Chapter Eighteen: The Unfurling

Elias woke to the distant sound of a bell — soft, wooden, struck twice. Dawn had not yet climbed the sky, but a pale blue glow swelled through the small window above his bed. The mountain air was cold enough to sting; a thin ribbon of frost rimmed the sill. He sat up slowly, muscles stiff from yesterday’s climb and the weight of last night’s revelations.

For a moment he simply breathed, letting the sounds settle: faint footsteps in the corridor, the scrape of wood, someone laughing quietly. Morning in the Sanctuary, he realized, was not solemn at all. It was awake.

He dressed and stepped into the corridor, where a young man was carrying a basket of folded cloth nearly bumped into him.

“Good morning,” he whispered politely.

Elias returned the greeting, falling into step behind him as the hall widened and opened into the lower courtyard. Eddies of cold air drifted between stone columns, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and bread.

The courtyard was already alive.

Children swept snow from the flagstones with handmade brooms. A group of women stood around a table kneading dough, their sleeves rolled to the elbow, fingers moving with practiced rhythm. Lanterns hung from strings overhead — unlit for now, but swaying gently in the breeze, their colored paper glowing faintly in the newborn light.

And above them all, rising behind the carved roofs, the sky was turning a brilliant pink.

Naomi spotted him first.

She stood near a long wooden table piled high with vegetables, wearing thick wool gloves and a scarf wrapped around her neck despite the heavy robes. She raised a hand, smiling.

“You survived the night,” she teased.

“Barely.” His breath misted in the cold. “What’s all this?”

“Preparations,” she said, nodding toward the courtyard. “Lomba is coming.”

He looked at the lanterns, at the flour dusting the air, at the bustle of hands working in harmony. “Lomba?” he asked. “What is that?”

“It’s the new year for this valley,” Naomi explained, scratching her nose with the back of her wool-clad wrist. “A time for cleansing, feasting, and scaring away bad luck. It’s a big deal here.”

“When is this new year exactly?” Elias asked, watching the organized chaos.

“In almost two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Elias glanced at her, confused. “And you’ve started all of this already?”

“Exactly,” Naomi said, a knowing smile on her face. “Two weeks away means panic. Cleaning, cooking, repairing the prayer wheels, fixing doors—all before Kiran inspects everything and gives his dramatic speech about ‘discipline and efficiency.’”

“I heard that,” someone called from behind her.

Kiran approached with a wooden tray balanced on one hand, still steaming with freshly baked flatbread. His bronze-colored robe caught the morning light as if it remembered metal. His smile was warm, gentle, and completely unbothered by Naomi’s teasing.

“Good morning, Elias,” Kiran said as he set the tray down. “I’m glad we didn’t lose you on the mountain. Julian owes me two coins.”

A dramatic groan sounded from behind Elias. “Don’t remind me.” He turned to see Julian pulling a face, Reina a step behind him holding a bowl. Julian pointed a half-eaten piece of bread at Elias. “You, my friend, just cost me two coins.”

Elias laughed. “Just try not to bet against me next time.”

“Oh, he will,” Reina said, her grin widening as she glanced at Julian's dismayed expression. “Watching you lose is my favorite pre-festival tradition. Frankly, it’s better than the festival itself.”

She offered Elias the bowl. It was filled with a pale, creamy liquid the color of sand, with a faint, oily sheen on its surface.

"What is it?" Elias asked.

"Butter tea," Reina said with an encouraging smile. "Just give it a try. It grows on you."

He took a sip. The tea was rich, salty, warm — unlike anything he’d tasted before, but comforting in a way he couldn’t explain. “Thank you.”

Reina said with a wink. “Let’s eat something first.Then we’ll put you to work.”

Breakfast was served in the lower hall, which echoed with chatter and clattering bowls. Elias found a seat beside Julian, who was arguing with a boy half his size about who stole whose broom.

