I had always hated choosing.

  Not because I was indecisive, but because every choice carved away a future I would never see. No matter how carefully one weighed the options, certainty was always an illusion. Somewhere, another path would remain untaken, forever unknowable.

  And now, that familiar unease gnawed at me.

  “Eryndor Leafshade,” the Archdruid called, his voice calm but unyielding, “have you reached your decision?”

  The grand hall of Aeloria’s Keep felt smaller than it had moments ago. Enchanted lanterns floated overhead, their pale light rippling across stone walls etched with druidic runes. A ceremonial brazier burned at the center of the chamber, its green flame whispering softly as if listening.

  Every pair of eyes was on me.

  Elder druids stood in a wide circle, robes layered with sigils of bark, vine, and moon-thread. Some leaned forward, curiosity glimmering in their gaze. Others measured me silently, expression unreadable. Among them stood the Shaman, leaning heavily on his staff, his eyes fixed on me with unsettling intensity.

  “This ceremony honors your reclaiming of the Verdant Heart from a dragonian warrior,” the Archdruid continued. “Few have accomplished such a feat. Fewer still live to stand before us.”

  A ripple of murmurs ran through the hall before quickly dying.

  “Accordingly,” he said, sweeping a hand outward, “you may choose one of the following rewards.”

  Three attendants stepped forward.

  The first placed a crystal bowl upon a stone pedestal, its echo startlingly loud in the tense silence. Inside, dozens of Mana Stones shimmered with condensed blue light, pulsing slowly like a patient heartbeat.

  With that many, the fifth-tier spell would finally be within reach. Power meant for druids who survived long enough to earn it.

  I stared at the stones. Power, tangible and immediate. A straight path forward.

  The Archdruid’s gaze followed mine. “A prudent choice,” he said mildly. “Growth without risk.”

  Safe. Reliable. Predictable.

  The second attendant approached empty-handed. As she stepped into the light, she pushed back her sleeves, revealing markings with intricate, swirling patterns along both arms.

  “Aeloria’s Blessing,” the Archdruid announced.

  My pulse quickened.

  “This blessing will empower one of your spells,” he said. “Which one… is not for us to decide.”

  “Nor you,” the Shaman added, tapping his staff once. The faint ring echoed like a warning.

  A gamble.

  One spell elevated beyond its limits… or a blessing wasted on something trivial. Sweat gathered along my palm, cold and insistent. Fate had never been particularly kind to me.

  Then the third attendant stepped forward.

  The Moonstone Pendant rested upon a velvet cloth. Silver chains cradled an iridescent gem that gleamed like captured moonlight. Even from a distance, I could feel it. A quiet, restrained power thrummed beneath the surface, elegant but dangerous.

  My hand twitched.

  “A relic of the old circles,” the Archdruid said. “It grants its bearer a unique ability, tied to lunar resonance.”

  Several druids shifted uneasily. One frowned, lips pressed thin.

  I swallowed.

  For reasons I couldn’t explain, the Ursa Major mark on my chest stirred, warmth bleeding outward beneath my skin.

  Druids were meant to bear only one talisman at a time. Attempting to wield two could weaken me permanently, or worse, break me entirely.

  And yet, the pendant was painfully hard to ignore. Especially if I intended to form a team of druids someday. Power shared was power multiplied.

  Each choice pressed in from a different angle. None of them were wrong.

  Which made it worse.

  “Take your time,” the Archdruid said gently.

  I closed my eyes. Possibilities branched endlessly through my thoughts: every outcome, from triumph to ruin, flickering past in rapid succession.

  By the time they faded, my heart had already settled.

  When I opened my eyes, the hall felt impossibly quiet.

  I stepped forward.

  Stone echoed beneath my boots as I approached one of the attendants. Somewhere in the back of the chamber, a single breath hissed in anticipation.

  The future narrowed, irrevocably, to a single path.

  ***

  The elder druids remained behind as I left Aeloria’s Keep. The weight of their attention lingered on my back long after the gates closed behind me.

  By the time I reached the end of the stone road, Vallen Raenhir was already waiting.

  She leaned against an ashwood tree, one boot braced against the trunk, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, catching in her copper-brown hair. Her posture was casual, but her eyes were sharp, tracking every step I took.

  She straightened as I approached. “You took longer than I expected.”

  “Ceremonies have a habit of dragging on,” I replied.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Her gaze flicked briefly to my chest, lingering just long enough to be noticeable. Then back to my face. “Looks like you didn’t go with the safe option.”

  I stopped a few paces away. “You make assumptions.”

  “I make observations,” she corrected. “And right now, I’m observing that you’re trying very hard not to smile.”

  That earned her one.

  “So,” she said, pushing off the tree, arms uncrossing as she stepped closer, “what did you choose?”

  “The most tempting offer,” I said evenly.

  Her eyebrow arched. “That wasn’t an answer.”

  I smirked, letting the suspense linger. “I’ll tell you, on one condition.”

  She slowed, studying me more carefully now. “A condition,” she repeated. “This should be good.”

  “I’ll show you,” I said. “During a sparring match.”

  For a moment, she just stared at me.

  Then her lips curved into an amused smile, and a spark of interest flickered in her eyes. “Intriguing. Very well. I should have some free time tomorrow. Come find me when you’re ready.”

  Her tone remained composed, but the faint excitement beneath it was unmistakable.

  I nodded once. “Tomorrow, then.”

  With that settled, I didn’t linger.

  Vallen’s knowing look stayed with me as I made my way down the road, her curiosity pressing at the edges of my thoughts. Tomorrow would come soon enough. Tonight, there were questions that refused to wait.

