Stone did not move itself. That was the singular truth that kept Gina Othel from ever fully relaxing underground. To her, the dwarven armory wasn't a "windfall"—it was a logistical nightmare wrapped in ancient spite. The moment those racks revealed themselves, she'd already begun a mental tally of how many guards it would take to stop a breastplate from "falling off a wagon" on the way to a black market.
Half the Knights Gallant were dispatched immediately to haul the gear to the surface. Gina went with them, her jaw set like flint. She didn't trust "masterwork dwarven steel" not to turn into an "accounting error" the moment it left her sight. She paused at the stairwell, giving Alaric a look that clearly said Don't touch anything cursed while I'm gone, before disappearing into the climb.
Alaric watched her go with a mix of annoyance and a strange, grudging gratitude. Gina was suffocating, sure, but in a world of poisoners and backstabbers, having a human shield who was also a paranoid accountant was a luxury he couldn't afford to lose.
"We continue," Asimi said, her voice cutting through the clank of armored knights.
They moved upward. The second floor felt different—less like a tomb and more like a house that had simply been forgotten. This was the apprentice level. The air was thinner, smelling of old parchment and the faint, lingering ozone of amateur spellcasting.
The floor opened into a large common area. Broken tables and benches lay scattered like the bones of a giant. Through a cracked window, pale winter light filtered in, turning the dust motes into drifting ash.
Asimi moved toward the walls, her fingers tracing elven script carved into the stone. "Apprentice quarters," she murmured. "A canteen. A place for learning."
They were bright, noisy, and always hungry, Alanor's voice brushed Alaric's mind, sounding oddly wistful. For a second, the tower didn't feel like a monster; it felt like a memory.
While the knights and the Theurge began cataloging journals and sketching spell circles, Alanor nudged Alaric toward a small, swollen door tucked behind the main hall. Inside was a storeroom that had survived the damp better than the rest.
Alaric pushed the door open, Dawn hovering at his shoulder. They found bundles of parchment and a few sturdy books: A Treatise on Elven Farming, Herbology of The Peaks, and Dwarven Tactics.
Then, the temperature in the room didn't drop, it changed. The lantern flame dipped, then stood tall and unnaturally bright.
Alanor appeared.
He wasn't a whisper anymore. He was a man, tall and strikingly handsome in the way only elves can be. His golden-blonde hair was tied back, and he wore robes of purest white, embroidered with sigils that seemed to move if you looked at them too long. He held a staff crowned with a gem that caught the lantern light like a trapped sunrise.
Dawn gasped, nearly tripping over a stack of books. Alaric held his ground, his heart thudding against his ribs. Seeing Alanor as a person made the ghost far more dangerous than the voice in the ring ever was.
"So," Alanor said, his voice resonant and smooth. "The two threads finally stand in the same room."
He gestured with his staff, and a small, dusty coffer on a high shelf clicked open. Inside sat two rings—pale, luminous bands set with stones that looked like frozen starlight.
"These were promise rings," Alanor said softly, his ancient gaze turning distant. "Mine, and my beloved's, before sickness took her. They are not merely sentimental. They attune your mana. They make your shaping cleaner." He leaned in, his eyes flashing. "And they carry a ward. They will obscure you from scrying. No palace eye will see what you do here."
Alaric's mouth went dry. The word 'scrying' landed like a death sentence. He knew exactly who was watching him from the capital.
"Why us?" Alaric asked.
"Because you are already marked," Alanor replied, his form beginning to flicker. "And because I am tired of watching the wrong hands shape history."
"So you are real."
Asimi stood in the doorway. She didn't look shocked; she looked like a woman who had finally seen the face of a persistent problem. She met Alanor's gaze—Imperial authority facing off against ancient arcane will.
"I am as real as vows," Alanor replied, his image fading into mist until only the rings remained.
The silence that followed was heavy. Asimi walked into the room, her metallic eyes landing on the starlight rings. She didn't forbid them. She just watched.
"Those rings are wards," she said quietly. "Take them."
Alaric reached into the coffer. He took one ring and turned to Dawn. "May I?" he asked.
Dawn nodded, her cheeks pinking as she held out her hand. Alaric slid the silver band onto her finger. The moment it settled, he felt her mana—usually a chaotic, flickering thing—suddenly smooth out, like a tuned instrument.
Dawn took the second ring, her touch gentle and oddly solemn, and guided it onto Alaric's finger.
Asimi watched them: a boy of sun-touched silver and a girl of night-black moon, standing together in the ruins of a past age, wearing ancient promises as armor. For a heartbeat, the cold politics of the empire felt a thousand miles away. They looked like they were meant to be there.