Garrick didn’t step into the center this time.

  He simply lifted a hand toward the first group standing apart from the others.

  “Team One,” he said. “Ironbound.”

  They didn’t move immediately.

  They didn’t need to.

  Everyone already knew who they were.

  At the front stood Rhydan Vale — former infantry captain. Calm. Measuring. His posture alone separated him from the yard’s grime.

  Behind Rhydan stood the rest of Ironbound.

  Branik Stonearm — broad as a gate, scars crossing his forearms like old rope burns.

  Orren Feld — hands thick, fingers permanently roughened by mortar and stone.

  Silas Grey — narrow frame, sharp eyes that never stopped moving.

  Edrin Hale — quiet, observing, measuring something invisible.

  They did not approach the center.

  They didn’t need to.

  The slaves were the ones on display.

  Orren stepped forward first.

  He didn’t look at the faces.

  He looked at the ground.

  He knelt in the sand between the lines of captives and dragged his fingers slowly through it, sifting absentmindedly as though inspecting soil quality.

  “Out of all the lots this season,” he said calmly, “this one is definitely the worst.”

  His fingers closed around something small.

  A pebble.

  Smooth. Worn. No bigger than the nail of his thumb.

  He rolled it between his fingers, examining it the way a mason examines stone.

  Silas tilted his head, scanning the line.

  “I don’t know,” he said lightly. “The elf girl looks like a great addition.”

  He smiled.

  Branik followed Silas’s gaze.

  His tongue passed slowly across his lower lip as his eyes settled on her pale skin.

  The yard seemed to shrink.

  Hikaru stepped forward without thinking.

  One arm extended.

  A wall.

  He didn’t look at her.

  He looked at them.

  His eyes were steady. Hard.

  “Oooh,” Orren murmured, rising to his feet. “Look, Branik.”

  He tossed the pebble lazily through the air.

  “One of them has some spirit.”

  Branik caught it without looking.

  He flipped it once, cradled it on his index finger, thumb set and ready like a loaded catapult. His gaze unwavered.

  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should fix that.”

  The pebble began to glow.

  Not bright.

  Just a dull, simmering red.

  Heat distorted the air around it.

  Branik pointed casually toward Hikaru, thumb resting against the stone.

  There was no wind-up.

  No dramatic motion.

  Just a flick— No. A launch.

  The pebble left his hand like a bolt.

  Hikaru had been watching from the beginning.

  The tension in Branik’s wrist.

  The tightening of his thumb.

  The compression of magic just before release.

  He moved before thought could form.

  Hikaru’s arm was already extended in front of Liora.

  A barrier.

  When Branik’s thumb tightened, Hikaru saw it—the compression before release.

  The pebble left his hand.

  Toren’s hands flew up instinctively, flinching at the flash of red.

  Hikaru moved at the same moment.

  The arm that had formed the wall swept backward, striking Liora lightly at the shoulder to force her off balance and out of the line.

  He stepped forward and bowed sharply at the waist.

  The pebble screamed through the space where his head had been.

  It struck Toren’s raised palms with a violent crack.

  The force drove his hands sideways into his own cheek.

  The red glow died instantly as it embedded into his palm.

  Toren staggered back and let out a raw yell.

  “Ah—!”

  He dropped to one knee, clutching his hand.

  The skin across his palm was already blistering.

  Murmurs rippled through Team Two.

  “What the—”

  “He caught it—”

  Orren leaned slightly to one side to get a clearer look.

  “Well I’ll be,” he said mildly. “The brat caught it.”

  Silas’s brow lifted.

  “That’s worth something.”

  Toren looked up at Hikaru, pain and confusion mixing on his face.

  “I thought we were supposed to be a team,” he snapped through clenched teeth. “Not trying to kill each other.”

  Hikaru didn’t answer.

  His posture straightened slowly.

  His eyes remained fixed on Ironbound.

  Branik’s grin had thinned.

  The flick hadn’t gone as cleanly as intended.

  Edrin was already measuring distance in silence.

  Orren studied the line of fire and the deflection point.

  Rhydan, who had been standing with his arms folded, finally moved.

  Unfolding his arms.

  Stepped forward once.

  His gaze swept across the line of slaves.

  Then settled briefly on Hikaru.

  Calm. Evaluating.

  “This is a waste,” he said evenly.

  “Let the other teams have them.”

