Morning sunlight filtered through the thick canopy overhead, slipping through layers of leaves in thin golden shafts. Patches of light swayed gently over the camp as branches shifted in the morning breeze, scattering moving shadows across the grass and bedrolls. Somewhere deeper in the forest, birds called to one another, and insects hummed lazily beneath the warmth of the rising day.
Ronan stirred.
His brows furrowed before his eyes even opened. Something felt... wrong.
The ground beneath him felt cool against his palm as he pushed himself upright, blinking against the brightness spilling through the trees. His thoughts still felt heavy, sluggish, as though sleep had clung to him longer than it should have.
Too quiet.
The camp should have been noisy by now. Someone arguing. Someone is complaining about the food. The crackling remains of a campfire are being stirred back to life.
Nothing.
Only wind.
His gaze drifted around slowly.
Then stopped.
Two sheathed swords rested beside him.
Ronan stared.
"What..." he whispered.
The word slipped from his lips almost soundlessly.
His heartbeat suddenly felt louder.
No.
No, that wasn't right.
Those swords—
His eyes narrowed.
Memory surfaced in fragments. Faces. Movements. Conversations replaying in pieces that suddenly didn't fit together anymore.
Beside him, Orin let out a rough groan and rolled onto his back.
"Damn... why does my head feel—"
He froze.
His hand had brushed against something beneath his coat.
Frowning, he reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"...What is this?"
Ronan looked over.
Orin unfolded it.
His eyes moved over the words.
Then stopped.
The change was immediate.
The faint traces of sleep vanished from his face.
His jaw tightened.
His fingers curled slowly around the paper.
Ronan stared at him.
"What does it say?"
For a moment, Orin said nothing.
Then he handed it over.
The message was short.
"Why did you have to go up against Soren?"
Silence.
Ronan read it once.
Then again.
The forest around them suddenly felt much colder.
He slowly lowered the paper.
"...So I was right all along."
The words came out quietly.
Not angry.
Not shocked.
Just tired.
Orin stared off into the distance.
His expression had darkened considerably.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
He had suspected something.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, pieces had felt wrong from the beginning.
But suspicion and certainty were different things.
Now, certainty sat in front of them like an ugly truth neither wanted to touch.
Wind rustled through the trees.
Leaves drifted down lazily between them.
Neither spoke.
Ronan looked toward the extinguished campfire.
His fingers tightened around the note.
For some reason, he suddenly remembered small things.
Smiles.
Casual conversations.
The ease in their voices.
How naturally everything had unfolded.
His chest felt strangely hollow.
People always said betrayal hurt because of what was taken away.
Ronan thought that wasn't entirely true.
Sometimes it hurt because for a moment, you had believed.
Orin suddenly stood.
The movement broke the stillness.
He walked toward the remains of the campfire and crouched down, picking up a small crystal-like artefact resting near the stones. Soft currents of Aether still flowed through its surface.
The shimmering barrier around the camp trembled faintly.
Then vanished.
Orin turned around.
His expression had settled again.
Not because the feeling was gone.
Because there wasn't time.
"Let's move," he said quietly. "We still have time."
He looked toward the forest stretching endlessly ahead.
"So let's make the most of it."
Ronan stared at him for a second.
Then exhaled slowly.
"...Yeah."
The two moved deeper into the forest.
The morning stretched on as they searched through dense undergrowth and moss-covered stone formations. Branches brushed against their shoulders while damp leaves scraped across their boots. The scent of wet earth mixed with wildflowers and crushed grass as they pushed through thickets and winding animal trails.
Ronan crouched beside a patch of pale blue flowers growing beneath a fallen tree.
"Moonshade Root."
Orin glanced over.
"Useful?"
Ronan pulled one carefully from the soil.
"If prepared correctly."
He brushed dirt from the roots.
His hands moved automatically.
Keeping his mind occupied helped.
Because every time silence returned, thoughts tried to creep back in.
Questions.
Anger.
Regret.
So they buried it.
Pushed it down beneath survival and routine.
One herb.
Then another.
Keep moving.
Don't think.
—
At the main camp, a massive projection screen floated above a broad wooden stage, shimmering with faint currents of Aether. Images shifted continuously across its surface, displaying different teams moving throughout the forest.
Students laughed.
Others cheered.
Some instructors watched with interest.
Some with amusement.
Weak or strong, talented or average—it made little difference.
All of them moved across the screen like pieces on a board.
Around eleven in the morning, movement stirred near the entrance.