“I didn’t take it,” Julian insisted, jabbing a finger at the boy. “I borrowed it.”

“That’s the same thing!” the boy protested.

“It absolutely is not,” Julian muttered.

Reina sat across from them, shaking her head in amusement. “Welcome to morning chaos.”

“It’s nice,” Elias said softly.

“Nice?” Julian snorted. “You’re lucky you missed the pre-breakfast chaos.”

“What was that about?”

“The fight over who gets to ring the dawn bell.”

“Children?” Elias guessed.

“No,” Reina said gravely. “The adults.”

Elias laughed, warmth spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with the tea.

They’d been eating for a few minutes when Marcus and Valerie hurried in, their cheeks flushed from the cold. They slid onto the bench opposite Elias and Julian, immediately reaching for the teapot.

“Decided to join us, did you?” Julian said around a mouthful of bread. “We almost sent a search party.”

Valerie rolled her eyes, though a smile played on her lips. “We were checking the northern supply route. The bridge near the red pines is slick with ice. Lucien would have our heads if a delivery team went over the edge a week before Lomba.”

Marcus grunted in agreement, already piling food onto his plate. “Better a late breakfast than a funeral.”

“A sentiment we can all agree on,” Reina said, passing them a basket of flatbread.

Across the room, some old monks were stringing prayer charms. A mother was braiding her daughter’s hair with colored threads. Everything felt woven together—a beautiful disorder that was its own kind of order.

Reina caught his gaze. “You’re thinking something.”

“Just…” Elias searched for words. “I didn’t expect life here to feel so—” He almost finished with human, but instead he said, “—alive.”

Reina nudged his shoulder. “We try not to brood all the time. That’s Lucien’s job.”

Julian choked on his tea laughing. “Don’t let him hear you.”

Elias’s eyes drifted over the crowd, and for the first time, he noticed a pattern. The people weren't just wearing random clothes; their robes, though all roughspun, fell into distinct color groups. Marcus and Valerie wore iron-grey. Reina and Julian wore a muted, dusk brown.

“The robes…” Elias said, gesturing with his chin. “The colors mean something, don’t they?”

Reina nodded. “Each color represents one of the Order’s Circles. There are seven in total.” She pointed subtly around the room. “The iron-grey? Guardians, like our friends here.” Marcus gave a stoic nod. Valerie offered a quick smile.

“And you see that deep crimson on some?” Julian added, leaning forward. “That’s for the Heralds. Then there’s midnight blue for the Watchers, and pale sage for the Healers.”

“Naomi,” Reina continued, “wears the ash and clay of the Guides. And Kiran’s bronze is for the Artisans.”

Julian plucked at his own dull brown sleeve with a mock sigh. “And we get to be the exciting color of dirt. Very fitting for the Hidden Ones.”

“It’s not dirt, it’s dusk,” Reina corrected, rolling her eyes. “It means we’re the ones you never see coming.”

Elias noticed a group of children, their robes the same cream color as his. “I see I’m in the same group as the children,” he noted.

“For now,” Reina said with a laugh. “That robe means you’re unclaimed. It’s the color for all newcomers before a circle calls to them.”

“And how does that happen?” he wondered aloud.

“The Circles just watch you,” Reina said simply. “Each Circle looks for a certain nature. When the masters see it, they invite you. You’ll feel it too—a sense of coming home.”

“And if no one chooses you,” Julian added, plucking his own sleeve, “we are always recruiting in the Hidden Ones.”

They all erupted in laughter, and the cheerful mood carried them through the rest of breakfast.

After breakfast, Naomi dragged Elias into the courtyard with a broom shoved into his hands.

“You’re helping with sweeping,” she declared.

Elias stared at the enormous courtyard. “All of this?”

Naomi smirked. “Be grateful. Kiran wanted you to help repair the prayer wheels.”

“Sweeping seems like a safer bet,” he said.

“Good. Now start in that corner and don’t stop until I say so.”

