The echoes of the throne room still clung to the pace corridors like smoke. The scent of incense and ash followed Darius as he trailed behind Saint Augustine through a winding hall of stained gss and marble. The Saint said nothing; his stride was unhurried, deliberate. Only when they reached the open training court did he finally stop.

  Night air poured in through the arches, cool and heavy. The stone beneath them still carried the warmth of the day’s sun. Aelun leaned against a column already waiting, and Eryndor hovered near the entryway, uncertain if he was meant to follow.

  “Here will do,” Augustine murmured. He turned to Darius. “You should know why Garran asked me to train you.”

  Darius frowned. “I assumed it was an obligation. Some favor between old friends.”

  “No.” Augustine’s tone was gentle, but his eyes held weight. “Years ago, I visited Garran at the citadel. You couldn’t have been more than sixteen. I saw you sparring until your knuckles tore open, refusing to yield. Even then, your Vaylora shone brighter than it should have. I asked Garran if you carried Saint’s blood.”

  He paused, the memory drawing a faint smile. “He told me he’d checked several times. You had none.”

  Aelun let out a quiet chuckle.

  “Still,” Augustine went on, “I wished to take you then and there. You have more Vaylora potential than I have ever seen outside a Saint— more than some of the lesser ones possess. But your swordpy matched your spirit, and Garran convinced me to wait. He said he would anchor you first, ground that brilliance in steel. Once your fundamentals were sound, he would hand you over to me.”

  Darius lowered his gaze. “That would never happen. He died before he could.”

  “Yes.” Augustine’s voice softened. “But after his death, I was presented with a letter. In it, he wrote that you would seek Devotion, and that if the relic chose you, my task would begin.”

  Eryndor stepped forward, brow knit. “But Garran was a master of seals and enchantments. Why not train him himself? I’ve seen his sigils—he understood magic deeply.”

  Augustine nodded. “He did. But the art of using magic and the art of binding it to the bde are worlds apart. Garran was a knight who knew much of magic. He was not a Magic Swordsman.”

  Eryndor fell silent, thoughtful. Categories he’d trusted began to crumble. Knights, Mages, Magic Swordsmen—the edges between them blurred.

  Aelun’s voice was light, amused. “The world resists boxes, boy. Some mages move like knights. Some knights think like mages. I, for one, am a magic bowman who can fight as well as any swordsman. Knight, Mage, Magic Swordsman—they’re only the first steps toward understanding what people truly are.”

  Eryndor nodded slowly, the idea unsettling but liberating.

  Augustine turned back to Darius. “Sit.” He motioned toward a stone bench near the court’s center. “Before you can continue Garran’s legacy, you must learn what he couldn’t teach.”

  Darius obeyed, resting Devotion across his knees. The Saint stood before him, hands folded behind his back, a teacher measuring his pupil.

  “The first lesson,” Augustine said, “is how to mold Vaylora properly. Beyond simply enhancing your body. You’ve been doing so, but you have been wielding it by instinct—effective, but wild and dangerous. Power without focus burns through its vessel. You must learn to let it breathe, to move with it.”

  He raised a hand. Energy gathered above his palm, a faint spiral of light twisting like vapor. “Vaylora isn’t commanded. It’s shaped. It listens to will, not orders.”

  Darius studied the motion, then nodded once. “Then show me how.”

  Augustine smiled faintly, pride flickering behind the calm. “Good. Let us begin.”

  The Saint drew a circle of light on the ground. The runes that fred to life were older than the Empire itself. Devotion pulsed in answer, the glow faint but steady, as if recognizing the path ahead.

  As Augustine began his lesson—measured voice, slow breath, movements of precise grace—Aelun turned to Eryndor, who was still watching with quiet intensity.

  “The boy needs to train his body as well,” Aelun said. “He’s strong, but strength alone won’t save him.”

  Eryndor blinked. “You mean Darius?”

  Aelun smirked. “No. You. A mage’s greatest weakness is proximity. Once an opponent closes the gap, your intellect is worth nothing if your feet can’t save you. So, while Augustine teaches Darius to mold his will, I’ll teach you how to move your body.”

