River woke alone in a soft bed, staring at the brown ceiling as he tried to gather his strength. His body felt… better. His legs responded without the stabbing pain, and his essence no longer slipped from him. It obeyed. He wiggled his toes and smiled faintly. Then the memories hit him.

  Callum was dead.

  He was somewhere deep in the Wastelands.

  And he didn’t know where his friends were. Just as his thoughts began to fray, a voice yanked him back—firm and sudden, like a crutch catching his fall. A tall woman stepped into view, her caramel skin and rune-covered arms marking her as one of the temple guardians. “Your legs should be fine now,” she said. “Our healers did what they could. But your body will still need time to adjust.”

  River’s mouth was dry, and his voice barely worked—like it had forgotten how to speak. Still, he managed a rasp: “Thank you. Where… where are my friends?” “They’re training. You’ve been unconscious for nearly a week.” A week.

  He’d missed so much. He couldn’t stay in bed. That wouldn’t help anyone. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. He staggered, catching himself on the bedside table. The woman moved to help, but River waved her off. He needed to do this himself — to prove he still could. His legs were numb with pain, almost foreign beneath him.. But the more he moved, the more control returned. He reached the door and pushed it open. It swung faster than expected, River nearly stumbled into the hallway. Beyond it stretched a city. Smaller than Norvil, but far larger than any town he’d passed through. The buildings were made of reddish-brown clay, blending into the sandy roads. Despite their simplicity, everything had a quiet elegance — clean lines, balanced arches, purposeful design.

  Old.

  But alive.

  As he wandered, people glanced his way, but didn’t stare. Children played in the streets. The smell of food drifted through the air. It was peaceful — far removed from the chaos of Norvil. No piss. No screams. No desperation. The roads all seemed to lead to a massive temple in the city’s heart. It gleamed gold in the sunlight, built of something smooth and shining. It stood like a monument to another age.

  He turned down a side street, letting the wonder of the city pull him along. For once, no one was chasing him. No one hated him. No one feared him.

  Then, around a corner, he saw them. Amalia and Albert.

  He almost called out but stopped when he noticed the swords in their hands. They stood in a dusty courtyard, facing each other.

  And then they moved. Their blades clashed in sharp bursts—clumsy, but fast. They weren’t experts. But they were learning. It reminded River of street kids back in Norvil, swinging sticks and pretending to be knights. Only this time, it wasn’t pretend. He stood there, watching in quiet awe. A part of him longed to join them. Magic alone wouldn’t be enough forever. He raised a hand and called their names. They froze, then turned. Their faces lit up the moment they saw him standing on his own. Before he could say a word, they rushed him and pulled him into a tight, messy hug. For the first time in days, something inside him loosened. For just a moment… he felt okay. When they finally pulled back, he asked what he had missed. They launched into a flurry of stories — the temple guards, the elders, the dungeons. River struggled to keep up, but slowly, the pieces began to fall into place.

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  After he passed out, a being called Buteos — the city’s guardian and, apparently, a dragon — had flown them to safety. Thanks to Buteos, the healers were able to treat him immediately. While River recovered, Amalia and Albert had met with the elders and temple guards. They learned about the way of life in Varosha — a city built on strength and purpose. Everyone contributed, especially through dungeon-raiding squads. No exceptions. When they were ready, they would also be expected to contribute. Varosha’s religion was unlike anything in the Kingdom. Here, they worshipped the God of Magic and Runes, said to be the first Primordial to ascend. Training began soon after: swordplay, close combat, and more. River listened in stunned silence.

  Dungeons. Dragons. Gods. The world was larger—and far more dangerous — than he had ever imagined. Before he could process it all, Amalia spoke again. “We should take you to the elder.” They made their way to the temple. It wasn’t just a place of worship—it also housed the leaders of Varosha. Amalia and Albert climbed the steps with ease. River hesitated at the bottom. His legs ached already. But he pushed forward. By the time he reached the top, his legs burned. Albert gestured toward a large golden door. “You should go in alone.” River hesitated. He had to face this alone.

  It was daunting. But he nodded. “Dammit,” he muttered, and stepped forward. The door creaked open beneath his touch.

  Inside was a corridor lined with what looked like massive stones. Or were they eggs? They pulsed with essence, giving off a strange, living warmth. Curious, River reached out and touched one. A surge of energy met his palm, pulsing back into him. As if it recognized him. He pulled his hand back quickly. Best not to touch anything else before meeting the Council.

  He continued down the hall. At the end was another door. This one plain, heavy, and oddly rough. The surface was thorny beneath his knuckles as he knocked. The second time he knocked, it opened. A long table filled the chamber, made of the same reddish clay as the city. Seven people sat at it, all eyes locked on him. They didn’t seem hostile or evil. And yet their gazes bore into him, analyzing everything. He felt bare in their presence. Nothing he did would shield him.

  Kamir was the only one he recognized. At the head of the table sat an ancient woman—her hair completely grey, her skin sagging with age. But beneath the wrinkles, River saw scars. And strength. This woman had once been a warrior. She spoke, her voice clear and commanding. “My name is Myra, and we are the governing body of Varosha,” she said, gesturing to the others. “Kamir tells us you are the Primordial.” River’s heart slammed against his ribs. That word — Primordial. Spoken aloud. Just like that.

  Myra continued. “We are gathered to determine your fate.”

  Well. Shit.

  He opened his mouth, trying to explain — that he hadn’t asked for this. But deep down, he knew he had. The moment he chose to come here, he’d accepted the risk. Resigned himself to this fate. And his friends to theirs. But Kamir spoke first.

  “As it stands, three have voted in your favor,” he said. “And three against. The deciding vote belongs to Myra.” River’s mouth went dry.

  If they cast him out, he wouldn’t survive. The Wastelands would kill him. The Kingdom would finish what it started. “What can I do?” he asked, voice low. “You will be trained,” Myra said. “Tested. Your will and your soul must be strong.” River nodded.

  This was it. His only choice.

  Failure wasn’t an option. Not if he wanted to live.