Lady Ishulane arrived.
Despite the rough environment surrounding the camp, she looked completely out of place in the most natural way possible. Her clothes remained immaculate, untouched by dust or dirt, and she carried herself with effortless elegance.
Darius walked behind her with his hands behind his head.
"I never thought you were this strong in alchemy," he said.
Lady Ishulane smirked without looking back.
"Once I recover completely, I'll be stronger than Old Man Arnold."
Darius raised an eyebrow.
"But you..." He tilted his head, studying her face. "You look like my mom from fifteen years ago."
He paused.
"Actually... how old are you?"
Lady Ishulane nearly stumbled.
She turned sharply.
"Hey! Hey!"
She pointed accusingly at him.
"Didn't your mother teach you not to ask a young lady her age?"
Darius grinned.
The expression came easily.
Almost too easily.
"Maybe she did."
His smile lingered for a moment.
Then softened slightly.
"I don't really remember."
The words were light.
Too light.
Like someone pretending they weighed nothing.
Lady Ishulane looked at him quietly.
The teasing expression on her face faded.
Something in his eyes had shifted for only a second.
Just a second.
But she saw it.
Saw the old ache hidden beneath his usual sarcasm.
Her voice softened.
"...Brat."
Darius blinked.
Then laughed awkwardly.
"What kind of response is that?"
As they approached the seating area, Amara, Samantha, and Sylphie waved toward them.
Lady Ishulane sat beside them.
"How is Ronan's team doing?" she asked.
Amara let out a sigh.
"They were deceived by another team."
Lady Ishulane's brows lifted slightly.
At that moment, the screen shifted.
Ronan and Orin appeared.
Lady Ishulane narrowed her eyes.
Her gaze sharpened.
"...Those two."
The others looked at her.
"Clones."
Silence.
Amara blinked.
Samantha tilted her head.
Sylphie frowned.
"What?"
Lady Ishulane folded her arms.
"The ones on the screen aren't the originals."
She pointed lazily toward the projection.
"Ronan and Orin are somewhere else."
Her lips curved slightly.
"These are merely clones."
Confused looks spread immediately.
Meanwhile, Darius turned away.
"I'm going to check on Kael and Garrick."
He paused beside Sylphie.
Then smirked.
"You and Ronan are getting a serious beating when this is over."
Sylphie's eyes widened.
"Why me?!"
Darius only laughed and walked away.
Nearby, Kael and Garrick sat together with snacks spread out before them.
Darius sat down beside them without invitation and immediately stole a sweet and spicy fritter from the tray.
Crunch.
"...Good morning," he said through a mouthful.
Kael stared.
Garrick stared.
"Morning," they replied together.
—
Far away, another camp sat hidden beneath thick forest shadows.
Three figures watched the floating projection screen in complete silence.
Alden.
Gideon.
Alaric.
The air around them felt heavy.
Tight.
The students moved cautiously across the screen, completely unaware that distant eyes followed every step.
Then—
The barrier surrounding the camp pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A harsh rustling sound ripped through the silence.
Everyone turned.
A figure stumbled into the clearing.
No—
Two figures.
One man staggered forward with uneven steps, barely keeping himself upright. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his robes hanging in torn strips, soaked dark with blood.
In his arms, another man hung limply.
His body looked ruined.
Bruises spread across broken skin.
Deep lacerations cut through torn clothing.
One arm bent at an angle it never should have.
Blood dripped steadily onto the grass below.
Alden shot to his feet.
"What happened?!"
His voice thundered through the camp.
"Why bring him here? Where's the medical team?!"
The man carrying him nearly collapsed.
"He..." he gasped. "He insisted..."
His legs trembled violently.
"No healers... no delays..."
His breathing hitched.
"Said... the young master is in danger..."
His knees hit the ground.
"Begged me... to bring him... to Master Alaric..."
Alaric stepped forward.
Then stopped.
His eyes locked onto the broken man's face.
Everything froze.
His breath caught.
"...Fenris?"
The name barely escaped him.
He dropped beside him immediately.
Hands shaking.
Actually shaking.
Golden light erupted from his palms as healing Aether surged into Fenris's body.
Light spilt across shredded flesh.
Across shattered bone.
Across wounds that looked impossible to survive.
But Alaric felt it immediately.
Felt the horrifying truth beneath his fingertips.
Felt life slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fingers.
His expression darkened.
Then he turned sharply toward the messenger.
"Tell no one."
His voice cut through the air like steel.