  He turned slightly, already dismissing the yard.

  “There is nothing here to benefit us.”

  Ironbound stepped back as one.

  The decision made.

  But not before Rhydan gave Hikaru one last look.

  A flicker of interest touched Rhydan’s expression.

  The boy hadn’t reacted to the throw.

  He had moved with it.

  The instant Branik’s thumb compressed, he shifted—redirected the girl, lowered his profile, altered the line.

  Not fast.

  Timed.

  Either the trajectory had already been calculated…

  Or it was blind luck.

  Rhydan considered the distance. The angle. The release speed.

  Luck was the more likely of the two.

  For now.

  A dry cough cut through the quiet.

  Garrick.

  “That’s enough.”

  The murmuring settled.

  He turned his head slightly toward the next cluster of men waiting apart from the others.

  “Team Two.”

  They stepped forward together.

  Wallbreakers.

  If Ironbound felt precise, Wallbreakers felt forceful.

  At their front stood Darek Volm — bald, thick-necked, built to absorb impact rather than avoid it. His arms hung heavy at his sides like stone pillars.

  To his right was Mael Corvin, former blacksmith’s apprentice. His eyes did not scan faces — they studied structure. Weight distribution. Weak points.

  Behind them moved Silven Marr, lean and efficient, rope-callused fingers flexing unconsciously as he measured balance and reach.

  They did not smirk. They did not joke. They assessed.

  Garrick’s voice remained even. “Choose.”

  Darek stepped forward first. His gaze moved across shoulders. Ribcages. Legs. Endurance mattered to Wallbreakers.

  Not beauty.

  Not speed.

  Not cleverness.

  Mael tilted his head slightly, observing stance alignment.

  Silven watched how the slaves held themselves under pressure.

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  Then Darek’s eyes stopped. Derek jerked his chin toward a hulking figure two rows down. “What about him?”

  The large slave he indicated shifted slightly. Thick arms. Neck like a tree trunk. The kind of build that promised raw force and very little else.

  “Oliver, I think his name was,” Derek added. “Looks like he could carry half the quarry on his back.”

  Mael didn’t even glance at the man at first. “We don’t need two big dummies,” he said flatly. “One’s already plenty.”

  Derek scoffed. “Big dummies build walls.”

  “They break them,” Mael corrected. “Poorly.”

  His gaze slid further down the line—to a thinner boy with white hair, standing straighter than most despite the bruises along his arms.

  “I think the white-haired one could solve a problem or two.”

  Derek barked a short laugh. “Too lanky. Look at his arms. That won’t lift anything heavier than a shovel.”

  Silven, who had been watching quietly, spoke without looking away from the line.

  “I was more impressed with the boy next to him.”

  Derek frowned. “Which?”

  “The one who caught the pebble.”

  A few of the slaves stiffened at that memory.

  Derek snorted. “It almost took his hand off. Didn’t you see him bend over in pain?”

  “Yes,” Silven replied calmly. “But that’s my point. Most people would’ve lost a hand.”

  Mael folded his arms, thinking. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the boy in question—broad shoulders, steady stance despite exhaustion.

  “Well,” he muttered at last, “I suppose that one is as good as any.”

  He stepped forward half a pace.

  “You. Boy. What’s your name?”

  The chosen slave lifted his chest instinctively, chin rising.

  “Toren!” he answered, voice firm.

  Silven’s brow lifted. “And what are you good for, Toren?”

  “I understand wood and stone,” Toren replied without hesitation. “Been working with it my whole life.

  Toren finished, “My father’s a stonemason.”

  Silven studied him for a long second. Then he lifted a hand and pointed upward — toward the towering wall behind them.

  “The wall here,” Silven said. “How is it made?”

  Toren glanced to his right.

  That section was unfinished — wooden frames exposed, a trench still open at the base.

  To his left, the finished stretch stood solid and pale in the morning light.

  He answered without rushing.

  “A trench is dug first. Deep enough to anchor it. Then the base is poured.”

  “Poured with what?” Mael cut in.

  “Concrete.”

  Mael’s brow lifted slightly. “And how do we get concrete?”

  “Water. Sand. Small stone. Slag.”

  Derek frowned. “Slag?”

  Toren nodded. “Iron dust left after melting ore. Waste from the forge. Mix it right and it binds stronger once it’s wet. Harder than plain stone.”