As he swept, the Sanctuary moved around him like a living body. Young men lugged buckets of icy water. Women scrubbed stone carvings with cloths. Two monks on ladders replaced frayed prayer flags. A dog chased a child who carried a stick twice his height.

Elias found himself smiling at the entire spectacle.

Snow collected on his shoulders. Cold crept through his boots. But the rhythm of sweeping — the scrape of straw across stone — eased some of the heaviness he carried.

“You look like you’re actually enjoying that,” Julian called as he passed with an armful of firewood.

“I’ve been handed worse assignments.”

“Keep saying that,” Julian said, “and they’ll make you clean the western tunnels.”

“Why? What’s in the western tunnels?”

Julian grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

He vanished toward the kitchens before Elias could protest.

As the morning wore on, a shadow fell across the courtyard from above — tall, deliberate, unmistakably purposeful. A man in deep crimson robes descended the stairs, his steps light despite the steep incline. His robe hem brushed against the stone like a whisper.

He carried a slim scroll tucked beneath one arm.

His eyes — dark, sharp, observant — landed on Elias almost immediately.

“There you are,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant. “I hoped I would find you before they kidnapped you for errands.”

Naomi straightened beside Elias. “Master Alistair.”

Alistair inclined his head. “Naomi.”

He turned to Elias with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes but seemed honest all the same.

“You must be Elias.”

“I— yes.”

“Walk with me,” Alistair said. “If you’re not too critical to the sweeping operation.”

Naomi waved him off with mock severity. “Go. You’re sweeping like someone who has never held a broom.”

“That’s because I haven’t—”

“Go,” she repeated, laughing.

Alistair led him through a quieter passage, where incense drifted in soft ribbons and the air warmed with trapped sunlight. Painted cloths hung along the walls — scenes of old myths interspersed with symbols Elias did not recognize.

“I am Alistair ,” he said as they walked. “Head of the Heralds, and the Voice of the Council.”

The title carried weight, but Alistair himself moved with unassuming ease. His voice felt practiced, like someone who had spoken in front of far too many councils.

“I wanted to welcome you personally,” Alistair continued. “Miraya told us last night that you arrived safely.” He paused, then added with a hint of humor, “Lucien said you arrived ‘alive, somehow,’ but he has very specific expectations of newcomers.”

Elias laughed. “I get the feeling I’m not his favorite person.”

Alistair replied, "Well, as Head of the Guardians, he is just doing his job protecting the Order from danger. You may be one of us, but to him, you are still a stranger."

Elias felt his pulse quicken. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“Everyone is dangerous,” Alistair said. “Every awakened soul contains a truth capable of breaking them. You are no different. But you…” He hesitated. “You are not like the others. Not entirely. Miraya did not say this directly, but she believes you are important. And I trust her instinct with my life.”

Elias stared at the ancient stones of the floor, his thoughts spiraling. “I’m not sure why she thinks so,” he said quietly, “but I didn’t ask to be important.”

“None of us did,” he replied softly. “That is the tragedy of reincarnation. We arrive bearing the consequences of choices we don’t remember.”

They walked the rest of the way in a silence that felt heavier than before. Then, Alistair stopped and pushed open a carved door.

Beyond the door was a small chamber lined with papers — inkstones, scrolls, stacks of parchment, and shelves filled with rolled manuscripts. On the other side of the room, a narrow desk stood near a window where sunlight spilled like liquid gold, illuminating a sleek, open laptop and a satellite phone that looked out of place yet completely at home among the scattered parchments and worn leather bindings.

“This is my workspace, when I'm here ofcourse.” Alistair said. “Forgive the mess, I’ve been preparing the stories for the festival.”

Elias looked around. “These are… stories?”

“Stories, histories, truths no one wanted to write but someone had to remember.” Alistair brushed dust from a scroll. “The Heralds were record-keepers long before we learned to speak human language. It’s in our nature.” He gave Elias a small glance. “Just as it is in yours to question.”