  Eryndor frowned, cautious. “And how exactly will you do that?”

  Aelun’s grin widened. “I’ll teach you how to move like an Elf Archer.”

  Eryndor opened his mouth to protest, but Aelun was already stepping past him, gesturing toward the far end of the courtyard. “Come on. You’ll thank me ter—assuming you live long enough to curse me first.”

  Eryndor sighed, resigned, and followed.

  In the center of the court, Augustine’s voice rose again—low, rhythmic, like a prayer. Aelun’s ughter and Eryndor’s muttered compints echoed faintly in the distance.

  The hour was te, but the pace never truly slept. Candles glowed through half-closed doors, and the quiet hum of servants moving unseen filled the marble halls like a heartbeat.

  Selene sat by the window, chin resting on one hand, watching the gardens below where torchlight painted long, trembling shadows. Her thoughts circled the Emperor’s words—every sylble coiled and deliberate, each promise another silken snare.

  Cassian’s voice cut through the quiet. “You look as if you’d like to set my father on fire.”

  She didn’t look at him. “Don’t tempt me.”

  He chuckled, stepping inside. Isolde followed, her expression unreadable as ever.

  “I thought,” Selene said, “that your father would be easier to handle. A brute, maybe—a man of muscle and fire. Something simple.”

  Cassian leaned against the wall, amused. “So did I, when I was young. I thought if I trained hard enough, I could one day surpass him. Then I realized strength was never his weapon. He wins by seeing every board, every piece, three moves ahead. If you truly understood the depths of my father, Selene, you’d be terrified.”

  Selene’s lips curved faintly. “I already am.”

  Isolde crossed her arms. “There’s always someone better,” she said.

  Selene sighed, rubbing her temple. “I assumed that someone was my grandmother. I didn’t think it would also include the Emperor. Makes me dread meeting the Warlock Emperor as well.”

  Cassian ughed softly. “It’s nice to see you flustered if nothing else.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t get flustered.”

  “Of course not.” His grin widened. “But tell me, is it safe to discuss our affairs in front of the Saintess here?”

  Isolde rolled her eyes, and Selene answered before she could. “She’s fine. Whatever you say in front of her won’t leave this room.”

  Cassian gave Isolde one st look, then turned back to Selene with a conspiratorial gleam. “Then allow me to lift your mood. I found one.”

  Selene’s head snapped up, all irritation forgotten. “You did? Who?”

  “The Caelthorne children,” he said, savoring the reveal. “All three. The neckce responded to each of them, though the girl—Seraphine’s personal guard—is the strongest. A skilled royal mage, apparently. One of our best. The other two are knights with a trace of magic talent, but she’s special.”

  A slow smile curved Selene’s mouth. “We’ll meet her at the ball, then.”

  “That was the idea.” Cassian seemed pleased with himself until he added, almost offhand, “Speaking of talent—what do you think of Inquisitor Commander Darius?”

  Selene’s expression cooled instantly. “I don’t.”

  Isolde’s quiet giggle broke the tension.

  Cassian pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “Much as I appreciate your exclusive devotion to me, I meant in terms of skill, not attraction.”

  Selene scoffed. “He’s skilled but unpolished. At least in the craft. As for his swordsmanship—I couldn’t say. I’ve never cared for that particur art.”

  Isolde tilted her head. “Indeed, he seemed skilled enough with magic to do what he did to Malcolm.”

  Selene nodded once. “He would have to be. Devotion doesn’t lend its strength easily.”

  Cassian groaned. “That’s unfortunate. I was pnning to take Devotion from him—use it myself. But if you’re vouching for him to that degree, I suppose I’ll have to let it go.”

  Selene turned a cool look on him. “Even if he were completely talentless, I wouldn’t allow you to steal Devotion. I dislike the idea as much as you do, but I’ll never deny Devotion its choice—no matter how poor that choice may be.” She folded her arms. “And I hardly call what I said a glowing recommendation.”