  Mael and Silven exchanged a look.

  Mael’s voice dropped, impressed despite himself. “You’ve done this before.”

  “My whole life,” Toren replied.

  Silven didn’t hesitate.

  “You pass. Step forward.”

  Toren did — steady, shoulders squared.

  Behind him, several of the other slaves shifted.

  Knowledge had just outweighed muscle.

  Toren stepped out of line and crossed the dirt slowly but without fear. Derek moved to meet him, towering over the younger boy. For a moment it looked as though he might intimidate him—then he broke into a wide, almost boyish smile.

  Hikaru watched him go.

  He hadn’t expected that.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Toren had always seemed solid. Steady. The kind of boy who endured rather than spoke. But that explanation—clear, confident, precise—had been something else entirely.

  I never knew he had that kind of knowledge.

  Hikaru’s eyes drifted briefly to the unfinished section of wall, then back to Toren now standing among the Wallbreakers.

  Stone. Foundation. Binding agents.

  It wasn’t just labor. It was structure. Planning. Understanding how weight traveled. How pressure settled. How something endured.

  That will be useful here.

  More useful than brute strength.

  More useful than noise.

  Hikaru’s lips curved faintly—not quite a smile.

  People who understood how things were built also understood how they broke.

  And that kind of knowledge always mattered.

  “Welcome, boy,” Derek boomed, clapping him once on the shoulder. “To the Wallbreakers!”

  A faint sound carried from the line behind them.

  A soft chuckle.

  Hikaru tilted his head slightly, white hair catching the light.

  “Funny name,” he said mildly. “For people building a wall.”

  The field felt wider now that Toren had stepped away.

  No chains. No collars. Just open air and watchful eyes.

  The slaves stood in loose rows while the chosen gathered with their new teams around the edges of the clearing. Some groups were already walking off toward different sections of the rising wall. Others lingered, assessing what remained.

  Silence didn’t last long.

  A ripple moved through the gathered teams as another group stepped forward.

  They were quiet in their approach—measured, synchronized. Even the way they walked seemed deliberate.

  Elves.

  Tall. Lean. Pale in a way that seemed almost luminous under the sun. Their robes were light, layered leather reinforced. Not flashy. Not crude. Purposeful.

  They didn’t announce themselves.

  They simply began looking.

  One of them—a sharp-faced man with silver-blond hair drawn back at the nape—tilted his head slightly as his gaze fell on Liora.

  She stood near the middle of the remaining group.

  Her posture was straight, chin level, though she had not spoken once during the selections. Purple hair fell to her shoulders, catching light in unnatural strands. One eye shimmered gold. The other, deep violet.

  The elf leader slowed.

  He studied her.

  Another of his team murmured, just loud enough to carry.

  “She is one of us.”

  A pause.

  “Is she?”

  The leader stepped closer.

  “You,” he said evenly. “Step forward.”

  Liora hesitated only a fraction of a second before stepping out of the line. Her boots brushed through dry grass. Her posture was straight. Her features unmistakably elven — refined, sharp, luminous in the daylight.

  Up close, there was no denying it.

  High-blooded.

  Noble-born.

  The elf leader’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Your name.”

  She held his gaze.

  “Liora Fate.”

  There was no tremor in her voice. No apology. No hesitation.

  The reaction was immediate.

  One of the elves inhaled sharply.

  Another stiffened.

  “Fate?” someone repeated under their breath.

  The leader stepped closer.

  “Do you mean to say,” he asked carefully, “that you are of House Fate?”

  The field grew quieter around them.

  “That is impossible,” another elf muttered.

  “There is no world in which a daughter of that house would stand here.”

  The leader’s composure tightened.

  “Aeloria Fate bore only one child who could stand among us,” he said coldly. “The second—”

  He stopped.

  His gaze shifted to her eyes.

  One violet.

  One gold.

  The air shifted.

  “The cursed child,” someone whispered.

  Several of the elves went rigid.

  “The secondborn who killed her mother.”

  Liora did not move.

  The leader’s voice hardened.

  “No elf has ever died in childbirth while the child lived.”

  The words were not accusation.

  They were law.

  “If a mother falls,” he continued, “the child falls with her. That is the balance.”

  His eyes locked onto the gold eye.

  “Yet the second child of Aeloria Fate lived.”

  A faint murmur rippled through the gathered elves. Even the humans felt the weight of it.

