The morning announced itself like any other day. No bells, birdsong, or sudden burst of light.
Just a slow seep of pale gold through the tall window, sneaking past the thin curtains that never quite blocked the sun properly. Dust danced in the slanted beams as the light settled against the stone walls. As time passed, shadows withdrew inch by inch, retreating from corners they had claimed through the night.
Finally, it reached the young man.
Slowly, it crept across his face like a cat that wanted attention. His lashes twitched as the brightness reached his eyes. The light continued pressing gently against him until he woke up.
"Too bright," he muttered, his eyes cracked open.
For a moment, he did not move. He lay still beneath the morning glow, gaze unfocused, breathing slow and even. His eyes reflected the light, clear and calm. Now, Arinia was awake.
There was no dream clinging to him, no lingering image or thought tugging at the edge of his mind. It was clear. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember... Nothing. The dreams, if there'd been any, were already gone.
He always try to remember many of stories he could never fully recall. Of a voice without a face that he can't remember. As if there was something preventing him from seeing it.
Finally, Arinia sat up. He swung his legs over the side and planted his feet against the cold floor. Rubbing his eyes, then rose and neatly made the bed. The sheets were smooth except for a faint indentation where he had slept.
He crossed the room more slowly this morning, his feet feeling reluctant against the stone. The chair stood there like always, and yet nothing about this felt usual. Someone had laid out the clothes with a care that made his chest tighten: tunic and trousers the same plain dark weave, only today the folds looked ceremonial, like flags arranged for mourning. Or departure.
The gloves rested on top, palms-up. Beside them, the pouch—old leather, soft as skin that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Its surface was smooth, the stitching tight and deliberate, the opening bound by a faint, unfamiliar weight that suggested more space than it should have held.
Nessia must have prepared them. She must have come by earlier in the morning when he was still asleep.
He crossed the room to the stone basin set into the wall beneath the window. The water within it was clear and still, untouched since the night before. He washed in silence, the cold water sharpening his senses. When he dressed, each movement felt deliberate but unhurried. The fabric settled easily against his skin, neither heavy nor light.
There was nothing else to bring. Only a small pouch Nessia prepared rested quietly at his side.
He left the room.
The manor's corridors stretched long and quiet, stone walls lined with shelves and alcoves filled with relics that spoke of histories without explaining them.
Morning activity had begun somewhere beyond his hearing. Servants moved somewhere beyond his sight, their footsteps soft, and their voices low.
He followed the familiar route without thought, turning down a narrower passage that led away from the main halls. At its end lay a small sitting room open, its tall windows overlooking the eastern gardens.
This was where they met most mornings, before training, before lessons, before the day claimed its due. The room was simple. A low table stood near the windows, flanked by two chairs worn smooth from use. A kettle rested upon the hearth, already warm, a faint curl of steam rising from its spout.
Nessia was there.
"You woke up early," she said.
He parted his lips in a slight smile.
"On time."
Nessia exhaled through her nose—almost a laugh.
"Morning, my disciple."
"Morning, Master," he murmured.
Nessia stood by the table as she always did every morning. Dark braided hair loose over her shoulders, posture relaxed. The room felt pleasant with her in it.
"The two are rarely the same," she said, lifting the kettle from the low flame. Steam curled between them as she poured the hot water into the cups she had already prepared, the dark liquid blooming into fragrance as it filled.
He smiled and took his seat without being told.
They had shared countless mornings like this. Training days. Rest days.
Many of the days blurred together until only the routine that remained was this. Today felt no different, and that's what made it strange.
Nessia set one cup before him.
"Drink," she said.
He did.
The liquid was warm, slightly bitter, with a grounding weight to it. It spread through him slowly, settling in his chest. He exhaled quietly.
"You've changed the blend," he noted.
Nessia arched her brow. "You noticed."
"It's heavier," he said. "Calming."
She took her own cup and sat across from him. "I thought it might help."
They drank in silence for a while. Outside, sunlight crept further into the gardens, touching leaves and stone alike. A bird landed briefly on the windowsill—then the soft clink of Nessia setting her cup down startled it skyward, and it vanished between the sunlit branches.
"Did you sleep well?" Nessia said eventually.
"Yes."
"Dreams?"
"No."
She nodded, as if that confirmed something she already suspected. Her gaze lingered on him, searching for signs he knew she would not find. Restlessness. Doubt. Fear. There was none.
She looked away first.
"You could stay," she said lightly, as if the words were an afterthought. "We could train later. There is no urgency."
Arinia met her gaze. "There is."
Nessia's fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
"Is there?" she asked.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he took another sip, letting the warmth settle.
"I am ready," he said at last. The words were not defiant. Not eager.
Simply, true.
Nessia studied him for a long moment. Then she leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly.
"You have always been ready," she said. "That is not what concerns me."
She stood and began to tidy the table, movements precise, deliberate. A delay disguised as a habit.