Elias shifted, unsure how to respond.

Alistair gestured for him to sit near the low table. A pot of tea waited there, still warm. He poured two cups.

“You probably wonder why I wanted to speak with you,” he said.

“I do,” Elias admitted quietly.

Alistair smiled. “Well, as the Voice of the Council, I find it my duty to welcome the newcomers, and explain to them how the things work out here.”

Elias choked. “What things?”

“Well, like any other places, politics play an important role here.”

Elias was surprised to hear the word ‘politics.’

Alistair took a sip of tea. “Politics,” he murmured, “is too delicate a word for what we do—too polite.” He set the cup down with a soft click. “The Order is ancient, Elias. And where there is age, there are factions.”

He let the statement hang in the air, watching Elias while he said nothing. When Elias remained silent, he continued.

“In recent decades, we have found our brothers and sisters at a much higher pace than in the old days. There are now more than one hundred Awakened in the Order—more than any other time in our history.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Elias asked.

Leaning forward slightly, his voice lowering, he responded, “It depends. As much as this growth can increase our power, it can also divide us. You see, some of us embrace the human life we’ve lived, but others... they cling to the old concepts of hierarchy.” He paused, his gaze intent. “And of course there are those who believe the world is too corrupted to save... and must be cleansed to be rebuilt.”

“And where do you stand?” Elias asked before he could stop himself.

Alistair’s eyes softened. “With Miraya. Always. And with Naomi. They see people first, power second — something many in the Order have forgotten.”

He slid a small parchment across the table. It held symbols Elias didn’t recognize—fluid lines, curved marks. “These are the names of the Seven Circles as they were known before language fractured,”Alistair said.

Elias studied the shapes. Despite their strangeness, his eyes traced the symbols with an odd, unconscious familiarity.

“The Seven Circles you see here are mirrors of the choirs we served in Heaven, which were reflections of our truest nature. I am the Voice of Council and Head of the Heralds. Lucien leads the Guardians. Kiran is Master of the Artisans. And Miraya is both Head of the Guides and the Elder who leads our Council.”

He put down his cup, looking straight into Elias’s eyes. “That leaves three of us that you haven’t met yet.” He paused for a few seconds. “Master Chiara, Head of the Healers. Master Lan, Head of the Watchers. And the last and most dangerous one is Master Imani, Head of the Hidden Ones.”

A cold shiver traced the length of Elias’s spine. Most dangerous. The words landed, not like a challenge, but like a blade laid flat on a table. “Why is she dangerous?” Elias asked, his voice lower than he intended.

Alistair studied him, as if judging how much of the truth he could hold. “Not ‘dangerous’ in the way Lucien is, with a sword,” he said finally. “Imani is dangerous like a silent, falling stone that starts an avalanche. She knows things no one is meant to know. She sees the cracks in every alliance and the truth behind every lie. The Hidden Ones operate in the shadows we pretend don’t exist. To have her on the Council is a necessity. To think she is anything less than perilous is a fatal mistake.”

Silence settled between them. Outside, a few bells chimed as children raced past the hallway.

“The Council is divided about you, Elias. Many eyes are watching, each with their own agenda. So you must be careful—in your actions, and in who you trust.” Alistair’s gaze was intent. “Where there is power, there is always a quiet war over who controls it. And make no mistake, such a war is already unfolding around you. Maybe it’s for the best if you try to keep a low profile for now.”

Alistair paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, then rose and walked to the window. “The Sanctuary is preparing for Lomba,” he said, his voice returning to its steady, instructive rhythm. “The festival is many things to the people here. Renewal. Reflection. A farewell to the old year.” He turned toward Elias. “To the Awakened, it is a remembrance. A chance to honor the First Ones—those whose lives carved our path.”

He looked at Elias as though weighing a decision.