  “Aeloria Fate was High Princess,” another elf said quietly. “Blessed by the guardian spirit.”

  “And yet she died,” someone added.

  “And her secondborn lived.”

  Silence fell heavier than before.

  Liora’s jaw tightened—but she did not lower her gaze.

  “That is the name I was given,” she said calmly.

  The leader’s expression sharpened.

  “Do you deny the tale?”

  “I deny nothing.”

  “Then explain how Aeloria Fate dies… and you stand here breathing.”

  Her voice did not waver.

  “I was born.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “It is the only one I have.”

  The leader studied her face, searching for arrogance. For guilt. For corruption.

  Instead, he found composure.

  “And the eye?” he pressed.

  She did not blink.

  “I was born with it.”

  “Elven blood does not fracture.”

  Her tone remained even.

  “Then perhaps it does.”

  A faint ripple of disapproval moved through the elven group.

  “You speak boldly for one marked by ill omen,” the leader said.

  He leaned closer, voice dropping to a blade’s edge.

  “Tell me the truth of it. As the tale is told across every hall and glade: how did the High Princess die in the birthing chamber, yet her second child draws breath?”

  Liora’s gaze held steady, but something deep within flickered—like a flame caught in wind.

  “As the story goes,” she said quietly, each word measured, deliberate, “I killed her. — I killed my mother.”

  The confession landed like a stone in still water. Ripples of shock spread through the elves; several drew sharp breaths, hands twitching toward weapons or wards.

  Hikaru’s eyes, soft and watery with the weight of old sorrow—held her in his gaze. He stepped forward half a pace, voice low and rough.

  “A baby cannot…”

  He stopped himself, the words catching. He saw it then: the way her jaw clenched, the faint tremor in her hands she forced still, the way admitting it aloud was tearing her apart from the inside. Every syllable she spoke cost her.

  “That’s enough,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if pleading with the air between them. “That’s enough.”

  But Liora did not stop.

  Her voice remained calm, though it carried the strain of something long buried.

  “I was born. She was not strong enough to bear me. The balance broke. That is what they say. That is what they believe.”

  A stunned hush fell, then shattered.

  “Strong enough?” one elf echoed, voice cracking with disbelief. “Aeloria Fate—the High Princess of Silverglade? The one who shattered the orc vanguard at Dawnridge with a single blade? She, chosen by the king himself as his queen-to-be because no other could match her strength?”

  Another stepped forward, face pale. “She was the strongest of us all. The guardian spirit blessed her blade, her blood. Villages sent their champions to test her, and none returned unbroken. How could she fail at bearing a child? It defies every law of our blood.”

  The leader—Eryndor Valmyr—did not move, but his watery gaze darkened, searching her mismatched eyes as if they might hold the lie.

  “You ask us to believe the unbreakable High Princess, the future queen our king crowned with his choice, was felled by… childbirth? By you?” His voice was low, edged with something close to grief. “We have sung her deeds for generations. Warriors still swear oaths on her name. And you stand here, claiming her strength faltered at the moment of your birth?”

  A murmur rose—half outrage, half fear.

  “The balance does not break for the weak,” an older elf said quietly. “It breaks for the cursed. But Aeloria was no weakling. She was the apex. If she fell… then what force could have undone her?”

  Liora’s jaw tightened, the gold in her eye catching the light like molten accusation.

  “I do not ask you to believe,” she said, voice steady though the words cost her. “I tell you what happened. She carried me. The labor came. She bled. She faded. I drew breath. The midwives could not save her. That is all.”

  Hikaru exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the silence.

  “Then the tale is worse than we feared,” he murmured. “Not a flaw in the child alone… but in the greatest of us. Or perhaps something darker—something that could claim even the High Princess, chosen queen of our people.”

  The elves exchanged glances. The air thrummed with the weight of shattered legend.

  Liora met their stares unflinching.

  “I lived,” she said simply. “She did not. Call it curse, call it fate. It changes nothing.”

  The field held its breath, the unspoken question sharper than any blade: If the strongest could fall to this… what hope is there for the rest of us?

  Eryndor Valmyr regarded her without blinking.

  “House Fate was guarded by a powerful spirit for generations,” he said, voice measured and unyielding. “House Fate does not falter. It does not weaken.”

  His gaze lowered — slow and deliberate — to the gold eye.