"The Old World is not kind," she continued. "It does not test strength, there's no scale to tip, no judge to nod approval. It does not reward effort. There is no thread of mercy returned for every mile of blood you leave behind. It simply… takes.
"I know."
"And if you go," she said, "you may not return."
He nodded. "I know."
Silence stretched between them.
At last, Nessia straightened.
"Very well," she said. "Come."
She led him through the familiar corridors, into the training hall at the manor's heart. She took her place at the center.
"Show me."
He approached her and stopped at a respectful distance. For a moment, neither spoke. The hall felt vast around them, the silence unbroken by anything but the faint whisper of wind through the hall.
Her gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, but with focus. She circled slowly … never touching him, her eyes tracing his posture, breath, and the subtle tension beneath his stillness. She did not touch him. She did not interrupt him.
After a long moment, she nodded.
"Your foundation is stable," she said. "There are no flaws in your will."
She turned away from him and gestured toward the racks lining the far wall. Weapons of many forms rested there, some ancient, some newly forged. Each was meticulously maintained, edges clean, grips worn to varying degrees by the hands that had wielded them.
Arinia moved without hesitation.
He crossed the hall, selected a blade at random, and returned to the center. He did not assume a stance. He did not prepare to strike. Instead, he raised the weapon and let it fall from his grasp.
The blade slipped downward and before it could strike the stone floor, the air around it shifted.
Its trajectory bent unnaturally, twisting as though caught in an invisible current. The weapon halted mid-fall, hovering for a brief heartbeat, then drifted gently back into Arinia's hand.
Nessia watched closely, her expression unreadable.
"Again," she said.
Arinia released it once more.
This time, the blade shattered mid-air.
Fragments burst outward in a sharp, crystalline spray, then froze, suspended in perfect balance. With a subtle motion of his fingers, Arinia guided them back together. The pieces aligned, reformed, and the blade became whole again, as though it had never broken.
The hall fell silent.
Nessia exhaled slowly.
"That will be enough," she said.
She approached him and took the blade from his hand, returning it to its place among the others. When she turned back to him, her expression remained calm, but the steadiness in her eyes had thinned.
I won't ask more of you today. You don't need to prove anything more to me.
Nessia turned away first.
Her steps echoed softly against the stone as she moved toward the far arch of the hall. For a moment, Arinia remained where he was, standing amid the lingering stillness left behind by the shattered blade.
The air had not yet settled from the subtle use of Erden.
It lingered the way a held breath did, unseen but present, pressing faintly against the skin before slowly releasing.
"Come," Nessia said, without looking back.
He followed.
They left the training hall together, the echoes of their footsteps fading as the doors closed behind them. The manor felt quieter than before, as though something essential had already departed. Light still filtered through the windows, but it had softened, losing the sharpness of morning.
Neither of them spoke as they walked.
Nessia led him through the inner corridors and out into the open courtyard beyond the eastern wing. Stone paths curved through the gardens, their lines deliberate but softened by time and care. Low shrubs edged the walkways, and pale flowers caught the last warmth of the sun, their leaves stirring faintly in the passing breeze.
Arinia had walked these paths countless times.
Today, they felt unfamiliar.
Soon they paused near the edge of the garden, where a low wall overlooked the valley beyond the manor grounds. From here, the land stretched outward in quiet layers of green and stone, fading into mist in the distance.
" Do you remember when you first learned to control your breathing?" she said suddenly.
Arinia nodded. "You made me stand here for hours."
"You wouldn't stop tensing," she said.
"I thought it would listen if I pushed harder."
She glanced at him. "It never does."
Arinia huffed softly. "You told me that."
"You didn't believe me."
"Not at first."
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, as if that memory had settled into place.
They stood there together, watching the world move. Clouds drifted slowly overhead. Somewhere below, a bell rang faintly, marking the passage of time for those who still needed such things.
The day continued.
They shared a simple meal at midday. Nothing elaborate. Warm bread, clear broth, fruit sliced carefully and arranged with habitual care. Nessia ate little. He noticed, but said nothing.
Afterward, Nessia busied herself with small tasks. She adjusted the placement of books in the study. Corrected a servant's posture in passing. Reviewed a stack of old records she had not touched in years.
Arinia stayed close, offering help when it was needed, standing aside when it was not.
At one point, Nessia reached to correct the angle of his wrist as he lifted a tray—then stopped herself halfway. Her hand lingered in the air for a brief moment before lowering.
Neither acknowledged it.
The light shifted.
Afternoon gave way to early evening, the sun lowering until it cast long shadows across the stone floors. The manor grew quieter. Servants withdrew. Doors closed softly. Windows reflected gold and amber rather than pale white.
Eventually, Nessia stopped walking.
"It's time," she said.
Arinia had expected those words and soon they left the hall together.
