Morning at Aegisspire began with steel.
Steel in the sky, steel in the air, steel in every footstep on the blackstone tiles that led to the training grounds.
Kael walked in silence with the other four members of Team Seven, the first light of dawn sliding like a blade across the walls. Around them, dozens of new recruits moved in formation—some eager, others dazed, most just trying not to collapse from exhaustion.
They had been in the academy for two days.
And already, Kael had memorized every escape path, every leyline flux beneath the stone, and every heartbeat of the four mortals walking beside him.
Elyra. Dain. Lira. Torin.
Their names were true. His was not.
"Alright, hopefuls!" barked a voice like grinding rock. The instructor—Master Haldran—stood before a weapons rack with arms folded across a chest scarred like a war map.
"Your first assignment is a live-field survival mission. Three days. No spells above tier two. No summons. No outside aid."
He gestured behind him, and a wall panel slid open with a hiss of old magic, revealing a carved map.
The Mourningwood. An ancient forest warped by battle, blood, and things no one could quite explain.
"Your objective," Haldran continued, "is to reach the central glade, retrieve the marked relic, and return alive."
A pause. His eyes scanned the group. Settled briefly on Kael.
"Any team that loses more than two members will be disqualified. Dead or alive."
Torin raised a hand. "Question, sir."
Haldran grunted. "This better be good."
"If we all die, are we still disqualified, or just…posthumously honored?"
Lira snorted.
Haldran didn't laugh.
Later, as they walked the outer causeways toward the gate, the tension settled like dust.
"So," Torin said, falling in beside Kael, "I play songs that sometimes predict the future, Lira's stabbed three people and we've only been here two days, Dain growls more than he talks, and Elyra might be an actual angel. That leaves you, mysterious broody one."
Kael said nothing.
"Got a specialty? Magic? Swordplay? Prophetic dreams?"
"I sleep lightly."
"Ooh. A dangerous man."
Lira's voice cut in from ahead. "He doesn't sleep. Not really. I checked."
Elyra turned around, raising an eyebrow. "You…what?"
"I watch people," Lira said with a shrug. "Kael's too quiet. His breathing doesn't change. His body doesn't shift. That's not how sleep works. And last night…"
She stared at him now. Not hostile. Just curious.
"…your shadow moved before you did."
Kael met her gaze. Calm. Flat.
"You're mistaken."
"No. I'm not."
Dain had said nothing all morning, but now he stopped walking. His hand rested on the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. The weapon let out a low, metallic hum.
"You know," he said quietly, "I've felt that sword react to one thing in my life. Once. When I stood in front of a temple to a fallen god."
Kael tilted his head. "And now?"
"It's humming."
"Perhaps it has poor taste."
Torin made a strangled sound like he was trying not to laugh or flee.
Elyra stepped between them before things turned worse.
"We're a team," she said, soft but firm. "Whether we like it or not. If we can't walk into a forest together, we won't walk out."
Kael looked at her then.
There was something in her eyes. Something old. Not divine—but near it. A remnant of something forgotten. She didn't know what it was. Not yet.
But she would.
And when she did, she would either be his anchor… or his executioner.
The gates of Aegisspire opened with a long, shuddering groan.
The wind beyond them tasted wrong.
Sweet. Heavy. Touched by memory.
The Mourningwood waited.
Once, it had been a living forest. Now, it was something else. A place shaped by divine trauma, where trees whispered in forgotten tongues and light moved like it had somewhere better to be.
"Ready?" Elyra asked quietly.
Lira spun a dagger between her fingers. "Ready as I'll ever be to walk into a memory-eating forest with four people I don't trust."
"Three," Torin said. "You trust me, right?"
She didn't answer.
Kael stepped across the threshold first.
The wind didn't greet him. The trees didn't shift. But far below the soil, something in the roots twitched—not in warning. In recognition.
The forest remembered.