  A younger elf at his side stepped forward slightly. His expression was not controlled like Eryndor’s.

  It was edged.

  “Legend says you cannot be harmed,” Thalanir Vaesryn said, voice carrying clearly. “That wounds vanish the moment they are dealt. As if time rewinds itself.”

  Several elves stiffened.

  “It is said the great spirit of house Fate died with Princess Aeloria,” he continued. “You are a curse that will forsaken the entire Fate legacy. The spirits do not favor you.”

  His eyes fixed on the gold.

  “You are not blessed.”

  His voice cooled further.

  “You are a distortion.”

  Liora did not move.

  Thalanir tilted his head slightly.

  “Perhaps we should test the legend.”

  The words landed like a blade.

  A few nearby humans shifted uncomfortably.

  He took one slow step closer.

  “Remove the golden eye,” he said lightly. “If the wound vanishes… then the stories are true.”

  Silence fell heavy.

  “If it does,” he added, “then we will know what you truly are.”

  The suggestion hung in the air.

  Cruel.

  Clinical.

  Eryndor did not immediately rebuke him.

  That was what made it worse.

  His eyes remained on Liora — studying her reaction.

  Waiting.

  “You are dangerous,” Thalanir said quietly.

  The word lingered in the air like frost.

  Liora did not respond.

  Hikaru did.

  “Have you ever considered,” he said calmly, “that the reason she’s alive is because her mother chose it?”

  Several elven gazes shifted to him.

  “A baby cannot kill,” Hikaru continued. “Women die in childbirth. It happens.”

  A sharp voice cut in from the line of elves.

  “Not elves.”

  The speaker stepped forward — tall, silver-haired, eyes hard as polished glass.

  “In millions of births. Thousands of recorded maternal deaths across all elven history.”

  His stare locked on Liora’s golden eye.

  “This is the only one.”

  A faint murmur moved through the yard.

  “That child is cursed.”

  Silence pressed down.

  Hikaru didn’t look away.

  “If so,” he replied evenly, “then it would be the curse at fault. Not a newborn.”

  “Baby or not,” the elf said coldly, “the cause remains.”

  His voice lowered.

  “Legend says she cannot be injured. Wounds vanish. Harm rewinds.”

  He stepped closer.

  “But nothing simply disappears.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Pain must go somewhere.”

  The air felt heavier now.

  “If she does not suffer it,” he continued, “then it seeks the nearest vessel.”

  A faint tension rippled through the watching groups.

  “It latches,” he said. “It transfers. It takes life in exchange.”

  His eyes flicked briefly toward several slaves nearby.

  “As long as she lives, calamity follows. Whether she wills it or not.”

  Thalanir’s voice returned, measured and firm.

  “She does not need to choose death for it to occur.”

  A pause.

  “She is the center of it.”

  The yard had gone completely silent.

  Even Garrick had stopped pretending not to listen.

  Hikaru finally glanced at Liora.

  Just once.

  Then back to them.

  “You are afraid of a theory,” he said.

  “It is recorded,” the elf snapped.

  “It is fear,” Hikaru corrected. “Wrapped in folktales.”

  Thalanir’s hand clenched tightly at his waist.

  “You would gamble your life on that belief?”

  “I already have,” Hikaru said quietly.

  That landed differently.

  No bravado.

  Just fact.

  The silver-haired elf studied him.

  “And when someone near her dies?”

  Hikaru’s expression did not change.

  “People die, doesn’t mean it’s her fault.”

  The wind moved faintly across the field.

  No one laughed.

  No one scoffed.

  Thalanir’s voice dropped to something colder.

  “You misunderstand. It would not be random.”

  A beat.

  “It would be because of her.”

  Silence settled again.

  Heavy.

  Accusing.

  Waiting.

  And for the first time—

  The accusation wasn’t directed at Liora alone.

  It hung over everyone standing near her.

  The elves turned away without selecting anyone.

  A low murmur spread across the field.

  Hikaru watched her carefully.

  They only trust their own, he thought.

  But even that had not been enough.

  Liora had stepped back into line without protest. Without visible anger.

  That was what unsettled him.

  Her face was composed. Too composed.

  He shifted slightly closer—not enough to draw attention, but enough to see her clearly from the side.

  Her gold eye stopped reflecting the light.

  The violet one empty. They weren’t wet. There were no tears.

  No tremor. No outrage.

