Silence pressed on the battlefield.
Where Myrwol once stood, there was only a void. Not ash. Not blood. Just absence. Like he had never truly existed.
No one moved.
Kael slumped to one knee, breath ragged. Blood painted the stone beneath him.
G was half-collapsed, arms trembling as he tried to hold V upright. The hammer-wielding boy was pale, blood dripping from a split brow, ribs visibly bruised beneath torn armor.
Luck knelt by Rorek's body, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of his friend's cloak. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared.
Even Risan stood still for once—eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.
And then—
A quiet hum.
A gentle wave of power rippled out from the robed figure who had unmade Myrwol. His eyes shimmered with silver and gold as he raised his hand—not to strike, but to soothe.
Light fell over the broken.
Not blinding. Not dramatic.
Just… mending.
Kael gasped as breath returned easier to his lungs. Wounds along his ribs sealed, pain dulling into nothing.
G and V straightened, unbruised bones knitting silently under skin.
Even Caelindra's cuts faded, the tension in her blade-arm easing.
The light passed over all of them, and in its wake… there was stillness again.
Then, without a word, the robed man turned.
Nine others stepped forward from behind him—tall, inhuman, ageless.
They stood like echoes of the beginning and end, each presence as distinct as a star in a dead sky.
One by one, they stepped forward, introducing themselves without flourish—only inevitability.
"Thamyra. Weaver of Unmade Threads."
A woman with starlight-bound hair and a voice spun from unraveling silence.
"Skarael. Shadow of the Raven."
Half-there, half-whisper, his form shifted with the dusk, eyes unreadable.
"Nahotep. Calm Before Judgment."
Golden-armored, eyes like still water. The quiet before a blade falls.
"Eshunna. Thunder's Echo."
Storm-marked, broad-shouldered, speaking like distant thunder about to arrive.
"Velmorak. Flame Between Worlds."
A furnace in human shape. Firelight danced in his eyes like portals opening.
"Anuunra. Crown of the Unseen Sun."
Veiled, faceless, radiating a pressure like noon at the world's end.
"Mavrosyne. Dark Wisdom."
Eyes blind and knowing. Each word weighed like secrets not yet spoken.
"Kezefir. Hound of the End."
The growl came before the form. Shaggy-haired, spine-split like something barely human, barely contained.
"Fenris. The Wolf Without Chains."
Wild, unbound, gaze burning with a loyalty that could destroy.
"Branhalok. Guardian of the Bound Shore."
Salt-soaked, boots leaving no prints, as though he walked the edge of death itself.
Now the circle was complete.
The Scions stood like statues of meaning—ancient, patient, inevitable.
Kael's fists were clenched. "No. I won't accept this. You killed him."
Luck stepped beside him, eyes sharp beneath the tension. "One of ours is dead. And now you speak of training?"
Anuunra's gaze did not waver. "You mistake consequence for choice. You were always marked."
Nahotep stepped forward, voice quiet but resonant. "We do not offer you a path. We reveal the one beneath your feet."
Kael opened his mouth—but stopped.
A sound echoed behind him. A low gasp.
They turned.
Rorek lay where he had fallen—still, broken… then slowly, impossibly, he stirred.
Color bloomed back into his skin. Breath returned to his lungs.
He sat up, blinking as if from a deep sleep.
"…Kael?" His voice was hoarse.
Everyone froze.
Even Kael took a step forward, heart pounding.
"…Rorek?"
Thamyra lifted her hand, threads of invisible intent drifting from her fingers.
"Not resurrection," she said. "Restoration. A gift for what comes next."
Kael fell to his knees beside Rorek, hands trembling.
"...You were dead."
Rorek gave a faint smile. "Still hurts like hell."
A beat of silence.
Then the Scions stepped forward again, and their presence gathered like a silent tide.
Anuunra spoke. "Now that you live, you must understand."
Velmorak added, "You have been chosen, each of you. Our marks are not mere power—they are inheritance. Burden. Catalyst."
Skarael's voice cut through: "You have ten days."
Mavrosyne's eyes glowed with knowing. "Ten days to make peace with your world. Ten days before the Tower shifts again."
Nahotep, quiet and steady: "When that time ends, you will be taken by the Scion who claimed you. And your path will truly begin."
No one spoke.
There were too many emotions in the air—grief unspoken, anger unresolved, wonder tempered by fear.
Then—
Anuunra raised her hand.
A ripple of light, calm and absolute, spread across the field.
Reality bent.
And in a breath—
—they stood at the Quiet Lands' entrance, grass swaying, stars quietly blooming above.
The Tower was behind them.
The countdown had begun.
The air in the Quiet Lands shimmered with stillness—thick grass waving in low winds, as if undisturbed by the chaos left behind in the Tower. The terrain stretched outward, a shifting land of twilight and silver mists, speckled with ancient stones and glimmering flora.
And standing at the entrance checkpoint, a unit awaited.
The Aegis Consortium.