“I want you to witness these preparations closely,” Alistair said. “Help where you can. Watch how the Sanctuary breathes. Listen to the stories the people tell as they work. Their words may reveal more than my explanations.”

Elias nodded, unsure if he agreed or simply didn’t know what else to do.

Alistair placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “And Elias?”

“Yes?”

“Do not fear the echo you feel inside.”

Elias looked up.

“Fear,” Alistair said softly, “is the only thing that has ever silenced a Fallen's past.”

A knock came at the door. Reina cracked it open, cheeks flushed from running. A knock came at the door. Reina leaned in, slightly breathless. “Elias, Naomi needs you. And Kiran says if you don’t help him move the wooden frames for the ritual stage, he’ll assign you to tunnel duty.”

Alistair sighed dramatically. “Go. Before Kiran officially claims you for the Artisans.”

Reina grinned. “I think he already stamped your name on the roster.”

Elias stood, bowing slightly in thanks. “Thank you for the tea. And… for the warning.”

“It wasn’t a warning,” Alistair replied. “Just advice from someone who has seen too many truths mishandled.”

Elias left with Reina, the corridor flooding again with light and sound.

Behind him, Alistair returned to his chamber, murmuring quietly to himself — the words too soft to hear, but carrying the weight of old memory.

The courtyard had grown louder by the time Elias and Reina returned — hammers clacking against wood, ropes tightening around beams, laughter rippling through the chill mountain air. Kiran stood near the northern wall, observing the work with a critical but calm eye. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, but his hands were clean. A young man with intense focus and forearms dusted with wood shavings was fitting together a half-assembled wooden frame that lay at his feet.

“There you are,” Kiran said, only half turning. “I was starting to think you’d been stolen by the Heralds.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,”Reina muttered.

Kiran grinned,then gestured to the young man. “Elias, this is Tenzin. One of my best.” He then nodded toward a woman across the frame who was guiding a length of silk through a large loom. “And that’s Sofia, who’s responsible for the embroidered tapestries.” A sharp whirring sound drew his attention to a corner where a man was carefully routing the edge of a panel. “And Mateo is the one daring to use the power tools near the ancient wood. If you have questions, they are the ones to ask.”

Tenzin looked up, gave a brief, serious nod, then returned to his work. Kiran clapped a hand on Elias's shoulder. “Come. Tenzin needs an extra pair of hands.”

Naomi was beside them, sorting bundles of rope. When she noticed Elias approaching, her expression brightened.

“You’re just in time,”she said. “We’re building the frames for the story stage. Every Lomba we retell some of the First Ones’ deeds.”

“Like the murals on the wall?”Elias asked.

“Exactly like the murals,”Naomi said. “Just louder. And with more shouting.”

“And fire,”Reina added.

Kiran shot her a warning look.“Less fire this year.”

“Tenzin’s dragon puppet last year nearly lit the Elder’s robe on fire,”Reina clarified with a grin.

“It was a calculated risk,”Tenzin said without looking up, his voice a low rumble.

“It made a child cry,”Sofia added from her loom, not missing a beat in her weaving.

“One,”Tenzin repeated firmly, finally pausing to scowl in her direction. “A very dramatic one.”

Elias chuckled, then knelt beside the wooden beams. Tenzin handed him a chisel and a wooden mallet without a word. The moment Elias wrapped his fingers around the tools, something loosened in his chest—some small, buried instinct shifting awake.

“You’ve done this before,” Tenzin observed, his voice calm and flat.

Elias blinked. “A little. When I was younger… I lived in a community home. There was this old caretaker who used to carve toys and fix furniture. He let me help sometimes.” He ran his fingers over the grain, feeling the smoothness beneath the frost. “I didn’t have much, but I always liked working with my hands.”

From behind them, Kiran nodded, not impressed, not surprised—merely seeing him. “Craft tells the truth about a person,” he said. “Tools don’t lie. They reveal.”