  Just—Hollow.

  Not broken. Emptied.

  Hikaru felt something tighten in his chest.

  “You abandon your own?” he said quietly.

  It wasn’t loud. But in the thinning field, it carried.

  A few heads turned.

  Liora did not look at him at first.

  Her gaze remained forward, toward the elves now walking away as though nothing of importance had occurred.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.

  “It’s fine.”

  The words sounded carefully chosen.

  “The world didn’t want me to walk with them,” she continued. “I was never meant to be an elf.”

  Hikaru’s brow furrowed.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  His eyes shifted to the elf leader’s retreating back.

  The measured steps.

  The refusal to look behind.

  “You don’t stop being something because others refuse to see it,” Hikaru said.

  Liora’s jaw tightened faintly.

  “You assume it was a refusal.”

  He looked at her then.

  “What else would it be?”

  “A correction.”

  The word fell strangely between them.

  “As if I were misplaced,” she said quietly. “Set on the wrong path from the start.”

  “That’s not how blood works.”

  A faint, humorless curve touched her lips.

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am.”

  His gaze returned to the elf leader.

  The man had slowed—just slightly.

  Whether from curiosity or irritation, Hikaru couldn’t tell.

  “You abandon your own!” Hikaru called, louder this time.

  The field went still.

  The elf leader stopped.

  Several of his team stiffened.

  Liora’s fingers twitched at her sides.

  “Hikaru,” she murmured, almost a warning.

  But he didn’t look at her.

  His white hair caught the light as he lifted his chin.

  “If blood is so sacred,” he continued, voice steady, “then why does it vanish the moment it becomes inconvenient?”

  A few of the nearby workers shifted uncomfortably.

  The elf leader turned his head slightly.

  Not enough to fully face them.

  Just enough to acknowledge the voice.

  His expression was unreadable.

  For a moment, it seemed he might respond.

  Might rebuke.

  Might defend.

  Instead—

  He turned his head forward again.

  And continued walking.

  Deliberate.

  Dismissive.

  Final.

  The silence he left behind felt heavier than any insult.

  Liora exhaled slowly.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “They were wrong.”

  “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  Hikaru turned to her fully now.

  Up close, the emptiness in her eyes was clearer.

  Not weakness.

  Not despair.

  Something colder.

  Resignation, carved cleanly into place.

  “They were wrong,” he said.

  “No,” Liora replied quietly. “They weren’t.”

  That stopped him.

  Her gaze remained forward.

  “It does not matter what I believe,” she said. “It matters what the world permits.”

  Hikaru was quiet for a moment.

  The wind moved between them.

  Then—

  “I refuse to accept that world.”

  Liora’s gaze shifted back to him.

  He wasn’t angry.

  He wasn’t shouting.

  He was certain.

  “If the world decides what I am,” he continued, voice level, “then I will change the world.”

  Her gold eye sharpened slightly.

  “You speak as if that is possible.”

  “It is.”

  A beat passed.

  “I’ll forge one that doesn’t discard people for being inconvenient,” he said. “One that crushes that view entirely.”

  There was no arrogance in it.

  No grandstanding.

  Just a simple statement of direction.

  Liora studied him carefully now.

  Not dismissing.

  Assessing.

  “You would wage war against something that vast?” she asked quietly.

  “If it’s wrong.”

  “And if it crushes you first?”

  A faint curve touched his mouth.

  “Then at least I didn’t kneel.”

  She watched him for a long moment.

  “That’s wishful thinking,” she said at last. “No one has the power to change how the world sees things.”

  Her voice wasn’t mocking.

  It was measured.

  Certain.

  “That’s impossible.”

  The word hung between them like a verdict already passed.

  Hikaru didn’t look away.

  “Impossible,” he repeated softly.

  Then his gaze shifted past her—toward the half-built wall in the distance. Toward stone stacked upon stone. Toward something men claimed would stand forever.

  “They said reviving the dead was impossible too.”

  The wind stirred faintly.

  “They said a child couldn’t survive what I did.”

  His eyes returned to hers.

  “They’ve been wrong before.”

  Silence.

  Not defiant.

  Not heated.

  Just steady.

  “The world isn’t fixed,” he said. “It’s built.”

  His gaze flicked briefly toward where Toren now stood among the Wallbreakers.

  “And anything built can be rebuilt.”

  Her gold eye sharpened.

