The stairs within the tower did not groan beneath weight the way human stairs did.
They rose in a tight spiral of pale stone, each step worn smooth by time yet somehow still precise, still even—as though the tower itself remembered what it was supposed to be, even if everything else had crumbled around it. Alaric climbed with careful effort, one hand on the inner wall for balance, the other held slightly out as his pale spell-light drifted obediently near his shoulder.
Gina followed close enough that he could feel her presence like heat against his back.
The Knights Gallant moved ahead and behind in disciplined spacing, armored boots scraping softly against stone, lanterns shielded to keep their light low. They looked out of place inside elven architecture, like warhammers set gently upon a glass table—too loud by nature, too blunt for a place that had been carved by hands that preferred elegance.
Yet, for all their bluntness, Alaric was grateful for them.
Because the deeper they went, the more the tower felt… awake.
Not alive. Not breathing. But aware in the way an old book felt aware when you opened it, pages whispering against fingers like they resented the disturbance.
At the top of the spiral, the stairwell opened into a broader level.
Here, the tower widened into what might once have been a common hall—an area where people gathered, ate, spoke, perhaps laughed when laughter was still allowed in places like this. A long, cracked table sat half-buried beneath fallen debris, its surface carved with faint swirling patterns. Benches lay overturned. A side hearth yawned black and empty, soot-stained as though it had burned long after the world above had forgotten the tower existed.
Several smaller rooms opened off the main hall—little interconnected chambers with broken doors and collapsed ceiling corners. One looked like it might have been a pantry; another held the remains of beds and fabric rotted into dust. The air was slightly warmer here, not because of fire, but because the tower's stone held temperature like memory held grief.
Alaric's light drifted toward a window.
He stopped.
Because through that window, he could see daylight.
Not the dead starlight of the hill above, not lantern glow, but the actual pale gray of winter afternoon spilling in like a promise.
His brows knit.
That was impossible. They had entered at night. He had been inside the ruins for what felt like hours, perhaps longer. Yet outside, the sky looked like it was only beginning to dim, as though the day had barely moved.
Time, he realized, might not behave properly within the tower.
Gina noticed his pause and stepped to his side, peering out.
Her breath hissed sharply between her teeth.
The hillside beyond the window was split.
A long crack ran through the earth like a wound, exposing stone and roots and jagged darkness. It looked recent—fresh enough that the torn soil still held damp, darker color beneath the frost. And there, near the base of the crack, Alaric could see faint scuff marks where armored men had scraped through.
Gina's gaze tightened with understanding.
"That's how we entered," she murmured. "We found the fissure from above. Crawled down. Gods above… it must have opened when you broke the barrier, or when the door moved."
The Knights Gallant captain came to the window, grim-faced. "It is narrow," he said. "But passable. We can get you out."
Gina turned on him immediately. "We are getting him out," she snapped, voice low but razor-sharp. "Now."
Alaric's small fingers curled around the edge of his cloak. He did not argue—not because he was suddenly obedient, but because he could feel the tower's tension rising. The deeper they moved, the more the place seemed to notice them. And now there was daylight visible where there should not have been, which meant the tower's rules were not the Empire's rules.
Gina crouched, bringing her eyes level with Alaric's. Her face was set, but her eyes were bright in a way that betrayed how close fear had come to swallowing her composure.
"We leave," she said quietly. "You can bring your books. You can bring your secrets. But you do not take another step deeper."
Alaric hesitated, looking past her toward the shadowed corridors, the smaller rooms, the half-collapsed table like an altar to forgotten meals. His mind screamed with curiosity, with hunger for knowledge and power and the feeling of choosing something in a world that constantly chose for him.
But he also remembered Asimi's voice: Do not waste mana on pride.
So he nodded once.
Gina exhaled, relief and fury tangled together, and turned toward the crack window. "Captain," she commanded, "two men go first. Secure the fissure path. Then we move the prince."
The captain bowed and gestured, and two knights moved away at once, heading toward the broken wall section where the fissure could be reached from inside.
As they began to reposition, a sound crept into the common hall.
A soft grinding.
Stone shifting.
Alaric's head snapped toward it.
At first he thought it was the tower settling. Old stone often did that, especially when disturbed. But the grinding grew sharper, then became a crack, loud enough that dust sifted from the ceiling and drifted down in pale sheets.
One of the side walls—solid stone that had looked stable a moment ago—split along a jagged line.
Gina's posture changed instantly. Her hand moved, not to Alaric, but to her belt, where she had kept her weapons hidden in the way palace servants learned to keep anything useful hidden.
The wall cracked wider.
A sliver of darkness opened.
And from that darkness came eyes.
Small, glinting, hungry eyes that caught lantern light and reflected it back like coins.
A goblin's face shoved through the opening—green skin, wide mouth full of sharp uneven teeth, nose flat and ugly, ears long and twitching. It snarled, and the sound was not a warning but a celebration.
Then another face appeared.
Then another.
The crack widened with unnatural speed, stone breaking as though something on the other side wanted it to break.
And suddenly the common hall was full of movement.