Naomi tossed Elias a rope coil. “Don’t let them fool you. They say wise things like that and then build puppets that scar children for life.”

Elias laughed under his breath and began smoothing the edge of the frame. The rhythm of carving — tap, scrape, tap — settled into him like something remembered. Tenzin said nothing at first, simply watching Elias’s hands with the interest of a craftsman observing another. When Elias finished the first joint and fitted it into place with a solid click, Tenzin raised a brow.

“Hm,” he murmured. “Maybe we shouldn’t waste you on sweeping.”

Elias smirked. “Don’t tell Naomi. She’ll make me sweep twice as much.”

“She will,” Naomi confirmed.

The work continued through the morning. Breath turning white in the cold. Sawdust dusting Elias’s sleeves. The Sanctuary alive in every direction — children giggling as they chased each other with bundles of dried reeds, monks testing lantern frames for balance, the aroma of simmering broth drifting from the kitchens.

Halfway through tightening a rope knot, Elias watched a young boy, no older than six, try to lift a wooden mallet twice his size. The simple, human scene made him think of the immense secret Naomi carried.

“Naomi?” he asked quietly, not looking at her. “Are any of the children here… like you?”

Her hands stilled on the rope. She followed his gaze to the boy, and a profound sadness touched her eyes before she masked it. “No,” she said, her voice soft. “I am the only one born in the last century.”

Elias turned to her, surprised by the weight in her tone. “Why? If the Order is finding more of the Awakened now than ever…”

“It’s not about finding them. It’s about what they remember.” She let out a slow breath, her gaze distant. “Most only remember some of their past lives as humans. But to remember your first life… to know the angelic grace that lies within you… that's something else entirely.”

She looked down at her own hands, as if seeing something else. “Only those who fully remember their celestial origin can pass that legacy to their children.”

“So there are others? Others who remember… everything?”

“Of course, every one on the Council, and a few others,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But that full awakening… it changes you. The angel you were once can overshadow the human you’ve been for so long. Many who fully awaken become… detached. They guide, they protect, but they rarely love in a human way. They don’t build families.”

She gave a small, sorrowful smile. “My parents were a miracle. Two fully awakened souls who found each other, and chose a human life, and chose to have me. It’s why I’m the only one.”

Elias absorbed her words. He had known Naomi's mother was one of the Awakened, but her father was one as well? It was a surprise to him. His mind was full of questions now, but the fragile look on her face—the sorrow wrapped in her smile—stopped him. Instead, he gave voice to the feeling her story left in the air between them.

“You must have felt so lonely growing up,” he said, his voice soft.

“I did,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the playing children. “It’s a particular kind of lonely, being the only one of your kind. But not everything about it was hollow.” She looked back at him, a new softness in her eyes. “It taught me how to listen—to the world, and to others who feel the same.”

Elias held her gaze, understanding passing between them in the silence. There was nothing more to say.

Over the next days, Elias learned the rhythm of the Sanctuary through labor, and the history of the First Ones through fragments of stories passed like tools. An old man sanding a pillar spoke of Pema, whose voice could mend bone. Women kneading dough whispered of Solen, who walked into dreams and never returned. Each tale was a different shard of the history of his people, and with every one, the weight of that forgotten legacy grew heavier.

Seven days after his arrival, the daily routine still held, but with a heightened sense of anticipation. Lomba was now only a week away. By late afternoon the sky bruised into indigo, and the courtyard lanterns brightened in a slow, deliberate glow. Children ran with them, turning the courtyard into a constellation of moving stars.

Naomi nudged Elias with her elbow. “Come on. There’s something you should see.”

He followed her up a flight of stone steps that led to a wide terrace overlooking an open practice field. Snow had been cleared from most of it, but frost still glimmered at the edges. Several people had gathered along the railing — some monks, a few villagers, two children perched on the stone ledge.

At the center of the field stood Marcus and Valerie, both gripping wooden practice swords.