"Not a soul."
The man stiffened.
"If anyone asks—even someone from the Viridion Clan—you deny everything."
Alaric's eyes burned.
"This never happened."
The man swallowed hard.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
Then he vanished into the darkness beyond the camp like smoke scattered by the wind.
Only silence remained.
And the trembling glow of healing light.
Fenris doubled over with a violent cough. Blood spilt from his mouth in thick, dark bursts, splattering across his chin and dripping onto the dirt beneath him. His body shook so hard the chainmail beneath his torn tunic gave small metallic rattles. Pain was there, burning through flesh and bone, but something heavier sat deeper inside him, crushing his ribs from within.
Not the wounds.
The faces.
His wife's smile. His daughter laughs.
"Orin..." he gasped, dragging air into ruined lungs. "Young Master Orin... he's in danger."
His fingers clawed weakly at the earth.
"He went to hunt a Rank Two beast... but it wasn't..." Another cough ripped through him. Blood bubbled over his lips. "It mutated... Rank Three..."
Across from him, Alaric's expression hardened. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold enough to freeze steel.
"Where?"
Fenris lifted a trembling hand. His fingers barely obeyed him anymore. He dipped them into the blood, soaking his chest and dragged them toward the map spread over the nearby crate.
The blood smeared across the parchment in uneven streaks.
His hand slipped once.
Twice.
Then, finally, circled a location near a jagged ridge.
"The cave..." he rasped. "They're in the cave..."
"But it'll take ten minutes for the projection stone to attune," Alden snapped, already kneeling beside the artefact. His fingers moved rapidly through hand seals. Sweat had formed across his brow.
Fenris coughed again.
This one felt different.
Something inside his chest twisted, then loosened.
He felt it.
That strange feeling when the body quietly begins surrendering.
His shoulders shook.
"I..." The words stuck in his throat. "I should've stopped it..."
His gaze dropped.
Days ago.
Master Soren was standing before him.
That smile.
That damned smile.
"Master Soren came to me..." Fenris whispered. "He ordered me to give Orin false information about the monster."
His fingers curled into the dirt.
"I refused."
The words came out harder than the rest, carrying a desperate trace of pride.
"I tried."
Then his voice cracked.
"But... then Soren took my family."
His breath hitched.
"My wife..." He swallowed painfully. "My daughter..."
Silence spread around the campfire.
Even Gideon stopped pacing.
"He said if I didn't obey..." Fenris stared blankly at the flames dancing nearby. "...they'd suffer."
His eyes slowly shut.
"So I caved."
The words tasted foul.
"I lied."
A broken sound escaped him.
Not quite a sob.
Not quite breathing.
"This morning..." his voice trembled, "he told me they were safe. Said they were waiting at home."
His mouth twisted.
Blood mixed with tears across his face.
"I believed him."
His laugh sounded ugly.
Small.
Hopeless.
"God help me..." His shoulders shook. "I believed him."
Fenris looked up at Alaric.
Dirt streaked his face. Blood clung to his skin. Tears cut clean paths through both.
"He smiled." Fenris stared into nothing. "'Your daughter turns eighteen in five days.'"
The words came out in Soren's voice.
Fenris could hear it perfectly.
Calm.
Pleasant.
Cruel.
"'I've already made sure she understands her place.'" Fenris's lips trembled. "'I'll be sure to remind her again.'"
Gideon suddenly turned away.
His jaw tightened so hard the muscles twitched.
Nearby, Alaric's healing light flickered.
For a moment.
Just a moment.
Rage slipped through.
Fenris noticed.
Strangely enough... it comforted him.
"I ran," he whispered.
His breathing grew shallower.
"I ran all the way home."
His eyes drifted toward the darkness beyond the camp.
"But I was too late."
The fire crackled softly.
No one spoke.
"They couldn't live with..." His throat tightened. "...with what he did to them."
His voice faltered.
"What he allowed his men to do."
His eyes squeezed shut.
"My daughter..."
His body folded inward.
"She was only seventeen..."
No more words came.
Only silence.
Then memories surfaced.
Uninvited.
Merciless.
A warm summer evening beneath the apricot tree behind the servant quarters.
Fenris could almost smell the fruit again—sweet and sun-warmed.
A younger Orin, maybe nine years old, ran clumsily through the grass while his daughter chased him with ribbons in hand.
"Stay still!" she'd shouted between fits of laughter.
"It's unfair!" Orin protested dramatically while failing to escape.