  Isolde smirked. “Actually, it is. Darius has never studied the craft. Garran trained him only in swordpy. For him to wield Devotion as he did—well, that’s remarkable.”

  Selene’s eyes narrowed. She let out a sharp, annoyed breath through her nose, which only made Isolde’s smirk widen.

  Cassian sighed dramatically. “I really wanted a relic sword.”

  Selene rolled her eyes. “You’ll have one. I’ll make you something on par with Devotion and present it to you during the ball.”

  Cassian’s eyes lit up. “You will?”

  He took a step forward, arms half-raised, before Selene shoved him back with a gre.

  “I was already forging a sword and staff,” she said curtly. “For years now. I only cked one final piece.”

  Cassian straightened, curiosity overtaking excitement. “And what piece is that?”

  “Something taken from a dragon,” Selene said, her voice turning distant, almost reverent. “I happen to have a rge Dragon heart I can chip away at. I would have done so sooner, but...Things have been… chaotic tely. But now I’ll have time. And we’ll need power for what’s coming.”

  Cassian’s grin returned.

  Isolde looked between them, the faintest smile touching her lips. For all the darkness circling them, for this moment, she was reminded of some of her best days back training to become a Saintess.

  Morning came soft and golden, spilling over the pace walls in slow, molten light. The training courtyard was alive again—dust and shimmer rising with every strike.

  Darius moved like a man possessed. His bde carved patterns through the air, and as it cut, faint glyphs bloomed in his wake—sigils of light that pulsed, shimmered, and dissolved in rhythm with his movements. Sweat traced his jaw, but his eyes were steady, focused entirely on the flow between motion and will.

  Augustine stood nearby, watching in silence, hands csped behind his back. For all his calm, there was pride hidden there—the quiet satisfaction of a craftsman seeing the first spark take hold.

  Eryndor, however, was less graceful.

  He y ft on the fgstones, gasping for air, the front of his tunic streaked with dust. Across the courtyard, Aelun banced easily atop a narrow post, bow slung loosely across his back. He hadn’t broken a sweat.

  “Come now, young Saint,” Aelun called down, voice light and infuriatingly cheerful. “All you have to do is touch my shadow, and we can stop for the day.”

  Eryndor managed a breathless ugh. “You said that an hour ago.”

  “I did,” Aelun agreed. “You should’ve tried harder then.”

  He stepped forward—graceful, predatory—and the shadow beneath him shifted like liquid. Eryndor lunged half-heartedly, missed, and ended up on his back again, staring up at the blinding blue sky.

  From across the courtyard, Augustine chuckled quietly. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

  “Of course,” Aelun replied. “Teaching is a sacred duty.”

  “Then you’re a very pious man,” Augustine said dryly.

  “Saintly,” Aelun countered with a grin.

  The old Saint shook his head, smiling faintly as he turned his attention back to Darius. The young commander’s bde fred one final time, the st glyph forming and fading into smoke. Augustine gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Again.”

  Outside the capital gates, the air was crisp with morning wind. The banners of Valenfor hung motionless, their ash-gray sigils gleaming faintly in the rising light.

  Selene stood before them, staff in hand, the hem of her cloak brushing the melting snow. Isolde waited beside her, serene as always.

  Selene tilted her head, a small smile ghosting across her lips. “You sure it’s wise for a Saintess to accompany a witch?”

  Isolde’s pale green eyes glinted with amusement. “No. But we can’t very well let the future Crown Princess fly off unguarded, can we?”

  Selene’s ugh was low, genuine. “I suppose not.”

  "Besides, a Saint is needed to truly judge the nature of the Hallows if they are to be allies of the Empire." Isolde joked.

  They shared a gnce—an unspoken promise, a rare moment of peace—and then, without another word, they moved.

  Selene rose on her staff, the air curling around her like silk, while Isolde’s feet left the ground in a swirl of white wind. Together they climbed into the morning sky, twin streaks of light cutting across the gold horizon.

  Below them, the capital shrank into silence. Above, the clouds parted, opening the road to whatever waited next.