Three graves sat at the bottom of the hill, arranged in a neat row where stone gave way to sand.

  The markers were simple: slabs of black basalt, each about three feet tall and two feet wide, smoothed flat on the face but left rough on the sides. They'd been set deep into the ground, stable enough to withstand Hel's occasional tremors. Someone had taken care with their placement, spacing them evenly, orienting them to face the water.

  The leftmost grave bore no name.

  Just a single word, carved in flowing High Elven script. Sael had translated it for them during their descent: Father.

  The middle grave was equally sparse: Mother.

  Sael had explained during their descent. His biological parents. His father had died months before Sael was born, probably to one of the many monsters of Hel, from what Richter gathered. His mother had survived long enough to deliver him, then died a few days later. Trapped in Hel, alone, probably terrified.

  A tragic ending, even for adventurers.

  The lack of names made it worse somehow. These people had existed, had loved each other, had brought a child into this hostile world. And then they'd vanished, leaving behind only their roles. Not who they'd been. Just what they'd been.

  Father. Mother.

  Sael had explained during their descent, that he'd never known his biological parents. His adoptive mother took him after they'd both already passed, and so Sael had lived here for nineteen years and had only ever known his adoptive mother and his master.

  The rightmost grave was different. Sael had translated that one too:

  Janine

  Last Daughter of the Tellem

  Witch of Wrath

  Thinker, Inventor, Mother

  The inscription was longer, more detailed, carved in elegant script that suggested time and care. This grave mattered. Whoever had made it—Sael, presumably—had wanted to preserve something more than just a title.

  Richter studied the name. Janine. It didn't ring any bells. He'd never been particularly interested in deep history—anything before the Third Age tended to blur together in his mind, a mass of dead civilizations and forgotten conflicts. The Tellem might have been a high elven clan. Might have been something else entirely.

  But Koleen had gasped when he'd heard it, audibly so.

  The old headmaster's face had gone pale, his eyes widening as he looked at the inscription. He'd opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Then repeated the process twice more before apparently deciding silence was safer.

  He still hadn't said anything.

  Whatever that name meant, Koleen knew it. And whatever he knew had shocked him enough to abandon his usual commentary.

  Richter filed that away for later consideration.

  The graves themselves occupied a small plateau of smooth basalt that had been cleared of loose rock and debris. Beyond them, the ground sloped downward, transitioning from stone to black sand. The sand formed a narrow beach—maybe twenty meters wide—that ran along the shore of what Sael insisted was a lake.

  It looked like a sea.

  The water stretched to the horizon, dark blue and calm, its surface reflecting the sky above. No waves. No whitecaps. Just a vast expanse of still water that extended farther than Richter could see. The far shore, if there was one, was invisible in the distance.

  But Sael had been insistent. "Lake," he'd said. "Big lake, but still a lake."

  Richter supposed the man would know.

  What struck him most was the sun.

  It was here. On this side of the hill. Just... there, hanging in the sky like it belonged, casting actual daylight across the landscape instead of the perpetual red gloom that dominated half of Hel.

  Apparently it had always been there. Hidden by clouds and volcanic ash on the other side of the hill, but perfectly visible from here. And the temperature felt perfect.

  Richter couldn't actually confirm that. Sael's protective spells were still active, maintaining a bubble of comfortable air around him and Koleen. But the evidence suggested it. The lake wasn't frozen. The sand wasn't radiating heat. Plants grew here, actual plants, not the twisted heat-resistant varieties that clung to life near the lava flows. He could see grass on the hillside above them. Shrubs. What might have been a small tree farther down the beach.

  Sael had said this was the most comfortable place in the continent. Looking at it now, Richter believed him.

  The landscape here felt... normal. Almost gentle. The kind of place where someone might choose to build a home. To raise a child. To bury their dead and know the graves would remain undisturbed. The contrast with the rest of Hel was jarring.

  Fifty yards behind them, on the other side of the hill, everything was fire and ice and hostile stone. Here, there was a beach. Sunlight. Water that lapped gently against the shore.

  Sael knelt before the rightmost grave—Janine's grave—and his lips began to move.

  The words were quiet, barely audible even in the stillness. The language was strange. Flowing and melodic, with sounds that seemed to catch in the throat before releasing. Consonants that felt almost physical. Vowels that hung in the air.

  High Elven, presumably.

  The tongue of a dead civilization, spoken at the grave of its last daughter.

  Richter stood several paces back and watched. Sael's posture was perfect—back straight, head slightly bowed, hands resting on his knees. His expression was peaceful and focused. Whatever he was saying, it mattered.

  The ambience was solemn in a way that made speaking feel like a transgression, so Richter didn't interrupt.

  To his left, Koleen stood equally silent, his eyes fixed on Sael's kneeling form.

