyes.

Aldryn said nothing. He simply walked to the center of the chamber and tapped the butt of his staff against the floor. A faint pulse of blue light rippled outward, and a thin seam opened in the stone, forming a narrow ring around the wizard. He stepped out of the ring.

The floor within the ring shimmered, almost liquid in appearance, before resolving into a stone column rising twelve feet high, and the ceiling of the outer cabin room rising with it.

At the top: a simple wooden token. Small. Unimpressive. Unreachable. “Retrieve it,” Aldryn said, stepping back.

Jaxson rolled his shoulders, staring up at the stone column like it had personally offended him. He clenched his fists, forced himself to take a breath, and muttered Kestel’s name in his mind — sharp, clipped, like spitting it through gritted teeth. For a heartbeat, he felt the hawk’s presence — restless, watching, circling in the back of his thoughts. The magic flickered under his skin, urging him forward, but Jaxson pushed too soon, too hard. He launched upward — fast, almost too fast — and his foot caught the stone. He pushed again, aiming for a foothold, but the smooth surface gave nothing back. He slipped, twisted midair, and landed in a roll that turned into a low crouch.

“No grip,” he muttered. “Got it.” Kestel, on a high shelf nearby, screeched once. He narrowed his eyes.

Jaxson tried again, this time concentrating on calling his magic before the jump. His body surged with speed, a blur of limbs and instinct, and for a moment, it worked. He was halfway up the column before he overcorrected, spun too far, and barely caught himself before hitting the ground again.

The third try was less graceful. His foot missed the angle entirely, and he slammed into the column with a grunt.

Boaz winced. Jaxson rolled onto his back, breathing hard, arms splayed. “Okay. It’s possible the stone won that round.”

Aldryn didn’t smirk, but his voice was just shy of amused. “You rely too much on momentum. On instinct. But your magic, without intention, is just ‘velocity.’”

Jaxson sat up, frowning.

“Your gift is not merely to move fast,” the wizard said, stepping forward. “It is to know when to move. And when not to.”

Jaxson stood slowly, brushing dust from his shirt. “So what? Think first?”

“Invite Kestel into the magic first,” Aldryn corrected. “Then act.”

He gestured to the column again. “You may try once more. But this time, breathe. Center. Then move.”

Jaxson took a deep breath. Closed his eyes.

When he moved, it was slower, but more precise. He launched upward in a single arc, not rushing, but reading the stone with every movement. A small shimmer of light flickered around his boots — not a flare, but a whisper of magic guiding the angles.

He reached the top. Snatched the token. Landed with both feet solid beneath him.

Theo clapped three times. Lyra rolled her eyes but didn’t look away. Jaxson held up the token like it was a trophy, grinning wide now.

Aldryn nodded. “Better. Let speed serve your awareness, not replace it.”

Jaxson tucked the token into his pocket. “Right. No blind leaping.”

“Boaz,” Aldryn said, voice cutting through the air like a drawn blade. “You next.”

Boaz stepped forward, shoulders squared, the Sigil heavy against his chest. He expected a task like the others: a climb, a creature, a Golem, maybe some illusion creature to use his magic on.

Instead, Aldryn gestured to the hearth. “Light the candle.”

A single candle sat in a brass holder on the stone ledge, untouched by flame. Boaz stared at it. “That’s it?”

The wizard nodded once. “That’s it.”

Boaz stood before the unlit candle, the others watching from the shadows behind him. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the faint thrum of the Sigil beneath, and forced himself to speak Thorne’s name silently into the space between thought and breath. Thorne’s presence brushed the edge of his awareness — quiet, steady, waiting. The magic stirred, faint and hesitant. But Boaz clenched down too soon, trying to seize it, and the flicker died before it could take shape.

He stepped closer. Breathed deeply. Called Thorne’s name. Still nothing. Behind him, someone shifted. He didn’t look to see who. The silence felt like pressure.

Aldryn moved behind him, slow and steady. “Why do you want the fire?” Boaz didn’t answer. “Is it to prove yourself? Impress the others? Show that the Sigil obeys you?”

Boaz clenched his jaw. “I’m not trying to —”

“But you are,” the wizard said. “You reach with your will. You expect obedience.” He raised his staff, pointed it to the floor. A small metal brazier scraped forward from the shadows.

Inside it was tinder, dry twigs, a few curled shavings of pine.

“Try again,” Aldryn said. “Not with control. With invitation.”

