The last hours of night passed in silence.

  The fire had burned down to a low bed of coals, their dull red glow barely pushing back the dark. Eis sat nearby, knees drawn close, a small stack of blank spellcards laid out on a cloth beside her.

  This was routine.

  Every night, if she had used a card, she replaced it.

  Spells were not magic in the abstract. They were structures. Instructions written in mana and intent. The card was only the medium.

  Eis selected two blanks and steadied her breathing.

  The first spell came easily. Barrier.

  The second followed with the same familiar sequence. Mana break.

  She traced the runes slowly, deliberately, imprinting the same spellforms she had deployed earlier that day. Mana flowed from her into the cards, clean and controlled, locking the patterns into place.

  The cards warmed once. Then cooled.

  Replacements complete.

  As she gathered them, Eis paused.

  She had noticed it before—but battle made the difference impossible to ignore. Her spells struck harder than they should have. Barriers held longer. Attacks landed with force that exceeded their design.

  Low-rank constructs behaving like mid-rank spells.

  Not instability. Not error.

  Power.

  The source was always the same.

  The mana came from the cards, it did not come from the world. It came from her—the unexplained heat in her chest.

  She had only ever written simple spells because that was all she had been taught.

  Until now.

  Eis reached for another blank card.

  Then another.

  This time, she worked more carefully.

  The runes were more complex. The spellforms denser. Advanced glyphs she had studied recently—no longer theoretical, no longer just ink on parchment. She inscribed them with quiet focus, feeling the resistance increase as the structure grew more demanding.

  Attack spells.

  Healing constructs.

  Higher rank—still controlled, still deliberate.

  Preparation.

  When she finished, Eis gathered the completed cards and returned them to their pouch. The fire crackled softly, coals shifting as the night thinned toward dawn.

  Eis woke Ronan and then headed to her spot.

  She leaned back against her pack and closed her eyes.

  Sleep came quietly.

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  Dawn came slowly—blue shadows warming into gold along the ridge. The team woke to the sound of rustling packs and boots grinding frost underfoot.

  Ronan moved through the clearing like a practiced commander, checking harness straps and pack weights.

  Kael whistled sharply, calling the mounts from where they grazed near the boulders.

  Lira, still bleary-eyed, cupped her morning brew between both hands, fragrant steam rising into the cold.

  “Everyone in one piece?” Ronan asked.

  Lira groaned softly. “Define ‘piece.’”

  “Alive counts,” Kael murmured, tightening the strap on his quiver.

  “Then yes,” she said with a crooked grin.

  Eis adjusted her pack, gaze shifting northward where a faint ribbon of pale-blue energy shimmered above the horizon.

  The Frostline Shrine.

  The ley flow trembled faintly in the air, pulsing through her bones like a distant heartbeat.

  At the base of the final ascent, the path narrowed sharply into an icy, carved stair that hugged the cliff. The Archmage guide stopped there, eyes narrowed at the height and the unstable snow above.

  “This section is too dangerous for the cargo wagons,” he said, planting his staff into the snow. “And the ley interference ahead will only worsen. I’ll remain here to guard the supplies and keep the return route stable.”

  Ronan nodded once.

  “That’s fine. Hold the base until we return.”

  “I will,” the mage replied. “But be cautious. The disturbances ahead are… not natural.”

  Eis felt the ley thrum beneath her feet—an uneasy, watchful presence.

  She met the guide’s uncertain glance only briefly.

  “We’ll come back,” she said.

  Then Team Argent began the climb.

  The trail climbed sharply, carved into the mountain centuries ago. Mist swirled through the cliffs, curling around stone like thin ribbons of silver.

  As they neared the top, a shape took form in the fog.

  The Frostline Shrine.

  A structure of pale stone half-embraced by glacier ice.

  Four towering pillars encircled it, etched with runes that pulsed softly in harmony with the leyline beneath the mountain.

  Kael let out a low whistle.

  “So this is it.”

  Lira wrapped her cloak tighter against the cold.

  “I can feel the mana from here. It’s… heavy.”

  Ronan scanned the jagged ridges above them.

  “Eyes up. If the Vault has sentries, this is where they’d leave them.”

  Eis stepped forward, the heat in her chest steadily growing.

  The closer she came to the shrine, the more pronounced the heat became—almost welcoming.

  The air inside the circle of pillars was colder, sharper. Frost cracked beneath Eis’s boots.

  The central platform lay carved with deep, intricate sigils—the same language etched into the relic she had surrendered in Lumaire.

  Only these runes were older.

  More deliberate.

  Alive.

  Lira knelt beside them, eyes narrowed.

  “These symbols… they’re ancient. Older than Eldoria’s recorded history.”

  Kael raised his bow slightly.

  “Old means dangerous.”

  Ronan’s voice was steady.

  “Lira?”

  Lira traced a gloved fingertip along one of the carvings.

  The frost beneath her touch melted instantly.

  The rune lit faintly, responding to her presence.

  “It’s not a trap,” she murmured. “It’s a ley anchor. The road runs through here—this is the last stabilizing point before the Vault.”

  Ronan nodded.

  “Can we pass safely?”

  “Yes,” Lira said slowly. “But someone else already has.”

  She gestured toward a set of footprints—half-buried in frost—leading toward the northern steps carved into the mountain.

  Vauren’s trail.

  The shrine’s hum deepened, echoing through the cliffs like a heartbeat in stone.

  One more day north.

  Then they would reach the Sun Vault.