A day after they felled the fusion of the three spirits, Gorion's stone house brimmed with life. Mountain-mushroom soup steamed on the table; Sylveras tore warm flatbread and, just to tease, dabbed a streak of sauce on the tip of Elara's nose. She protested, laughing, then tucked a slice of carrot into his hair like a jaunty ornament.
"Enough," Gorion feigned a weary blink. "You can joke around after at least two full servings."
"Order received," Syl said around a heroic bite.
Elara let out a long breath, eyes misting with quiet joy. "It feels strange… this calm. Like… before our village—"
The table fell still for a heartbeat. Syl lowered his gaze. Gorion ladled more soup into Elara's bowl without a word.
For a few minutes, only spoons and the hearth spoke. Then Gorion cleared his throat gently.
"Ahem."
Both of them looked up.
"There's something I need to say," Gorion began. His tone shifted from warm to weighty, though his eyes stayed kind. "This is for you, Elara."
He drew out a thick scroll sealed with blue wax. Its emblem—an eye crowned with seven stars—glimmered faintly.
"An official invitation." He set it before her. "To take the Council of Mages' examination—for the Sage seat Ardan left behind."
"F—for me?" Elara nearly dropped her spoon. "Wait… Sage? Ardan's… successor?"
Gorion nodded. "I entered your name last night. You're the next candidate."
Sylveras straightened at once. "Why Elara? Why not me—"
"Slow," Gorion cut in, never raising his voice. "Hear the old man's reasons first."
He tapped the scroll.
"Our world is unsettled. The Council needs someone recognized—someone who can set foot in every province: borders, restricted libraries, sealed archives. A Sage's license gives you that right. And there's no one more fitting… than Elara."
Elara swallowed. "I—I'm not the strongest."
"They aren't looking for the hardest punch," Gorion said. "They're looking for the one most fit to bear the weight. You heal while you fight, and you put others before yourself. That is Ardan's true legacy."
Syl's hand curled into a fist. "Then I'll—"
"—guard her," Gorion finished, meeting Syl's eyes. "Your task from the start has been to protect. I didn't put you forward not because you're lacking, but because I need you free of Council chains. You move outside the fence—that place is often more important than any chair."
Syl went silent. His stare was still hot, but understanding began to settle in.
Gorion went on, softer now.
"I reported the attack on your village to the Council. The illusion that blinded the All-Seeing Eye, the ritual pattern that wasn't 'just a hungry demon.' They"—his jaw tightened—"dismissed it. Your village has been erased from the maps."
Syl's spoon scraped the table. "Those damned Council—!" His breath came fast. "So they just wash their hands of it?"
"El," he started, but it was Elara who caught Syl's arm first.
"I know," she said quietly. "But… if we want to prove them wrong, we need their stage. We'll use their door to break their blindness."
Gorion arched a brow, impressed. "That was my line a moment ago. It sounds better from you."
Syl exhaled, shoulders loosening. "So the plan is… Elara passes the exam, takes the license, and then…?"
"We hunt the hand that burned your village," said Gorion. "And we find Rael. This invitation isn't a medal—it's a key. With it, we open archive doors, city doors, doors even Sages avoid."
Elara glanced at the scroll as if it might explode. "And if I… fail?"
"You'll fall, stand, and try again," Gorion said lightly. "But I didn't enter your name for you to fail."
Silence hovered. Elara touched the blue seal. The wax was cool, but beneath it a faint thrum pulsed—an invitation equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
"I… will go," she said at last. "Not for the seat. For access. For the truth. For… home."
Syl smirked sideways. "For punching the Council in the face with the Council's own rules."
"That line—please—don't say it in the grand hall," Gorion begged, stifling a laugh. "We still want them to invite us to dinner."
He reached for a pitcher and poured tea into three cups.
"Raise them," he said.
They lifted the simple cups like trophies.
"To the promise we made the day our village fell," Gorion intoned, "that we'd grow strong enough to protect ourselves and others. To the truth—about the hand that lit that fire. To Rael, whom we will find—enemy… or brother returned."
Elara and Syl echoed, "To that promise."
They drank. The hot tea slid down, burning sweetly—reminding them that pain and warmth often walk together.
Gorion slid a small envelope toward Elara. "Initial requirements. Tomorrow morning we head for the capital—re-registration, seal verification, and the opening convocation. It'll be crowded; powerful mages from every corner of the world will be there."
Syl cocked a brow. "And my assignment?"
"Everything not written on that list," Gorion said. "Shadowed roads, market ears, the friends no one officially has." He glanced at Elara. "And making sure this girl eats three times a day."
Elara pouted. "I can remember on my own."
"You can," Syl said, "but you won't."
They laughed again—small, easy—like a warm loaf broken three ways.
Outside, the night wind stirred the little bell on the porch. Inside, the blue-sealed scroll rested in Elara's lap—heavy as stone, light as hope.
"All right," Gorion said, standing and stretching his back. "Early bed tonight. Tomorrow… the stage is larger."
Syl nodded. Elara gripped the scroll a little tighter—then looked at Syl.
"Are you at my side?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"In front of you when danger comes," Syl answered, steady. "Beside you when you doubt. Behind you when you need a back."
Gorion closed the moment with one plain sentence, nailed firm as a vow:
"Tomorrow, we depart for the capital."