A horde of goblins poured through like filth through a drain—small bodies hunched, weapons crude but numerous: rusted knives, jagged spears, clubs studded with bone. They shrieked in a guttural language and swarmed toward the knights with reckless glee.
"Formation!" the captain bellowed.
The Knights Gallant snapped into action, their training immediate. They formed a defensive line between goblins and the prince, blades flashing, shields lifting. Steel met crude iron. The hall filled with the sound of impacts—metal striking metal, snarling breaths, boots scraping stone.
Alaric stood frozen for a heartbeat, not from cowardice, but from the sheer suddenness of it.
Goblins were real.
He had read about them. Fought them in games. Laughed at their silly voices around a tabletop.
Here, their teeth were wet. Their eyes were alive.
They were not numbers. They were hunger.
Four goblins broke through the edge of the knights' line, ducking low and slipping between armored legs like rats. They sprinted toward Gina and Alaric, shrieking, weapons raised.
Gina moved.
She did not draw a sword. She did not call for a knight.
Instead she snapped a three-section staff from her belt—three short rods connected by chains—unfolding it with a flick that made it snap into lethal motion. The weapon whirled in her hands like part of her body, the chain segments flicking and cracking through the air with controlled violence.
The first goblin lunged.
Gina pivoted, her body turning with dancer-like grace, and the staff whipped across the goblin's wrist with a sharp crack. Bone snapped. The goblin screamed, dropping its knife.
Before it could recover, Gina's heel drove into its chest, sending it skidding backward into its fellows.
A second goblin came from the side, trying to slip around her.
Gina's staff snapped outward again—one segment striking the goblin's temple. The creature crumpled like a cut string, collapsing without another sound.
The third goblin hesitated—only a heartbeat, but long enough.
Gina's staff looped, the chain catching the goblin's ankle. She yanked. It fell hard, and she brought the staff down with a ruthless downward strike that ended its movement.
The fourth goblin—smarter than the rest—did not attack her.
It darted past her, aiming for Alaric.
Gina lunged to intercept—
But another goblin burst through behind it, and suddenly there were two slipping around the chaos, both sprinting directly for the prince.
For a heartbeat, Alaric's mind went blank.
Then training—mana training—filled the space where panic tried to bloom.
He raised his hand.
His voice, small but clear, cut through the noise.
"Magic Missile."
Four arcing lights shot from his fingertips—pale blue-white bolts curving like guided stars. They struck the two goblins in quick succession, thudding into flesh with force that made them stumble.
Alaric's heart surged with relief—
Until he saw that the goblins did not fall.
They hissed and snarled, their skin smoking faintly where the missiles struck, but the damage looked shallow—scratches, angry welts, nothing more. One goblin shook its head violently as if clearing dizziness, then bared its teeth.
The other laughed, a wet choking sound.
Alaric's stomach dropped.
Too weak. The spell had hit true, but his first-sphere casting did not carry enough power. Or the ruins, the tower, the goblins—something here was interfering, dampening.
The goblins surged forward.
Gina shouted his name—sharp and raw—but she was still engaged, still keeping other threats from flanking him. The knights were busy holding the horde. No one could reach him in time.
Alaric's mind raced.
He remembered the book on wondrous items.
He remembered the ring.
His fingers plunged into his cloak pocket, snatching the velvet pouch. The goblins were only a few strides away now, weapons raised, eyes bright with the promise of blood.
He tore the ring free and slid it onto his finger.
It was colder than the mithral doors had been—cold like moonlight pressed into metal.
Alaric braced himself for impact—
And the world stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The goblins froze mid-lunge, mouths open, saliva suspended like tiny droplets in air. A knight's sword hung halfway through a swing, the blade a silver arc caught in stillness. Dust motes stopped drifting. Even the flicker of lantern flame became a motionless shape.
Silence fell so completely it felt like being plunged underwater.
Alaric's breath hitched. He looked around, eyes wide.
Time stop? his old mind supplied wildly. That's— that's not—
A voice sounded directly inside his head.
Ancient. Calm. Resonant, like a bell struck gently in a cathedral that had been abandoned for centuries.
It spoke in an elvish tongue—smooth, flowing, and utterly alien, yet somehow comprehensible in its intent through the ring's contact.
"Quel en'vanya… alanor en'thalas. Nethar tel'na, vaerion."
Alaric's throat tightened.
Then the voice shifted—not into the common tongue, but into meaning that settled inside his mind like a hand pressing flat against his thoughts.
Do not be afraid.You have awakened me.
Alaric's lips parted. "Who—"
I am Alanor, the voice answered, and there was faint pride in the name. Archmage of this tower, once. This ring is not merely a tool. It is a vessel. A memory. A mind.
Alaric stared at the frozen goblins, then down at the ring on his finger. The runes along its band seemed to move more quickly now, like a river finally freed from ice.
Alaric swallowed. "I—"
The voice interrupted gently, with a note of curiosity that felt sharp despite its calm.
And you…
For a moment, the voice pressed closer, not invasive but searching, like fingers brushing the surface of two stacked pages.
You are not one soul.
Alaric's heart thudded hard.
His mind screamed: No. No—
The voice did not laugh. It did not judge. It simply observed.
