Greyspire still smelled of smoke.Not from fire—but from the burnt taste of magic and shadow lingering in the air. Even as dawn's pale light crept across the rooftops, the city seemed quieter than it should have been. The cheers for victory were muted; every street told the cost.
At the Guild Hall, the central chamber was packed with armored captains, robed magisters, and the High Inquisitors in their immaculate white coats. Maps of Greyspire were unfurled across the main table, pinned with crimson markers where the shadow outbreaks had been fiercest.
"Possession," said Inquisitor Maerik, tapping one such marker with a gloved finger. "An isolated case, yes—but the ritual was citywide. That man, Darion Vale, was no warlock. He was a weapon used. The question is, by whom?"
Another Inquisitor, older and pale as bleached bone, leaned forward. "The Plains," he murmured. "You heard his testimony. This… shadow came from Emberroot."
A rustle of unease swept through the hall. The Emberroot Plains were a wasteland, barren but not dead. Many had passed through on caravans without incident. Yet now, a threat from there had nearly destroyed the city.
Across the room, Guildmaster Veyran kept his gaze on Eliakim, who stood with arms crossed, Skyling perched beside him in her newly evolved phoenix-like form.
"You'll receive full commendation for this," Veyran said at last. "And your rank will reflect it. Step forward."
Eliakim obeyed, producing his adventurer's identification. The Guildmaster placed his hand over it, murmuring the incantation that caused the card's surface to shimmer. His rank sigil shifted—from dull copper to bright bronze—and a new line of script burned into the bottom:
Bonded Beast: Skyling
The phoenix trilled softly, golden fire curling around her talons.
Veyran glanced around the hall, then back to Eliakim. "And where's Gideon Ravenscar? I'd have expected him to be here with you."
Eliakim gave a faint smile. "He's in the blacksmith's forge. That's where he goes after battles—lets the hammer do the talking. His ID update can wait for another day."
"Very well," Veyran said with a nod. "But make sure he comes in soon. Heroes deserve recognition, even the stubborn ones."
Gideon didn't linger for the politics. His weapons had already shifted back to their original form—twin axes gleaming faintly in the dawn light. They felt heavy in his grip, familiar but almost… reluctant after the duel-sword form Kaelvryn had granted him.
He went where he always went when his blood still burned from battle—the forge. Master Halvek Ironhew welcomed him without a word, sliding a fresh block of iron onto the anvil. The rhythmic pounding of hammer on metal filled the air, sparks flying in golden showers.
It wasn't about forging anything new. It was about bleeding out the noise in his head. Each strike dulled the echo of screams and clashing steel until all that remained was the sound of his own breath and the ringing of the forge.
Ezra had her own errand.The Mage Tower loomed over the eastern quarter, its obsidian spire catching the sunrise. She climbed the steps with quiet determination, scroll case slung over her shoulder.
The registrar barely looked up as she approached. "Name?"
"Ezra Nightfall."
The scribe's quill hesitated—then his eyes softened with something like pity. "Your power is… undeniable. But until you demonstrate control, the Council cannot approve your registration."
Her jaw tightened. "I saved this city."
"And nearly cracked its bones in doing so," the scribe replied gently.
The rejection stung. She turned sharply and descended the tower steps, the shadows of the spire stretching long and thin at her heels.
Nathaniel, as ever, was harder to place.He didn't attend the Guild Hall or the tower. He moved in the places between—silent as the drifting fog in Greyspire's back alleys. There were whispers of him speaking to the beggars in the Old Quarter, to informants whose eyes never left the ground, to contacts who melted away as soon as coin changed hands.
No one in the Guild knew what he was doing.Nathaniel preferred it that way.
That night, Eliakim sat in the Guild's private archive room, poring over maps of the Emberroot Plains. His mind drifted to Darion Vale, now locked in the High Inquisitors' prison under silver binders, and the way the man's eyes had looked when he spoke of that "black shape."
Skyling's thoughts brushed his own, soft as the embers of her fire. You're not done yet.
Eliakim's gaze hardened. "No. We're not."
Somewhere far beyond the walls of Greyspire, the Emberroot Plains waited in silence—and whatever had sent the shadow into Darion Vale… was still out there.