Boaz crouched beside the brazier. Thorne padded forward and sat near him, quiet and unmoving. He looked at the wood. “Thorne.”

Still nothing.

His frustration built — a quiet pulse beneath his ribs. He touched the Sigil through his shirt. “Come on,” he whispered. “Just a spark.”

And then — heat. Not a flare. Not a burst. Just a flicker at the edge of his fingers. A warmth that wasn’t his own. One shaving caught fire: a single curl of smoke rising into the cold air. Boaz sat back, breath unsteady. It wasn’t much. But it was real.

Aldryn nodded. “You keep reaching for command. But this magic meets you like a friend; invite it in.”

Boaz didn’t speak. He looked down at the small flame, then at Thorne, who met his gaze and tilted his head subtly to the side, as if studying him. Aldryn stepped forward, quieter now. “Connection, Boaz. Not dominance. Not anger. Just ‘presence.’”

Boaz stood slowly. The fire in the brazier cracked once, not wildly, but as if in acknowledgment. And for a moment, the Sigil beneath his shirt pulsed once with gentle warmth. Not power. Not victory. But permission.

Aldryn studied the small flame, then turned his gaze to Boaz. He was not stern now, but steady, grounded. “You’ve taken the first step,” he said. “Not by reaching for power, but by ‘listening’ to it.”

Boaz nodded slowly, unsure what to say.

“This magic will not come through force of will,” Aldryn continued. “Not for any of you. It will come when you stop treating it like a weapon, and start treating it like a conversation between good friends.”

“Lyra.” When Aldryn called her name, Lyra hesitated for just a breath, then stepped forward, quiet as falling snow. Mika slinked beside her, unusually tense.

Aldryn gestured to the center of the room, where he conjured a tall straw dummy now, standing with a dull practice blade fastened to one arm. A crude pivot mechanism allowed it to swing the blade slowly in a wide, arcing pattern. “You won’t fight it,” the wizard said. “You’ll face it. Let it strike.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “What lesson is in that?”

“Not all strength is in the blow,” Aldryn replied. “Sometimes, strength is in what you take, or what passes through you.”

Lyra stood still in the center of the chamber, arms loose at her sides, face blank. She breathed in through her nose and whispered Mika’s name silently where no one could hear. For a flicker of a moment, she felt Mika stir — wild, restless, full of teeth and laughter. The magic brushed against her, wanting to move through her. But Lyra held back, keeping a piece of herself walled off, and the magic faltered, slipping away like smoke through cracks. She clenched her fists. She hated how it made her feel — vulnerable, dependent.

The dummy’s blade creaked as it swung toward her. Slow. Predictable. Too easy. The first pass was clean: she sidestepped, letting it slice the air beside her.

“Again, but don’t step aside, that’s not the point of this,” Aldryn said.

The blade reset and swung again. This time, Lyra didn’t move. She felt Mika’s reassuring presence in her mind, and her physical form shimmered: not with light, but with a distortion, like heat rippling through stone. The blade passed through her ribs as if she were made of mist.

The air in the room changed. Even Mika stilled. She did it again. And again. On the fourth pass, her timing faltered. The blade clipped her shoulder — not deep, but real enough to make her flinch. She cursed softly, stepping back.

“You hesitated,” Aldryn said.

“I chose not to fade.”

“No. You doubted. There’s a difference.”

Lyra’s jaw tensed. “I’m not a ghost. I can’t live half-real.”

“No,” he agreed. “And you shouldn’t. But you haven’t yet learned when to remain, and when to vanish.”

She looked away.

Aldryn stepped closer, his tone gentler now. “This gift … it will tempt you to stay out of reach. To never be touched. But it is not meant to make you invisible. It is meant to give you space to act, to choose when you are vulnerable.”

Lyra said nothing. But something in her posture changed — not yielding, exactly, but listening. Mika brushed against her leg, tail flicking once.

“You’ve begun to learn control,” Aldryn said. “Now you must learn courage to be vulnerable when needed.”

Lyra turned and walked back to the others, face unreadable, but Boaz noticed her breathing deeper than before, like someone coming out of a long-held breath.

They each took more turns that day, breaking briefly for lunch. Sometimes they improved, other times it seemed like they regressed. Each time, though, Aldryn gave them his advice and encouragement. By the time training ended, the light outside had faded to a wintry dusk. Snow fell in lazy spirals beyond the cabin windows, dusting the stone ledges in white. Inside, the hearth blazed to life again, courtesy of Kiera and Boaz working together, though she claimed it was all him and he claimed it was mostly her.