Valerie lunged first.

Marcus blocked, pivoted, and countered with a clean arc. The crack of wood echoed like thunder against the stone. Sparks of frost sprayed from their boots as they moved. It was nothing like the slow disciplines Elias had imagined monks practicing in the mountains. This was fast. Fierce. Beautiful.

Reina appeared beside Elias, arms folded.

“They’re warming up,” she explained. “Later they’ll actually start trying.”

Julian stood further down the railing, collecting coins into a small pouch.

“Marcus has this one,” Julian announced confidently.

Reina rolled her eyes. “Marcus lost to Valerie last week.”

“Because he slipped!”

“Because he blinked.”

“Those are very different things,” Julian argued.

Naomi approached the railing and leaned forward, her breath fogging the cold air. “Ten coins on Valerie,” she said.

Reina snapped her fingers. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Julian gasped. “You traitors.”

The spar picked up speed. Valerie advanced with a rapid flurry, forcing Marcus back step by step. He parried the first few strikes, but she moved like storm wind—quick, relentless, always one intention ahead.

Marcus stumbled.

The watching crowd leaned forward as one.

Valerie’s wooden blade flicked past his guard, tapped his wrist, and then the center of his chest.

He fell backward into the snow.

The field erupted in cheers. Reina whooped. Naomi clapped. Julian groaned as he handed over a small pile of coins. “You’re all thieves,” he muttered.

Valerie offered Marcus a hand. “Next time, don’t blink.”

“I didn’t blink,” he protested.

“You hesitated. Same thing.”

Julian turned to Elias with mischief in his eyes. “Your turn.”

Elias blinked. “My what?”

“Come on,” Julian said, nudging him toward the stairs. “Give it a try. You’re quick on your feet. Or are you afraid you’ll fall faster than Marcus?”

Elias hesitated. He remembered Alistair’s warning.

The Council is not united. Do not draw too much attention.

But Julian’s grin was infectious. Valerie twirled her practice sword in invitation.

“Just a bit of fun,” she said. “I won’t break anything you need.”

Naomi raised a brow, watching Elias closely.

He exhaled. “All right,” he said. “One round.”

The crowd cheered.

Elias descended into the practice field. The cold bit into his fingers as he picked up a wooden sword. It was lighter than he expected. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t have been.

Valerie took her stance.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded.

She attacked first — a clean diagonal strike meant to test him.

He moved without thinking.

His body turned. The wooden blade met hers with a soft thock. She shifted left; he pivoted. She swept low; he hopped over the sweep, landed steady. Valerie grinned with delight.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

The pace accelerated. Valerie struck in rapid succession — high, low, midline, reverse. Elias parried each one, not with force but with instinct. His body remembered patterns he had never consciously learned. The weight shift of a swordsman. The rhythm of someone who had survived battle after battle in a life long gone.

He did not attack.

He only defended.

And despite that, Valerie began to falter. She lunged too far; he stepped aside, guiding her momentum past him with a gentle redirection. She nearly lost her grip on her sword trying to catch herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-frustrated.

The crowd loved it — cheers rising, coins changing hands quickly. Julian pumped a fist in the air. “Elias! That’s my boy!”

Elias shook his head. “I’m barely doing anything.”

“Exactly!” Reina shouted. “It’s insulting!”

Valerie attacked again, more aggressively this time. Elias slipped aside, pivoted, and let her momentum collapse. She fell sideways into the snow with a muffled groan.

“Ugh—okay,” she said, lifting a hand. “I’m calling that one yours.”

Before Elias could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“What’s the fun in fighting humans?”

Silence fell.

A group of Guardians stood at the edge of the field — iron-grey robes sharp against the snow. One stepped forward. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Arrogance carved into every line of his face. His gaze locked onto Elias like a challenge already accepted.

“If you want a real match,” he said, “fight one of your own kind.”