  The previous night, I had slept little, poring over the book Myr had given me. Most of it was a fever dream of deranged doctrines and ritual transcripts. The Lithokult didn't just worship a God, they worshipped the end of motion.

  One passage, written in a cramped, shaky hand, stayed with me:

  “The place is a lie of the wind. To climb is to scatter one's soul across the heights. Only in the heavy silence of the Mesa, where the Unmoving God anchors the world, does a soul find its true weight. To transcend, one must first become stone.”

  The text was littered with frequent calls for Final Stillness, a euphemism for mass suicide rituals where followers would drink alchemical solutions meant to calcify their internal organs. They believed that by turning their bodies into literal statues, they would become "unshakeable" by the Collosi’s influence.

  Of the monster, Tharagon, there was almost nothing. Just a single, cryptic warning at the end of a chapter on sacrificial geometry:

  “Beware the Breath of the Mesa. When the sand stops moving, the Terror has arrived.”

  I closed the book, the air in my room suddenly feeling too still for comfort. No confirmation the Mesa even existed within the Tower’s geography, and yet, the way the words seemed to pulse on the parchment suggested otherwise.

  Unsatisfied, I decided to widen my search. If answers existed anywhere beyond the Stone Circle, it would be in Asterion City’s Grand Library.

  Without access to the Andrheus Rift, I relied on mundane travel. A carriage ride carried me from Willow’s End to Asterion’s outskirts, impatience settling deep into my bones by the time stone gave way to spires and banners.

  When the carriage halted, I stepped down and paused.

  The Grand Library towered before me.

  Massive stone pillars flanked its entrance, carved with scholars, beasts, and forgotten myths. Sunlight gleamed off tall windows bearing Asterion’s royal crest. It was the second-largest library in the kingdom, surpassed only by the Wizard Academy’s Archive, a place I had no hope of entering.

  If Tharagon left a trace anywhere, it would be here.

  Inside, the scent of aged parchment and ink enveloped me. Enchanted lanterns cast a steady glow over towering shelves and worn wooden tables. Guards stood watch at measured intervals, while librarians adjusted wards and enchantments I didn’t fully recognize.

  Despite its size, the library was sparsely occupied. Most adventurers preferred lessons learned through blood and steel rather than ink and silence.

  A handful of visitors dotted the hall.

  An elderly woman with a monocle annotated a gardening tome. A bored young man slouched nearby, half-asleep.

  And then there was the boy.

  Ten or twelve at most. He looked more like a street vagrant than a reader.

  Probably just here to escape the cold, I thought.

  I returned to my research. Time slipped by unnoticed until a dull ache settled into my lower back. When I glanced up, most of the faces had changed.

  All except one.

  The boy was still there.

  This time, I watched him closely.

  He was small and frail, his frame swallowed by a tunic that had been mended one too many times. A mess of dark brown curls framed a face that was pale with exhaustion, yet beneath the hollow cheeks and weary eyes, he was surprisingly handsome.

  But it wasn’t his appearance that held my attention.

  It was the book in his hands.

  A Beginner’s Guide to Wizardry.

  A foundational text meant for novices. Carefully regulated, but not forbidden.

  And he wasn’t just reading it.

  He was practicing.

  Calloused fingers traced careful motions through the air. His brows knitted in fierce concentration, lips silently shaping each syllable.

  Crackle.

  A tiny spark flared at his fingertips before sputtering out.

  “Finally!” he whispered, eyes shining.

  For a street child with no mentor, no training, and no resources, even that much was nothing short of astonishing.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Still nothing.

  Frustration crept into his expression. His grip tightened on the book, knuckles whitening as he re-read a line, then another. He inhaled sharply, drawing in more Mana than his untrained channels could handle.

  I felt it then.

  A subtle distortion in the air. Mana, unstable and unfocused.

  His hands moved too fast, skipping a gesture. His lips stumbled over the incantation, desperation bleeding into his focus.

  “Wait—” I muttered.

  BLAAR!

  The spell detonated.

  A wild, malformed Fireball erupted from his hands and slammed into a nearby bookshelf.

  Heat punched the air outward. I threw up an arm on instinct, Mana flaring across my skin as the shockwave rattled my bones.

  FWOOSH!

  Flames devoured dry wood and parchment as the shelf collapsed. Books scattered, pages igniting in seconds.

  Gasps rang out. Librarians and guards surged forward, weaving suppression spells with practiced precision. Frost and wind collided with flame, choking it before it could spread.

  The air reeked of charred parchment.

  And just as quickly as it had begun, the inferno died.

  Silence followed.

  A heavy, dreadful silence.

  The walls pulsed faintly as the library’s enchantments activated. Recording, analyzing, and judging.

  A soft chime echoed through the hall. Final.

  One of the guards exhaled slowly before turning. “There,” he said, his voice stripped of doubt. “The verdict is clear. That boy cast the spell.”

  The child froze.

  Color drained from his face. His hands trembled as understanding struck.

  He knew what this meant.

  Not punishment alone, but erasure.

  Unauthorized spellcasting inside a sanctioned archive carried consequences that did not fade with time. Marks that followed you from district to district. Doors that never opened again. For someone like him, with no name worth recording and no patron to speak in his defense, this moment would define the rest of his life.

  The silence pressed in, merciless.

  Then he ran.

  A foolish choice.

  Guards moved instantly, boots thunderous against stone as exits were sealed. The boy was fast and desperate, but no match for trained enforcers.

  I closed my book slowly.

  This was my cue.

  Time to act.

  Can you guess which reward Erynd actually chose? Let me know your theories in the comments!

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