Veteran explorers. Tower-certified troubleshooters. Not just guards or scholars—handlers. Investigators, appointed by the higher Tower authorities to manage disruptions, record anomalies, and extract survivors from compromised zones.
There were five of them now, in half-circle formation, weapons at ease but eyes sharp.
One stepped forward as the group of exhausted, bloodied climbers appeared from nothing.
She wore silver-rimmed armor layered over white robes, and a circlet marked with three carved lines over her temple. Her posture was relaxed—but her eyes moved fast, studying wounds, stances, expressions.
"Kael Faelwyn," she said without introduction. "And company."
Kael blinked, still dizzy from the transition.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "That's us."
Behind her, a man with dark skin and a braided beard scribbled rapidly into a scroll-like ledger. Another—broad-shouldered, wearing an enchanted eyepatch—stood watch near a glowing prism scanning the air.
The woman spoke again. Her tone clipped, precise.
"I am Floor Commander Althea Syvaris. You're late. You were dispatched under sealed writ. Deep anomaly. No signals returned. We were sent to investigate… but it seems you beat us back."
Her gaze swept them again—landing on Rorek, very much alive.
"…Status of your team?" she asked sharply.
Vice Commander Maren, standing beside her, narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
Luck stepped forward now, voice clear despite exhaustion. "One casualty. Temporary. Revived. Situation… is complicated."
One of the handlers raised a brow.
Althea gestured subtly. "Start from the beginning."
Kael exchanged a glance with Allen, then looked back at the woman.
"…It started with a tower-born anomaly named Myrwol. But that wasn't the real threat."
He glanced behind him, instinctively, though the Scions were no longer visible.
He added, voice low:
"There are things older in the Tower. And they've started moving."
The air grew colder. Even the Consortium's steady posture shifted—just slightly.
Althea nodded once. "We'll need a full debrief. We'll set up in the command tent. No Tower return clearance until your report is verified."
She stepped back.
"Rest. You've earned that much."
Then paused.
"And if what you said is true… then the Tower isn't ready."
The command tent was large, but it still felt cramped.
Not from size—but from pressure.
Arcane diagrams floated in the air, projected from shimmering glyphstones placed at each corner. Runes flickered over the canvas. Scrying globes glowed in violet and red, locked in containment shells.
Kael, Allen, V, G, Risan, Caelindra, Luck, and Rorek sat or stood in a half-circle around a central table—cracked from wear and scorched along one edge.
Across from them: Commander Althea, Vice Commander Maren, and three Consortium specialists—Archivist Drail, Combat Evaluator Teyv, and Psychometric Scribe Lin.
Drail clicked his tongue as he reviewed their files. "Ten days missing. Sealed zone. All presumed dead. Then you show up with…" He glanced at Rorek. "…One who was."
Kael's jaw flexed. "We fought Myrwol. He wasn't just a Tower-born. He was… a part of something else. Something older."
Teyv leaned forward. "Describe his abilities."
Allen nodded slightly. "Shadow-born projection. Conceptual manipulation—he attacked our fears, bent memory. He broke the rules of engagement. Warped the trial structures."
"He killed one of us," V said, voice low. "And made us watch."
Rorek didn't speak. He looked… changed. Quiet, eyes distant. Still grappling with whatever lingered from the edge of death.
"Then what changed?" asked Althea.
Kael hesitated.
And then said, evenly, "One of the ancient ones intervened."
That caused a stir. Even Lin, silent till now, flinched at the phrasing.
Allen continued: "They called themselves Scions. Ten in number. Not Tower-born—older than that. One of them destroyed Myrwol with a thought. No combat. Just… removed him."
Caelindra exhaled. "They weren't hostile. But they weren't gentle, either. They knew who we were. As if they'd been watching us."
Maren finally spoke. "And?"
Luck took a step forward.
"They chose us."
More silence.
"Each of them picked one of us," he went on. "Said we carried remnants of what they once were. Called it an 'inheritance.'"
G nodded. "Origin Marks."
Althea narrowed her eyes. "Those are myths. Lost branches of Sigil evolution."
"Not anymore," Kael muttered.
"They gave us ten days," Risan added. "To make peace with what we are. After that… we're theirs."
"What does that mean?" Teyv snapped.
"They didn't say," Luck replied. "But from the weight in their voices? It's not a request. It's a claim."
Drail leaned back slowly. "We've seen mutations. Aberrant growths in Sigils. But this—if true—means the Tower is opening doors it sealed for a reason."
"They said the Tower remembers them," Allen whispered. "That it built itself around them."
Lin spoke now, her voice faint: "You didn't just survive a sealed trial. You were marked by the Tower's architects."
Althea rose, folding her arms. "This debrief will be archived as a Tier One Event Log. No outside communication. No Sigil use without clearance. And no returning to the Tower until our analysts finish the psychic trace."
She paused, scanning their faces.
"Until then… consider yourselves grounded."
