The gate to the northern Adventurer's Guild creaked open beneath the pale morning sky.
Snow crunched beneath heavy boots as the surviving expedition members trudged into the warmth of the hall. Silence hung around them, the kind of silence not born of stillness—but of things left behind.
Garron Thale led the way, his fur-lined cloak scorched and stained. Merin walked a step behind him, quiet as a shadow. Esmira supported a wounded silver-ranked mage, her own robes singed and wet with blood.
Behind them came Alaric, Rusk, Kaela, and Teren—bruised, exhausted, silent. Their armor clinked softly, their eyes cast downward. Their movements were slow, deliberate, careful.
The guild hall, usually alive with the hum of chatter and the clang of weapons, paused. Conversations trailed off. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
From behind the front counter, Linnea gasped softly. "Gods above…"
She stepped forward, eyes searching the faces.
Garron's voice cut through the still air. "The dungeon is cleared. The Abyss Wyrm is dead. We lost eight."
His words hung like a funeral bell.
Then someone began to clap.
Slow, at first. Then others joined.
It wasn't the cheer of victory—but the reverence of survival. The tribute paid to those who returned… and those who didn't.
The applause washed over them like a wave of warmth—and grief.
Alaric stood still in the center of it all, hearing none of it. He was thinking of Elyra, the girl with the warhammer. Of the bronze-ranked archer who fell beside her. Of the silver mage impaled by the Guardian's tail. Of the silence after the final battle.
He was thinking of Mira.
That night, the four sat on the upstairs balcony of the guild hall, the snow softly falling beyond the wooden railing. A lantern flickered beside them, their bowls of stew growing cold in their hands.
None of them spoke.
Rusk broke the silence. "Her name was Elyra. She'd just turned sixteen. She said she was gonna reach Silver before her next birthday."
Kaela nodded, voice low. "I remember. She asked me about good smiths for warhammers before we left."
Teren swallowed. "I watched her fall. I was too far."
Rusk clenched his fists. "We trained. We prepared. And still… it wasn't enough."
Alaric stared into the fire. "It never is. Not always."
Kaela looked at him. "But we're alive."
"Yeah," Alaric said. "We are."
He took a deep breath.
"That's why I've decided. I'm leaving tomorrow."
They turned to him.
"You're heading to the capital?" Teren asked.
Alaric nodded. "It's time. I need to go to the Grand Arcanum. I need to keep getting stronger. Not just for me… for them. For everyone who couldn't walk back with us."
Kaela's voice was soft. "You'll become someone incredible, Alaric. I know it."
Rusk leaned back, arms crossed. "Don't get too soft, yeah? We'll still be out here fighting monsters while you're stuck in a classroom."
Teren grinned faintly. "And when you visit, we'll see if you've gotten any taller."
Alaric laughed. "I'll come back. Stronger. I promise."
They stayed there, under the quiet snow, surrounded by silence and memory. No more words were needed.
The carriage pulled up to the duchy gates in the early afternoon.
Lireya Valeborne waited at the steps, Marek beside her, both dressed in fur-lined coats as snow dusted their shoulders. When Alaric stepped out, they saw it instantly—the weight behind his eyes. The maturity in his step.
"You're back," Lireya said, stepping forward.
Alaric bowed slightly. "I am."
Marek gestured toward the inner keep. "Come in. You must be tired."
They led him into the duchess's study, the fire already burning, tea waiting. He sat across from them, still wrapped in a travel cloak, eyes unreadable.
"I want to tell you everything," Alaric said.
And so he did.
He spoke of the dungeon. Of the wailing spirits and the twisted corridors. Of the Reapers and Deathmaws. Of the abyssal boss and its guardians. Of the people who died—some screaming, others without a sound.
He spoke slowly, haltingly at first, but the words poured out.
Marek's jaw clenched. Lireya sat with a stillness only those who had seen war could maintain.
"It was like Hearthvale again," Alaric said, voice breaking. "Except I couldn't save anyone then. And even now…"
"You brought back more than just your own survival," Marek said.
"You returned. That's a victory." Lireya's voice was firm. "And more importantly, you grew. You understand what strength must protect—and what it must never become."
Alaric nodded. "That's why… I'm ready."
Lireya smiled faintly. "Then it's time."
The sky was overcast as the duchy gates opened the next morning. A black-silver carriage waited, emblazoned with the crest of House Valeborne. Two duchy knights stood by the door, saluting as Alaric approached.
Lireya and Marek stood together, arms crossed against the cold wind.
"You're leaving as a student now," Marek said, "but you'll return as more than that."
"You've proven time and time again that you belong among the strongest of your generation," Lireya added. "Don't let the Academy change who you are—only sharpen it."
Alaric bowed deeply. "I'll do my best."
Lireya stepped forward and fastened the pin at his cloak's shoulder—a small silver falcon. "This was mine, once," she said. "Let it remind you that the North watches over you."
Alaric blinked. "Thank you… truly."
Lireya smiled. "Malric and Lireya are already waiting. You'll see them soon."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Marek clapped him on the back. "Give the capital hell, son."
As Alaric climbed into the carriage, he looked back once.
The duchy gates closed slowly behind him.
Snow fell.
And the road stretched south—toward the capital, the Grand Arcanum, and the next chapter of his journey.
Alaric leaned back in the cushioned seat, fingers resting on the sword at his side. The Equinox Flame within him stirred faintly—quiet, sleeping… but present.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
Outside, mountains passed by. Rivers. Villages.
And in the far distance—visible just beyond the rolling clouds—stood the towers of the Grand Arcanum Institute.
A place where legends were forged.
A place where fate would meet him again.