Before their training started that day, Cayden had left the cabin, telling them he wanted to scout around. He came back that night just before supper. He didn’t say anything to them, but he looked worried. They knew him well enough to let him be however.

They had all gathered near the fire with mismatched bowls of steaming stew: earthy, root-heavy, and far too thick, but no one complained.

Theo grumbled into his bowl. “Didn’t feel like I made a golem. Felt like I made a rock with opinions.”

Jaxson snorted. “Well, you built it like you patch a leaky roof — quick, sloppy, and praying no one notices.”

Theo pointed his spoon. “Says the guy who fell off a stone column, twice.”

“Three times,” Lyra corrected, from her spot near the hearth. “But who’s counting?”

“I was pushing the limits,” Jaxson said, mouth full. “Greatness demands sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice won,” Boaz added.

Jaxson threw a piece of bread crust at him. Boaz caught it and gave it to Thorne, who accepted it like royalty.

Kiera chuckled, softer than the others. “You were all amazing. Honestly.”

They all looked at her, then, surprised by the sincerity, the way it cut through the teasing. Lyra looked away. Theo blinked. Jaxson shrugged, but he smiled. Boaz stirred his bowl. “We’re not really ready,” he said.

“No,” Kiera agreed. “But we’re getting ready.”

“I don’t think anyone’s progressed as far as you have yet. What you can do is what’s amazing, healing like that? Repairing what’s been broken … and, well, caring as much as you do,” Boaz ended, looking up at her, a little sheepishly for being so forthright.

A moment of quiet passed between them: not heavy, but thoughtful. The kind of silence that happens when no one needs to fill the space. Then Theo leaned forward. “So … who do you think would win in a fight? My Golem or Jaxson’s ego?”

“Depends,” Lyra said, lifting her mug. “Are we allowed to cheer for the Golem?”

The fire had burned low, casting amber light across the stone walls. Snow tapped softly at the shutters, and outside, the wind curled through the foothills like a breath held too long.

Inside, no one spoke. The quiet had settled like dust: not awkward, but full, stretched between them like a held chord.

Aldryn was sitting at his table, a pile of ancient books beside him. He had been reading, instead of writing, for a change of pace. He had very many books on shelves scattered haphazardly around the walls of the cabin. He devoted as much space to books and writing equipment as he did to sleep and cooking. He seemed to have been looking for something diligently. He turned a page of a fragile-looking book, then sighed. He found what he wanted, it seemed.

Aldryn chanted aloud:

“Child of dawn, of Finduir’s line,
The rightful heir by fate’s design.

Thrice shall his soul in fire be tried,
By iron, by grief, and truth denied.

The leaf-bound Sigil, long displaced,
Shall call him forth through shadow faced.

One marked by thorn, by flame, by grace,
Shall mend the breach and lead each race.

To those who fall, his light shall bind —
Restoring heart, redeeming mind.

And though the cost be steep and grim,
The realms shall rise when called by him.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Boaz sat up straighter, his breath caught in his chest. “I know that,” he said. “My mother … she used to sing parts of it. I thought it was just some old lullaby.”

Cayden shifted. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly: “It was a prophecy made by a well-known prophet named Selbora. Spoken in Finduir’s first years on the throne.”

Boaz’s breath caught. “You think she knew what it meant?”

Cayden shook his head firmly. “No one knew. That’s the truth of it, Boaz. Not your mother. Not me. Not anyone. The prophecy was spoken long before she was born — back in the reign of Finduir himself.”

He let out a long breath, his voice tightening.

“Your mother wasn’t some queen who gave up her throne for peace. She never had the throne to give up.”

Boaz frowned. “But … wasn’t she some … royal?”

“She was,” Cayden agreed. “But the crown never touched her brow. Her mother — Princess Riyan — was the third daughter of King Alaric Finduir. When he died at Beltin Fords, the throne would normally pass by law to Doria, the eldest daughter, but she was only a half-daughter, born of the king’s affair.”

He paused, the old bitterness threading into his voice.

“Doria was ruthless. She declared your great-grandmother and her sister traitors, tried to have them executed. There was nearly a civil war within the house itself. Symna, the second daughter, was ambushed and killed along with her guards. Your grandmother fled with your mother into hiding.”