How unique, Alanor murmured. Two souls in one vessel. One native. One… elsewhere.
Alaric's skin prickled.
Then—like a blade sliding through cloth—the voice slipped past Alaric's practiced mask.
It did not speak to the prince.
It spoke to the man behind the prince.
James Silver.
Alaric went rigid.
His thoughts stuttered, as if someone had grabbed the base of his spine and pulled.
"Don't," he whispered, voice barely audible in the frozen air.
Alanor's tone remained calm, almost gentle.
Do not fear exposure. Time is stilled. No ear hears but yours.I have seen souls before—reincarnations, fragments, echoes. But two fully present within one body… that is rare. That is worthy.
Alaric's mouth went dry. "What do you want?"
A pause.
Then Alanor spoke a single sentence that landed with the weight of an offered blade.
Take me as your master, and I will teach you.
Alaric's breath trembled.
Teach him what?
The palace taught etiquette. Politics. How to smile while being flayed.
Asimi taught him discipline. Will. The shape of survival.
But magic?
True magic—the kind that could make a ruined village thrive, the kind that could keep him from being crushed beneath older brothers and stronger factions, the kind that could protect Dawn and Asmora and his own fragile freedom—
That was not something the palace wanted him to have without chains.
I will teach you arcana, Alanor continued, and there was a quiet intensity now. Not the diluted spheres humans call 'standard.' I will teach you ancient elven magic. Methods of shaping mana that your modern tutors do not remember.
Alaric's mind flashed to the sealed door, the books, the Evolution scroll pressed against his chest.
It all felt like a net tightening.
A trap… or a path.
"What do you get?" Alaric demanded, voice shaking despite himself.
Alanor answered without hesitation.
Continuation.Purpose.A student.And in time—freedom from this ring's imprisonment, if you are capable.
Alaric stared at the frozen goblins again, their crude weapons poised inches from his body.
He had seconds of decision, though time itself was not moving.
If he refused, he might die when time resumed.
If he accepted, he might be handing himself to a new kind of predator—one far older, far smarter.
But the voice did not feel hungry.
It felt… lonely.
And power, Alaric knew, was always dangerous.
The difference was whether you held it consciously or let others hold it for you.
Alaric swallowed and forced his voice steady.
"I accept," he whispered. "On my terms."
Alanor's amusement brushed his mind like a feather.
Spoken like a prince.Very well, James Silver—Alaric Voss Ecthellion. We begin now.
Time resumed.
Sound slammed back in all at once—metal ringing, goblins shrieking, knights shouting, Gina's staff cracking through bone.
The two goblins lunging at Alaric finished their motion—
But Alaric's hand was already raised, the ring burning cold against his skin.
A new spell formed in his mind with startling clarity, as if Alanor had simply placed it there like a loaded arrow.
Scorching Ray.
Alaric did not have time to marvel.
He spoke the words and pushed mana through the ring like pouring fire through a funnel.
Three rays of flame burst from his hand—bright, searing lines of heat that tore through the air. They struck the goblins center-mass with violent precision.
The creatures didn't even have time to scream.
Fire consumed them in an instant, reducing flesh to char and ash, leaving only the stench of burned meat and a brief flicker of embers on stone.
Alaric staggered backward, stunned by the spell's ferocity.
His chest tightened as the mana cost hit him—sharp and draining, like someone had scooped out a chunk of his inner reservoir. He nearly fell, but he caught himself, small hands clenched.
Gina turned just in time to see the goblins collapse into ash.
Her amber eyes widened, shock slicing through rage.
"Alaric—" she began.
But there was no time for questions.
The knights' line had pushed the goblin horde back toward the cracked wall entrance, steel and discipline holding firm. Bodies littered the floor—small green shapes broken and bleeding. The surviving goblins snarled and retreated, their courage fading now that resistance had teeth.
Then, from the cracked wall opening, three larger figures stepped forward.
They were not goblins.
They were goblin-folk, but bigger—taller, broader, their bodies thick with muscle rather than twitchy hunger. Their armor was not scavenged scrap; it was fitted, dark leather reinforced with metal. Their eyes were smarter. Their mouths were set in grim lines rather than manic grins.
Hobgoblins.
They entered with measured steps, weapons held with competence. One carried a heavy cleaver-like blade. Another held a spear with a steel head that gleamed clean. The third wore a crude iron helm and carried a shield marked with a jagged symbol Alaric did not recognize.
The goblin horde quieted behind them, as if the air itself had been disciplined.
The Knights Gallant captain's posture tightened. "Hold," he commanded, voice low.
Gina's three-section staff snapped into a ready stance, chain segments taut.
Alaric's ring-hand trembled slightly—not from fear alone, but from the mana drain still biting at his core. He could feel Alanor's presence like a calm shadow inside his mind, watching, waiting.
And in the ruined common hall of an elven wizard's tower—beneath a cracked hillside and a frozen winter sky—three hobgoblins stared at the little prince who had turned goblins into ash.
One of them smiled.
Not with glee.
With calculation.
And Alaric understood, in the cold pit of his stomach, that this was no longer a simple swarm.
This was the beginning of something organized.