  Richter studied Sael's profile and felt something settle in his chest. Not quite fear, nor reverence. It was something closer to displacement, as if he were standing next to something that shouldn't exist, and the world was struggling to accommodate it.

  After everything Richter had seen today, he was no longer sure the word "man" applied to Sael the Great.

  It should. Sael looked human, spoke like one, even made awkward jokes and got visibly uncomfortable during emotional conversations. But there was a difference between seeming human and being human, and Richter was beginning to suspect he'd fundamentally misunderstood which category Sael belonged in.

  The journals of Bran the Brave hadn't helped clarify matters.

  Richter had read them all, of course. Multiple times. But Bran's accounts of Sael described what Sael did, not who Sael was.

  In their early days, he was so bad at speaking common that some people had apparently called him the Silent Mage. Bran wrote that Sael mostly communicated through gestures and broken phrases, but never said why.

  Now though, Richter was beginning to understand why.

  His eyes drifted to the forge entrance above them, barely visible on the far side of the hill, then back to Sael. Questions multiplied in his mind, each one spawning three more.

  Why was such a forge here? In Hel, of all places?

  Richter knew weapons. It was one of the skills he'd cultivated over decades of political maneuvering and occasional battlefield command. He could assess a blade's worth at a glance, identify the work of master craftsmen, distinguish between competent metalwork and true artistry.

  Every single piece in that forge had the potential to become a Named Weapon.

  Every. Single. One.

  Named Weapons didn't just happen. They required materials most smiths would never see in their lifetimes, techniques passed down through generations, and a level of skill that bordered on supernatural. A kingdom might have three or four Named Weapons in its entire armory. His own sword—Caliburn—was one such weapon, considered one of Albyon's national treasures, and wielded by Bran the Brave himself.

  The forge above contained what might as well have been a dozen national treasures in various states of completion. Just sitting there. Gathering dust for centuries.

  Who was Sael's master, then?

  Who could create weapons of that caliber and choose to live in Hel? Who could teach Sael the Great to smith with such precision and then vanish from history without leaving a name?

  And Sael's adoptive mother. A high elf.

  Richter knew the history. Everyone did. The high elves had been the first true civilization, predating most sentient species aside from the Primordials themselves. They'd built cities that made current architecture look like children's blocks. They'd mastered magic in ways modern mages could barely comprehend.

  And they'd all died in the First Age of Ash, when the Primordial of Corruption had been summoned into the world, some twelve thousand years ago.

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  Except Janine hadn't.

  The gravestone said it plainly: Last Daughter of the Tellem. She'd survived, somehow. While her civilization burned and her people died, she'd endured. Had she fled to Hel? Hidden here while the world above tore itself apart? The timeline would work if she'd simply been the sole survivor of her race, living in isolation for millennia until she found an orphaned infant and decided to raise him as her own.

  If Janine had been a surviving high elf, if she'd taught Sael her people's magic...

  Was that the source of his power? His longevity? What level was Sael, anyway?

  The question had been nagging at Richter since they'd left Orlys. He'd tried not to think about it too hard, and to maintain professional distance. But standing here, after witnessing what he'd witnessed...

  Richter Eryndor was Duke of Orlys. Cousin to Cedric Münso IV, current King of Albyon. Without pretense, one of the most politically powerful individuals on the planet. That power hadn't come from birthright alone. He'd cultivated it. Earned it. Defended it.

  Part of that cultivation had been learning to read people.

  His lord father had started training him young. Fourteen years old, barely tall enough to see over most council tables. Lord Baldwin had dragged his son to every negotiation, every trade summit, every diplomatic function. "Watch," he'd said. "Listen. Learn to see what people don't say."

  Richter had watched. He'd listened. He'd learned.

  By fifteen, he could read a room's power dynamics within minutes of entering. By twenty, he could predict political outcomes three moves in advance. By thirty, he'd developed something more.

  [Perception].

  The skill had crystallized one night during a particularly tense negotiation with a Jade Emperor delegation. Richter had been trying to gauge whether the ambassador was bluffing about trade sanctions when something in his mind had just clicked. The world sharpened. Details became clearer.

  And suddenly, he could see it.

  Level 847.

  The number had hovered in his awareness, clear as if it had been written in ink.

  [Perception] had saved his life more times than he could count.

  Knowing someone's level told you how to behave around them. It wasn't a cure-all—context mattered, background mattered, relationships mattered—but level provided a baseline. It told you whether the person across from you could kill you with a thought or whether you held the advantage. It informed tone, word choice, how far you could push. A level 50 merchant required different handling than a level 800 general. The former you could pressure. The latter you negotiated with as an equal, regardless of social rank.

  More than that, [Perception] gave him intuition.