Their footsteps echoed softly through the corridors as they walked side by side, neither leading nor following. The manor felt different now, not hostile, not sorrowful, but distant. As though it had already begun to recede into memory.
They passed familiar rooms. Familiar doors. Spaces where time had once stretched long and unremarkable.
At last, they reached the outer gate.
Beyond it lay a stone path winding gently downward into a shallow valley. Evening haze clung low to the ground, faint and colorless, thinning as the last light of day slipped toward the horizon. At the path's end stood a structure older than the manor itself.
Weathered pillars encircled a yawning arch of dark stone.
The surface of the arch was etched with symbols long eroded by time. Whatever meaning they had once held was now lost, leaving only shallow grooves and faint impressions that it once held significant. The space beyond the arch was shadowed, not black, but wrong in a way that resisted description.
The Ancient Arch. The gate to the Old World's threshold.
Despite what it represented, the arch was unremarkable at first glance. Weathered stone, uneven pillars, markings worn smooth by time. Nothing about it announced its purpose.
If Arinia had not known better, he might have mistaken it for a forgotten ruin—another scar the world had learned to ignore.
Nessia let her feet settle.
"This is where I stop," she said.
Arinia nodded.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The wind stirred Nessia's hair. Leaves rustled softly around them. Somewhere far away, something cried out, then fell silent. The world did not pause for them. It never did.
At last, Nessia turned to him.
"You do not have to go," she said.
Her voice was calm. Steady. There was no urgency in it.
"This life is enough," she continued. "You may remain here. Under my protection. There is no shame in that choice."
She held his gaze as she spoke, offering neither command nor persuasion. Only permission.
Arinia looked past her, toward the arch. Toward the unseen depths beyond.
He thought of the manor. Of the quiet mornings. Of the endless repetition that could stretch into years without ever demanding more of him.
Then he shook his head.
"I will go," he said.
Nessia closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them again, the moment had passed.
"Very well," she said.
She stepped closer and placed a hand upon his shoulder. The touch was light, brief, grounding.
She did not withdraw her hand immediately.
For a moment longer, Nessia let her palm rest against his shoulder, as though committing the weight of him into her memory. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand and reached up to her ear.
The earring was small. Unassuming. A simple piece of dark metal shaped into a narrow curve, polished smooth by time and wear. She had worn it for as long as Arinia could remember. Long enough that he had stopped thinking of it as something separate from her.
Nessia's fingers paused against it.
Then she removed it.
The moment it left her skin, the air shifted.
Not violently. Not loudly. Just enough for Arinia to feel its presence.
The earring did not fall. It hovered between her fingers, its surface darkening as fine lines began to emerge across it, glowing faintly with a restrained, internal light. The metal softened, elongated, reshaping itself as though responding to a command that had never needed words.
It unfolded.
Segments split and rejoined, flowing into one another with impossible smoothness.
What had once been a small ornament became something longer, sharper, its edges refined into purpose. The glow dimmed, then vanished entirely, leaving behind a slender nail guard of dark metal, its surface etched with patterns so fine they seemed less carved than remembered.
Nessia's Willborne.
The air around it stilled.
Arinia did not move.
"You are not to use this lightly," Nessia said.
Her voice was calm, but there was weight beneath it now. Not instruction. Not warning.
Truth.
"This is not a weapon meant to dominate," she continued. "It exists to correct. To redirect. To end what cannot be allowed to continue."
She gathered the nail guard with a small motion of her hand, several segments drawing together while the rest remained with her. Then she held what remained out to him.
The set did not form a full span. Three segments answered his presence, the rest settling back against her hand as though they had never been meant to follow.
"For now, it will respond to you," she said. "Not fully. Not as it does to me. But enough."
Arinia reached out.
The moment his fingers closed around the guard, something settled.
Not power.
Alignment.
A quiet pressure ran along his arm, up his neck, and settled briefly at his ear before easing, as though whatever resided within the metal had acknowledged him and chosen restraint.
He exhaled slowly.
"I will return it," he said.
Nessia's lips curved faintly. "You will."
Her hand rested briefly on his face. He had expected something firmer. Instead, it was gentle.
"Come back to me," she said softly. "My dear disciple."
Arinia inclined his head.
Nessia stepped aside, clearing the path behind her.
Arinia passed her without a word.
The shadow beneath the arch deepened as he approached, the air growing cooler with each step. Sound dulled. Light thinned. The world narrowed until only the descent remained.
He did not look back.
As Arinia stepped beneath the ancient stone, the threshold closed around him, swallowing his form without resistance.
Behind him, the evening glow lingered.
Nessia remained where she was. Her hand raised. Watching until even the shadow where he had passed was gone. Only then did she lower her hand. The light beneath the arch was gone. Nessia remained where she was, alone, with the evening coming to an end.
Finally, she turned away, already knowing this moment would never truly leave her.
Be safe, Arinia.