Kael looked down at the faint glow pulsing from his heart.
He wasn't sure that mattered anymore.
The camp had quieted under the weight of starlight.
Banners rustled in the cold breeze coming down from the tower spine, and the murmurs of Consortium soldiers faded as night swallowed the last of the day's noise.
Kael sat alone at the edge of the camp, overlooking the sloping mist fields beyond. His legs hung off the wooden platform, boots just above the dew-covered grass. He was still. Tired in a way no sleep could touch.
Footsteps approached, soft.
Allen sat beside him, silent at first. They both stared ahead.
The silence was comfortable.
Eventually, Allen broke it. "You remember what we said before the Tower opened?"
Kael blinked, then nodded. "We'd get stronger. Protect each other. Make it mean something."
Allen gave a quiet laugh. "I thought it meant climbing floors. Gaining powers. Being useful."
"Wasn't it?" Kael asked, not sarcastically—genuinely unsure.
"I don't know anymore."
A pause. The wind picked up.
"I saw myself down there," Allen continued. "Or something that thought it was me. Cold. Distant. Efficient. Like a weapon, just… waiting for permission."
Kael's eyes didn't leave the horizon. "But you didn't become that."
"I came close," Allen said. "Too close."
They sat in silence again.
Then Kael said softly, "Rorek died."
Allen turned to him.
"And came back," Kael said. "But for a moment—I felt it. That helplessness. The one I used to live with every day, before the Tower. The feeling that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the world from breaking the people I cared about."
Allen was quiet.
"Now we're marked," Kael said. "By beings we barely understand. And we don't even get to say no."
Allen leaned back, gazing up at the stars. "Maybe. But we're not alone."
He looked at Kael, his voice steady. "If they're trying to make us into monsters… they'll have to break both of us first."
Kael turned, a small flicker of a smile at the edge of his lips.
"That sounds like something Luck would say."
"Yeah," Allen said, smirking. "But he'd be yelling it, probably drunk."
The two of them sat there, side by side, saying nothing more.
Just breathing, beneath the stars.
---
Luck stands at the edge of the Quiet Lands' cliffs, arms folded as the wind tugs at his coat. His hair is damp from the mist. A bottle sits beside him—untouched.
He watches the horizon like it holds answers, speaking softly to the wind.
"Ten days to make peace, huh? Not enough time to fix the past. Just enough to think too much about it."
He doesn't drink. He thinks. That's worse.
V sharpens the edge of his greathammer, even though it doesn't need it.
Each motion is methodical. Focused.
He's seated alone near the training ring, his scarred hands steady, his face expressionless.
But when a younger recruit walks by—limping, bandaged—V pauses.
He tosses the boy a spare ration. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to.
G sits inside the medical tent, watching over the sleeping form of a minor injured scout—someone who panicked during the last assault and got crushed by debris. G shielded him without thinking.
Now, he stays.
When someone asks why he doesn't leave, he replies, "They'll need someone here when he wakes up."
He doesn't say it, but he didn't want to wake up alone either.
Risan lounges atop the outer wall, one leg swinging casually over the edge.
His smile is there. Playful. Too calm.
He's been sketching in a worn notebook—faces, flowers, fragments of the corridor they left behind.
Then he flips the page.
Draws a mirror.
He stares at it for a long time.
And tears the page out.
Caelindra walks the misted border of the Quiet Lands alone, fingertips brushing the breathless trees.
She whispers to the wind, not with magic—but memory.
"She would have loved this place," she murmurs, voice catching.
She clutches something close—an old necklace. A relic from before the Tower.
"I won't lose anyone else," she says quietly, as if daring the world to test her again.
The command hall felt colder than usual.
Kael and Luck sat across from Commander Althea, poised and sharp-eyed, and Vice-Commander Maren, whose fingers were laced in silent worry.
They were mid-debrief when it happened:
No warning. Just a stillness so deep it sounded like a held breath.
The torches guttered once.
At Kael's shoulder, a ripple in the air heralded Anuunra's arrival—the Crown of the Unseen Sun, radiant and silent. No footsteps, no flourish—just presence.
At Luck's side, a soft hush preceded Nahotep—the Calm Before Judgment, statuesque and infinite in his patience.
Maren's hand flicked toward her blade, but Althea laid a steadying hand on her arm. Neither dared move.
Althea's own breathing stilled as she simply watched.
Kael rose, every movement slow with disbelief.
"You said no," he murmured, more to himself than to the Scions. "I'm not ready."
Anuunra's light dimmed to a gentle glow.
"You were never unready," he said. Voice like dawn breaking.
Luck remained seated a moment longer, gaze locked on Nahotep.
"…Will they be safe?" he asked quietly.
Nahotep inclined his head.
"Not at first."
Luck exhaled, nodding.
"Understood."
He stood beside Kael.
"Then let's go."
Without another word—
They vanished.
The only sound left was the crackle of dying torchlight and the soft breath of wind through the Quiet Lands.