  “And who gives you that authority?”

  “No one.”

  That answer came without hesitation.

  “I’ll take it.”

  There was no arrogance in his tone.

  Just inevitability.

  Liora studied him again—more carefully now.

  “That is how tyrants think,” she said.

  “It’s also how change happens.”

  The field around them had emptied almost completely.

  Two figures standing in open ground.

  Unchosen.

  Unclaimed.

  Unbent.

  “You speak as if the world is something you can shape with your hands,” she said quietly.

  Hikaru glanced once more at the towering wall.

  “It is.”

  A pause.

  “And I intend to.”

  Another team moved in almost immediately after the elves withdrew.

  This one louder. Broader. Human. Their tattered armor mismatched. Their eyes are practical.

  One scratched his beard as he walked down the line.

  “We need two. Maybe three.”

  “Strong backs,” another muttered. “Winter’s coming before long.”

  They prodded shoulders. Checked forearms. Asked short questions.

  “You lift?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough.”

  They chose quickly. Two men built thick through the chest and one woman with corded arms and steady eyes.

  “Move,” their leader said. “You’re with us.”

  The chosen stepped away.

  The line shortened.

  Another team approached—miners by the look of their dust-stained clothes. They examined hands more than faces.

  “Spread your fingers.”

  “Turn them.”

  “Any fractures?”

  They chose one. Then another.

  Each time someone left, the open space between bodies widened.

  Hikaru remained still.

  He did not advertise himself.

  He did not slouch.

  He simply watched.

  Groups came and went.

  A pair of hunters selected a quiet boy with sharp eyes.

  A cooking crew claimed two older women who spoke softly to one another.

  A farming team argued loudly over whether they needed height or stamina before settling on both.

  The field thinned.

  Liora remained.

  So did Hikaru.

  At one point, a stocky man from a carpentry team paused in front of Hikaru.

  “You,” he said. “You look quick. What can you do?”

  Hikaru met his eyes.

  “I solve problems.”

  The man frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It is.”

  The man hesitated.

  “Arms are thin.”

  “They work.”

  Another carpenter shook his head. “We need immediate strength.”

  They moved on.

  Liora was questioned twice more.

  Each time, the conversation circled back to the same thing.

  “Weak.”

  “Waste of a choice.”

  “Too unusual.”

  “Bad omen.”

  She answered calmly. Every time.

  But no one chose her.

  Dust kicked up under boots as more teams walked away with their picks.

  Eventually, only a small cluster remained.

  Then smaller still.

  Until there were only four.

  A boy barely standing from exhaustion was claimed by a messenger group desperate for runners.

  A scarred woman with steady hands was taken by the infirmary crew.

  And then—

  Silence.

  The field felt enormous again.

  Only two figures stood near its center.

  White hair catching the light.

  Purple hair stirred by wind.

  Hikaru.

  Liora.

  The remaining teams glanced at one another.

  “Anyone?” someone called out.

  A few heads shook.

  “We’re full.”

  “Got what we need.”

  “Not taking risks.”

  The word lingered.

  Risks.

  Liora stood with her chin lifted, though the dismissal had been quiet and repeated.

  Hikaru exhaled softly through his nose.

  Across the clearing, Garrick watched without expression.

  The space between the two unchosen felt strangely defined now.

  Not empty.

  Marked.

  Liora’s gold eye flicked briefly toward Hikaru. The purple one followed a half-second later.

  He noticed.

  He offered no smile.

  But he did not look away.

  Around them, the last of the teams began dispersing, leading their selections toward different sections of labor.

  Bootsteps faded.

  Voices thinned.

  The wind moved through open grass.

  Two remained.

  Unchosen.

  And the field felt far less open than it had before.

  The sun had long since fallen.

  Darkness did not come gently in Thornsreach. It settled like weight.

  Two moons hung overhead — one pale white and distant, the other low and red, as though watching with a wounded eye. Torchlight flickered against half-built stone and unfinished walls. The air was cooler now. Quieter.

  Only one team remained.

  Garrick Holt cleared his throat.

  “The last team.”

  His voice carried differently in the dark.

  “Driftstone.”

  A few slaves muttered at the name. Lowest rank. Smallest crew. The leftovers.

  Two figures stepped forward.

  One towered — broad shoulders, thick arms, hands like stone mallets. Sixteen at most, but built like a fortress. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back awkwardly, as if still adjusting to his own size.