Boaz swallowed hard, the shape of the past darkening before him.

“So … my mother was hiding to protect our family.”

Cayden nodded. “Yes. She was hiding because she was hunted. I helped them disappear. Found them refuge in Hefel-an-Tarn. Protected them as best I could.”

“But the prophecy … that’s something different. It was always spoken of Finduir’s line — not a specific heir. When you were born, your mother, well, she feared what it might mean if the Sigil ever awakened for you.”

Boaz stared at him. “But she didn’t know?”

“No.” Cayden’s face was drawn, but honest. “She hoped the Sigil would sleep forever. That you could be a blacksmith’s son, nothing more. That the old words would die out with the old world.” He let the weight of the words settle between them.

“But if the Sigil stirred … if it chose you … she and I both knew that would change everything.”

Boaz placed his hand over the Sigil beneath his shirt. It pulsed faintly, not commanding, not urgent; just present, as if it too was listening. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Cayden nodded. “Neither did she.” His voice softened. “She only ever wanted you to have a choice. Something she never had.” He leaned back, letting the distance settle between them. “And now … it’s yours.”

Boaz stood very still, the warmth of the Sigil burning quietly beneath his palm. He had no words. But the choice — whatever it was — felt like it had already been made the moment the Sigil found him.

Aldryn stood now, staff in hand, face unreadable in the firelight.

“I swore I would never leave these mountains again. I’ve seen the end of too many kings of the four races. I’ve watched kingdoms rot from within.” He looked not just at Boaz, but at each of them. They were tired, talented, and forged by loss.

“But clearly, the Sigil has awakened, chosen its new partner … and the time has come.”

In the days that followed, the snow thickened, and the world narrowed to the cabin and the stone-ringed clearing beyond it.

They trained until their emotions and their minds were tired and blurred. Not just in magic, but in movement, awareness, control. Every spell failed until it didn’t. Every strike missed until it landed. And slowly, day by day, they began to move like people who had something to lose, and something to protect.

They still laughed, and they still argued, but something unspoken had settled between them. A quiet resolve.

On the seventh morning, the clouds parted just long enough to spill a pale shaft of sun across the ridge above the cabin. That’s where they gathered: six figures wrapped in wool and silence, eyes turned east.

The Reaches stood beyond them, sharp and white against the horizon. And somewhere past them, the city of Cirol, and everything that would come next.

Kiera was the first to speak. “My father would’ve stayed behind. Told me to wait. Stay safe. But he’s not here to stop me now.” Eira, standing silently on her shoulder, pressed close, as if to answer for the silence.

Jaxson gave a faint snort. “Tessa hated this kind of weather. Would’ve made me carry her cloak, and mine too.” He looked down at the valley below. “She was too young. I won’t let what happened to her happen to anyone else.”

Lyra stood with her arms crossed, her eyes harder than the rest. “I had friends taken. Neighbors. People I didn’t bother say goodbye to. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Theo nodded, quieter than usual. “Darnel always said I’d find something I was good at, eventually. Turns out it’s making inanimate objects flail around. He’d be thrilled.” He smiled grimly.

Boaz said nothing at first. The cold wind caught his cloak, but he barely felt it. “My father was a blacksmith,” he said at last. “He didn’t care about crowns, power, or prophecy. Just about doing the next right thing.”

He glanced at each of them. “That’s all I’m trying to do.” Thorne nudged his hand with the tip of his nose, steady as ever.

Behind them, Aldryn approached — hood drawn up, staff in hand. The snow came up to his boots, but he moved as if it weren’t there at all. “We leave tomorrow at first light,” he said. “South from here, best as we can make it, to strike the old road that goes east from Forlon. From there, we head east, to the Pass of Cirol.”

He paused, letting the name settle in their ears.

“It’s the only way through the Reaches this time of year. And once we cross it, and the plains beyond, we’ll reach the city, and the first true test of this group.”

Aldryn’s gaze swept over them all. “What you carry will be tested. Not just your strength, but your conviction. The road to Lake Evenwell, and the Aguan, begins in Cirol. It is to the Aguan that we must first go, if I am any guide at all.”

Boaz looked toward the horizon, then back to the others, as if weighing them all. They stood a little longer, the wind rising around them. Then, one by one, they turned and made their way back down the ridge, toward the cabin, toward their packs, toward the waiting road that curved beyond the known.

None of them looked back from that place. But all of them carried something that would never leave them.

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