Fenris remembered watching from nearby as she finally caught him and triumphantly tied bright ribbons into his hair.
Orin had pouted.
For perhaps three breaths.
Then grinned.
Then demanded a rematch of their race.
And lost again.
On purpose.
Fenris had known.
His daughter hadn't.
She'd laughed so hard she'd fallen into the grass.
Later, servants had whispered nearby.
Disgusted.
Mocking.
A noble child playing with a slave girl.
Fenris still remembered Orin looking at them.
No anger.
No hesitation.
Just calm certainty.
"She's my sister."
Silence.
"If you have a problem with that..."
Young Orin crossed his arms.
"...take it up with me."
Even Alaric had laughed that day.
Not mockingly.
Warmly.
Fenris remembered that.
Remembered being spoken to like a person.
Like a man.
Not property.
Not a tool.
Not something owned.
Maybe that was why he came here.
Because in the final moments of his life, he found himself crawling back to the only people who had ever looked at him and seen someone human beneath the chains.
"I couldn't save them..." he whispered.
His eyes opened again.
"But maybe..."
He looked toward the projection stone.
"...maybe I can save Orin."
Suddenly, the stone shimmered.
Alden leaned closer.
"It's attuned," he said sharply. "I see the cave—"
The image formed.
Then everyone froze.
Blood.
So much blood.
The cave floor looked drenched in it.
A massive serpent corpse lay twisted across the ground like a collapsed mountain.
Nearby—
Two bodies.
Still.
Motionless.
Gideon shot to his feet so fast his chair overturned.
"I'm going."
Panic cracked through his voice.
"I'll teleport—"
Then the image flickered.
Movement.
The boys stirred.
Slowly, painfully, Orin pushed himself upright.
Beside him, Ronan sat up too, pale as death itself.
Both were covered in blood.
Both breathing.
Orin let out a ragged wheeze.
"We did it..."
He laughed weakly.
"We killed the beast..."
Ronan grinned despite blood trickling down his temple.
"Hahaha... best kill yet..."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the wind seemed to stop moving.
Gideon froze.
Alden stared.
Fenris looked up at the projection with fading eyes.
His vision had already begun darkening around the edges.
But somehow...
He could still see Orin smiling.
"They weren't supposed to survive..." he whispered.
His lips shook.
"He wasn't supposed to be strong enough..."
His gaze lingered.
"But he did it."
A small breath escaped him.
"They did it."
For the first time since arriving—
His face softened.
Tiny.
Fragile.
"But maybe..." he whispered, "...maybe he really can change everything."
He slowly turned toward Alaric.
"Master..."
His voice had become little more than air.
"If there's any justice left in this world..."
His eyes drifted back toward Orin.
"...let it be through him."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"Maybe someday Young Master Orin can reshape the Viridion Clan into something that doesn't devour its own."
His breathing weakened.
"Maybe he'll burn it down..."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"...and build something kinder."
His body trembled.
"If even a sliver of that future exists..."
The words nearly vanished.
"...then dying like this is worth it."
Alaric gritted his teeth.
Healing light flared brighter between his palms.
"Don't speak like this."
His voice shook.
"I'm not done healing you."
The light poured forward desperately.
"You'll live."
His jaw tightened.
"We'll make this right—"
But Fenris slowly shook his head.
Very gently.
Very weakly.
"No..."
His eyes had already begun losing focus.
"I have to go."
A small breath escaped him.
"I need to find them."
His lips trembled.
"I need to tell my daughter..."
His throat worked.
"...I'm sorry."
The campfire shifted as a breeze swept through.
"...for bringing her into this world..."
His voice barely carried.
"...as a slave."
Silence.
Then one final breath.
"And tell Young Master Orin..."
His gaze was fixed on the distant projection.
"...that he never treated us like slaves."
His eyes softened.
"Not once."
A tiny smile appeared.
"He gave my daughter the gift of being seen."
His chest rose.
Once.
Then slowly fell.
And never rose again.
Alaric stared at him.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Then, with trembling hands, he reached forward and gently closed Fenris's eyes.
A tear slid silently down his cheek.
It disappeared into the blood, staining his palm.
Silence descended over the camp.
No one spoke.
No one dared disturb it.
And far away, completely unaware of the price paid for his life, Orin laughed weakly beside Ronan.
The sound echoed faintly from the projection stone into the night.
He did not know that somewhere beneath the stars, someone who had believed in him with all that remained of his broken heart had just drawn his final breath.