  Beside him stood a small girl.

  Pink hair, tangled and uneven. Eight years old. Thin wrists. Too light for the chains she wore. But her gaze was steady.

  The big boy shifted slightly in front of his sister without realizing he’d done it.

  “Lowest-ranked team,” Garrick finished. “Two members. No substitutes.”

  Silence stretched.

  Kael scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess that means we choose last.”

  “You choose what remains,” Garrick corrected.

  Kael’s eyes moved over the thinning crowd.

  They stopped on Hikaru.

  He studied him the way one studies a heavy object — judging weight, not surface.

  Before he could speak, Kael lifted a hand.

  “One question first.”

  His gaze fixed on Hikaru.

  “Whose life is more important? A king… or a peasant?”

  The torches crackled.

  The red moon hung lower.

  Hikaru answered immediately.

  “The king.”

  Several heads turned sharply.

  Kael’s brows furrowed, expression hardened.

  “Wrong.”

  He turned away.

  And then—

  “Life is supposed to be equal.”

  Kael paused.

  Hikaru’s voice did not rise. It did not defend. It explained.

  “However… some lives in this world hold more weight. Not because they are worth more as living beings. But because their death causes greater consequence.”

  The wind moved between unfinished stone pillars.

  “I dislike the word peasant,” Hikaru continued. “We are all living creatures. But if a king dies, instability follows. War follows. Famine follows. Thousands suffer.”

  His eyes lifted to the white moon.

  “So if the choice is one life, or one life that pulls ten thousand behind it… I will protect the one that prevents the greater death.”

  Silence.

  The red moon seemed darker now.

  Kael slowly turned back.

  Not anger.

  Interest.

  Kael stared openly.

  “You answered king,” Kael said quietly, “not because the peasant is lesser.”

  “No,” Hikaru replied. “Because protecting the king protects more people.”

  A breath.

  Kael nodded once.

  “That… is a fine answer.”

  He stepped back.

  Kael blinked. “Uh… so…”

  Garrick gestured lazily. “Driftstone may choose.”

  Kael looked between Hikaru and Liora. The gold eye glinted faintly beneath red light.

  “Would you… want to join Driftstone?”

  “Possibly,” Hikaru answered.

  Kael’s shoulders relaxed.

  “But on two conditions.”

  That snapped him upright again.

  “Conditions?” Kael echoed. “There aren’t any other teams left. State them.” mildly amused.

  “Hikaru hooked his thumb behind him toward Liora.

  “She and I are a package.”

  Liora blinked.

  For a moment she thought she had misheard him.

  The words felt unfamiliar — as if they belonged to someone else’s life.

  A package.

  Not a burden. Not a curse. Not an inconvenience to be managed.

  Chosen.

  A warmth crept into her chest before she understood what it was. It spread slowly, hesitantly — fragile, like something unused to existing.

  Her fingers tightened slightly in the fabric at her side.

  No one had ever stood in front of her.

  No one had ever said with her instead of despite her.

  The faintest flush touched her cheeks. She turned her face slightly so no one would see, the gold in her eye catching the red moonlight.

  Relief settled in quietly.

  Small.

  But strong.

  For the first time since birth, she did not feel like something waiting to be discarded.

  She felt… included.

  And that frightened her almost as much as it comforted her.

  Kael stiffened. “That’s against the rules.”

  “There are no rules left,” Garrick said flatly. “Take both. Or take none.”

  Kael glanced down at Mira.

  She met his gaze.

  Small nod.

  He exhaled. “Okay. What’s the second?”

  “You must answer my next question with yes or no,” Hikaru said. “Only you hear it.”

  Kael frowned. Then looked to Mira again.

  She nodded once.

  He knelt so they were eye level.

  “Ask.”

  Hikaru leaned forward, voice low enough that even the torches seemed to quiet.

  “If given the opportunity to escape alone… without your sister… would you make a quick and decisive choice to survive?”

  Kael didn’t hesitate.

  “That’s easy—”

  He straightened instinctively, speaking aloud.

  “No.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “In no world do I leave Mira behind.”

  The answer hung in the cold air.

  Hikaru extended his hand.

  Kael looked at it — confused for half a second — then grinned and clasped it firmly.

  “Welcome to Driftstone,” he said, warmth in his voice for the first time that night.