  It sharpened his ability to read body language, to interpret the micro-expressions that flickered across faces before people controlled them. Combined with his knowledge of a person's background, their associations, their history, [Perception] let him see beneath the surface. He could tell when someone was lying. When they were nervous. When they were holding back information.

  It was how he'd learned to read Sael's various "hmms." The slight differences in tone and duration that indicated whether the Archmage was annoyed, thoughtful, amused, or just acknowledging something. Most people would hear identical sounds. Richter heard a vocabulary.

  The skill worked instantly—a glance was all it took.

  It had limitations. It couldn't determine a person's level if they were more than a thousand levels higher than him.

  He'd tested [Perception] on Gandoruil, the High King of the elves, during a state visit five years ago. The elf had walked through Albyon's capital like he owned it, and Richter had used the skill out of curiosity.

  Nothing.

  No number. Just blank space.

  Gandoruil's level was rumored to be in the upper 3000s, though elves were less eager to share that sort of information. The blank result confirmed [Perception]'s current limitation.

  He'd also tried it on the self proclaimed 'Strongest Being In The World', that is, The Immortal Jade Emperor, during a continental summit.

  The Emperor gloated about his level constantly. An act considered impolite in most circles, as discussing one's level in public was like flaunting one's riches, an intimate detail reserved for close confidants or formal introductions. But who could stop him? When you were that powerful, and said to be at level 4509, social conventions became optional.

  History placed Sael the Great's peak level at 3875. It had been the upper limit for centuries, the benchmark against which all powerful individuals were measured. The Jade Emperor had surpassed it about a hundred years ago, and the world had adjusted its understanding accordingly.

  So, Richter had encountered many powerful people. He'd learned to recognize the signs. The way they carried themselves. The subtle pressure they exerted on space around them. High-level individuals had an aura, not magical exactly, but present. If you were experienced enough, you felt it immediately.

  Richter decided to try [Perception] on the Archamge one more time. The skill had always evolved through challenge. It grew stronger each time he pushed it against something difficult to analyze: complex political situations, individuals aware enough to fake their tells, beings whose power exceeded his understanding. The harder the read, the more the skill adapted.

  He focused on Sael again and took in every detail.

  The Archmage was still murmuring in High Elven, expression peaceful. There was no visible aura. No pressure. Nothing to indicate anything unusual beyond a man paying respects to his dead.

  But Richter had decades of experience. He'd stood in the presence of kings and emperors and beings of legend.

  And his instincts were screaming.

  Every interaction reinforced the same conclusion. The casual handling of the academy's wards. The forge full of masterwork weapons. The sheer density of mana in Hel that Sael had apparently grown up breathing. The matter-of-fact mention of a high elven mother and a master whose name had been lost to history.

  The man was much, much more than history had already generously described him.

  Possibly stronger than the Jade Emperor.

  Possibly stronger than anyone.

  Where was Sael the Great on the scale of power? What number would appear if [Perception] could reach that high?

  5000? 6000?

  ...Higher?

  Richter pushed harder. Analyzed the way Sael held himself. The unconscious precision in every movement. The complete absence of wasted energy. The way reality seemed to bend slightly around him, like light through water.

  Ding!

  The sound chimed in his mind, clear and unmistakable.

  [Perception] has reached Level 21

  Richter blinked.

  The notification faded, but satisfaction settled in its place. The skill had grown. Not from reading Sael's level—that was still beyond reach—but from the attempt itself. From analyzing something so far beyond his current capacity that the skill had been forced to adapt.

  He wouldn't be able to do that often. Beings of Sael's caliber were rare. Encounters with them rarer still. This only made the certainty persist.

  Ahead, Sael's murmuring stopped.

  Richter watched as the Archmage reached out and placed one hand on Janine's grave marker, fingers resting gently against the stone.

  Sael said another word in High Elven.

  "ErirnY lbhefrys, B Rvelja."

  The air above Janine's grave shimmered.

  It started as a ripple, like heat distortion over sun-baked stone, but quickly solidified into something more substantial. A mirage-like disturbance that hung in the space directly above the grave marker, circular and roughly three feet in diameter.

  Richter stared.

  The disturbance wasn't quite transparent. Light bent around its edges in ways that made his eyes water if he looked too directly at it. It pulsed gently, in rhythm with... something. A heartbeat? The wind? He couldn't tell.

  Sael reached forward and placed his hand into the center of the disturbance.

  Light exploded outward.

  Richter threw up an arm instinctively, squinting against the sudden brilliance. The light wasn't painful exactly, but it was intense, pure white radiance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It poured out of the mirage-like opening as if someone had uncorked a bottle of concentrated sunlight.

  His eyes adjusted slowly.

  The light dimmed to something more manageable, and Richter lowered his arm to see Sael withdrawing his hand from the opening. The mirage was already collapsing, folding in on itself like water circling a drain.