Elias felt the air tighten. “I’m fine,” he began. “It was only a spar—”

The Guardian stepped closer. “Afraid?”

“No,” Elias said. “Just not interested.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t pretend to be one of us.”

Naomi bristled instantly. “Back off, Tarek.”

Tarek smirked. “Why? He’s the one pretending to be a Guardian.”

Elias stiffened. “I never said that.”

“But you moved like one.”

A ripple went through the crowd.

Julian muttered, “Oh no. Oh no no no, this is bad…”

Reina whispered, “Naomi, stop him.”

But Elias stepped forward.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “One match.”

Naomi’s eyes widened. “Elias—”

“It’s okay.”

Tarek smiled. A predator’s smile.

They squared off.

Tarek attacked first — fast, fast, unbelievably so. His sword blurred. Snow kicked up behind him as he launched into a flurry of strikes that would have broken an ordinary man.

But Elias wasn’t ordinary.

He didn’t meet speed with speed. He let Tarek’s momentum pass him, letting the force slide off him like water over stone. His feet remembered the dance. Every strike found empty air. Every attempt to corner him slipped into nothingness.

Tarek growled in frustration.

“Stand still!”

“That seems like a bad idea,” Elias replied.

The Guardian lunged again. Elias parried. Sidestepped. Avoided. His blade guided Tarek’s wrist just enough to open his stance—Valerie gasped as Tarek stumbled.

Elias tapped him lightly on the back.

A clean strike.

A humiliating one.

Tarek froze.

The courtyard held its breath.

Then— Tarek roared.

His eyes flared. Not with light, but with something deeper. A ripple of energy surged outward from him, the air bending, snow lifting off the ground.

Naomi stepped forward in alarm. “Tarek, don’t—!”

Too late.

Invisible force slammed into Elias’s chest like a tidal wave. His breath was ripped away. His feet left the ground. He flew across the field, crashing into the practice rack in an explosion of wooden clatter.

Pain flared up his side. The world tilted. But he was back on his feet before he could understand, the wooden sword firm in his hand.

The crowd cried out.

Tarek advanced, sword raised, fury distorting his face—

“ENOUGH.”

The voice cracked across the courtyard like thunder.

Everything stopped.

Lucien stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by Kiran and Alistair. His iron-grey robe caught the wind, scars casting long lines across his face. His expression was carved from ice.

“Tarek,” Lucien said, descending each step with slow, controlled fury. “Stand down.”

Tarek stiffened, bowing his head. “Master— I— he—”

“Silence.”

Lucien didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Kiran reached him first, smoothly taking the sword from his hand while his other hand checked for injuries. “Easy now, don't move. Just breathe.”

A moment later, Naomi was there, her face pale with fury. “Are you hurt? Elias—look at me.”

Elias took a shaky breath. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just… winded.”

Alistair approached behind Lucien, eyes sharp and unreadable, studying Elias not for injury, but for signs—signs of something dangerous awakening, yet he found none.

Lucien stood in front of Tarek. “You disgraced the Guardians today,” he said. “You broke discipline. You used power in a spar. You endangered a brother.”

Tarek swallowed hard, face pale.

Lucien turned his head slightly, looking past him at the crowd. “Training is over,” he announced. “Return to your duties.”

People scattered instantly, murmuring, the air thick with tension and embarrassment.

Naomi steadied Elias, one hand hovering near his elbow, the other balled into a fist as if she wanted nothing more than to punch Tarek herself.

Lucien faced Elias at last. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp as a blade. He said nothing, his silence a heavier judgment than any words. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he simply turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing across the frozen stone.

Kiran and Alistair exchanged a look — a strange, shared understanding Elias couldn’t decipher.

Naomi touched his elbow gently. “Hey,” she murmured. “Don’t let this settle wrong in you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Elias nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. Snow drifted softly around them, settling in thin, delicate sheets over the practice field—a fragile quiet that he knew was just waiting for the storm.