  And in Sael's hands was... a staff.

  The weapon—if it could be called that—was beautiful in a way that made his chest ache. The shaft was wood, but not any wood Richter recognized. It was pale, almost white, with a grain so fine it looked like flowing water frozen in time. Veins of gold ran through it in organic patterns, branching and reconnecting like the roots of a tree rendered in precious metal.

  The wood seemed to glow from within, emanating a soft, warm light that made the air around it shimmer. It wasn't the harsh radiance from before, but something gentler and welcoming.

  At the staff's head, where most staves would have a crystal or ornamental cap, there was instead a living thing. A cluster of delicate white flowers, each petal translucent and perfect, blooming as if spring itself had been captured and bound to the wood. Leaves of the same golden material as the veins spiraled around the flowers, moving slightly despite the absence of wind.

  "Incredible," Koleen breathed.

  The old headmaster's voice was hushed, almost reverent. He took a step forward, eyes fixed on the staff with an expression Richter had never seen on his face before. Wonder. Pure, unguarded wonder.

  "That would be Eirwyn, I assume?"

  Sael turned to look at Koleen, and his expression softened into something warm and fond. He smiled.

  "Are you familiar with her story?"

  "It's the sort of history not many people know nowadays," Koleen said slowly. His eyes never left the staff. "Even the Great Library of Iskandaria has only one copy of the relevant texts. But in my youth—about a hundred years ago already—I had the chance during my mage formation to read lost knowledge of ancient worlds."

  He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts.

  "Janine, the Witch of Wrath, was among the people who chased away the actual Primordial of Corruption when he appeared in this world."

  Richter's eyes widened.

  He turned to look at Sael, and the world seemed to shift around him. The sun was right behind the Archmage, descending steadily toward the horizon. Golden light spilled across the landscape, silhouetting Sael's form in radiance. The staff in his hands blazed with its own internal light, it was exactly how he'd pictured a hero like Sael the great as a boy.

  Richter gasped despite himself.

  And Koleen continued, seemingly interpreting this another way. "Well, this isn't quite recognized history. More like a legend from the elves, with no proof that it actually occurred. The original party of that legend—Shield, they were called—had no historical verification. No archaeological evidence. Just stories passed down through generations and eventually written into books that almost no one reads."

  Sael looked down at the staff in his hands, his expression distant.

  "It was all true."

  At that moment, Richter felt something shift in his chest. A fundamental recalibration of reality. Because if Sael said it was true, then it was true. There was no doubt in his voice. No uncertainty. Just fact, delivered in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

  "My mother was the Avatar of Wrath," Sael continued. His fingers traced one of the golden veins running through the staff's shaft. "She had the essence of the Primordial of Wrath in her, at a time when the Primordials still walked this planet. She stole it to avenge her people. To go against Corruption."

  He paused.

  "She was later exiled here, in Hel, for that theft."

  Richter's mind reeled.

  Listening to Sael felt like discovering that he'd been living in a children's picture book while everyone else inhabited a world of impossible complexity. Primordials had essences that you could steal? People could contain such power and walk around as if it were normal? The entire framework of reality Richter had built over forty-one years of life was suddenly insufficient.

  Sael lifted the staff slightly, and the flowers at its head turned to catch the sunlight.

  "Guvf vf vaqrrq Rvelja, gur Tragyr Ebbg," he said softly. "Sbetrrq sebz gur ebbg bs gur ynfg Jbeyq Gerr."

  Then, in Common: "This is indeed Eirwyn, the Gentle Root. Forged from the root of the last World Tree."

  He smiled at the staff, his expression warm and nostalgic, as if greeting an old friend.

  Then, completely without warning, he turned to Richter and Koleen.

  "I would like to apologize for earlier."

  Richter blinked.

  "...What?"

  "You know," Sael said. "When I blinded the two of you with the spell against the maggots. That was inconsiderate of me. I should have warned you to close your eyes first."

  Richter stared at him.

  Sael the Great was utterly unpredictable. Every time Richter thought he had a measure of the man, Sael would do or say something that completely upended his understanding. It wasn't calculated, that would have been easier to handle. It was genuine. The man simply existed on a plane of thought that bore no resemblance to normal human cognition.

  And it made him harder to read.

  The silence stretched.

  Sael cleared his throat.

  Richter, who rarely ran out of words in any situation, still couldn't produce a single one. He watched as a faint flush crept up Sael's neck, visible even in the golden morning light.

  Was he... blushing?

  "Very well. Let us depart now," Sael said quickly. His tone had shifted to something brisk and businesslike, though the flush remained. "I... I have a staff to give, Aldric to catch, and more importantly, candy to retrieve for my little Margaret."

  He turned and began walking back up the hill.

  Richter and Koleen stood frozen at the graves, watching him go.

  "...What?"

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