The final stretch of their journey cut through burnt hills and silent forest, the sky above them a cold stretch of grey. Only the wind spoke, stirring ash and old leaves across the road. Their boots made no sound on the dark soil. Tension laced every step.
"We'll reach the gates tomorrow," Karian said as they set camp near the edge of a cracked ravine.
Ajax nodded, breath slow, body still humming from training. The Pulse Gate was easier to maintain now, its rhythm second nature. Even sleep had become a form of focus. Still, his muscles ached from sparring with Reva the day before. She was getting stronger, and faster—and her grin when she beat him was only growing wider.
"You think they'll welcome us?" Reva asked, tossing a pebble across the campfire.
Karian didn't answer at first.
"Some will. Others… they haven't forgiven me."
Thalen gave a sideways glance. "Let's hope they forgive fast. They'll need us."
⸻
The next day, Valern's capital finally came into view.
It rose not like a city, but like a memory of something ancient—carved into the crimson cliffs of the Drifting Wall. Great towers of dark obsidian and curved spires stood sentinel, etched with silver veins that shimmered faintly under the clouds. Massive chain bridges stretched from peak to peak, connecting the cliffside tiers like threads in a spider's web. At its heart was a fortress built directly into the mountain: the Hall of Verdict.
The gates were carved stone and old metal, guarded by warriors in deep crimson cloaks and mirrored masks. As the group approached, a half-dozen guards stepped forward.
"Halt," one said. "Identify yourselves."
Karian stepped forward, slow and calm.
"Tell Delastra that Karian Vael'Zareth of the Twin Blades has returned. And he brings an answer."
The guard stiffened.
"Vael'Zareth, that name…"
After a tense silence, she gave a short bow and signaled the others to stand aside.
Ajax followed silently as they passed through, feeling the weight of eyes on him from every window, every rampart. The air smelled of iron and smoke.
As they climbed a long spiraling path into the heart of the city, Ajax watched the way Karian's eyes flickered to the walls, the faces, the banners still hanging from archways like ghosts. This wasn't a return.
It was a reckoning.
⸻
They were received in the Great Hall beneath the mountain—circular, vast, and lit by multi-colored crystals. The Tribunal sat above on stone thrones, seven elders in dark robes, each radiating power and judgment. At their center sat a woman with silver-streaked black hair and fierce eyes: Delastra.
Her gaze lingered on Karian, then softened.
"You've aged."
Karian tilted his head. "Time doesn't pause for exiles."
Delastra allowed herself a ghost of a smile. Then her tone sharpened.
"We need you, Karian. We've lost five towns in two months. Skirmishes grow daily. Cairn's aggression is no longer defensive—it's strategic. We believe the Crimson Veil is stoking the fires on both sides."
"And you want me to lead again," Karian said.
"I wouldn't ask," she said carefully, "if I didn't trust you."
A long silence passed. Ajax could see it in Karian's posture—the weight of his past, the burden he'd tried to walk away from. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse.
But then he turned toward Delastra, and nodded.
"I'll fight. On one condition."
She raised an eyebrow.
"My students join the effort."
He stepped aside, revealing Reva and Ajax.
Delastra's brow furrowed. "The girl I've heard of. But this boy?"
"He's no ordinary boy," Karian said. "He's survived what most grown warriors wouldn't."
The eldest of the Tribunal—a man with white eyes and a voice like wind through gravel—spoke.
"Words are only so credible, Veal'Zareth. I believe it's necessary to test his capabilities before sending him off to war."
"I accept any challenge." Ajax said coldly.
⸻
The courtyard they moved to was wide, open, framed by carved statues of fallen warriors. Snow drifted from the cliffs above, spiraling in lazy arcs. Ajax stood at the center of the arena, the elders seated on balconies carved into the rock.
From a side gate, his opponent stepped forward.
A woman no older than twenty-five, clad in tight crimson leathers. Twin daggers shimmered at her sides, her hair cut short and her eyes sharp as glass. Her name rang out across the arena:
Soleil, personal sword of Elder Varn.
"She's no mere blade," Thalen whispered from the edge. "She's his shadow. His killer."
Ajax stepped forward, hands relaxed at his sides, green eyes calm. Reva stood just behind, tense. Karian watched without expression, though his eyes never left Ajax's.
Soleil drew her daggers with a dancer's grace.
Ajax exhaled. Let the Pulse bloom in his chest. The Breath Gate opened, heart syncing with breath, then breath syncing with intent. His mana flowed—not to his hands but through them.
And from thin air, a long chain formed, made entirely of violet-blue light.
The chain snapped toward Soleil with a whistle of energy.
She sidestepped, twirling effortlessly under it, and surged forward with a twin strike toward Ajax's side.
He dissolved the chain and conjured a wide-headed sheild mid-motion—blocking her daggers just in time. The force sent him skidding back, but he kept his footing.
Soleil pressed again, her movements blinding. Cuts like silver wind, steps like shadow. Her third strike shimmered with speed beyond normal human limits.
She had opened the third gate— Origin.
Ajax's breath caught. He couldn't match that with speed alone.
So he shifted again.
The sheild vanished. A glaive formed—longer reach, broader arc.
He swept wide, forcing her back, then threw the glaive mid-spin. Soleil ducked and launched forward—but Ajax was already creating the next weapon.
Twin short swords now—he met her mid-dash, sparks dancing from the clashing blades.
They moved like lightning—his conjured weapons blinking in and out of existence, her daggers slicing through illusion and force alike.
She nearly caught him on the fourth pass. Her blade nicked his shoulder. Blood blossomed.
Ajax let her think she had momentum.
Then he stopped conjuring randomly—and formed a sword.
Not just any sword. A long, curved blade shaped like the moon, flickering with layered arcs of mana. His old weapon.
The blade of Nortis.
His stance shifted—no longer reactive. No longer cautious.
He commanded space.
"That pressure he exerts… how is a mere boy capable of exuding such a menacing force." Delastra muttered to herself.
The next exchange flipped everything.
Where Soleil was speed, Ajax became precision.
Where she darted, he cut angles.
His sword hummed with purpose, responding to both Pulse and Breath with total cohesion.
He met her flurry with precision. Blocked the incoming dagger. Pivoted. Stepped in.
And then, blade at her throat—he stopped.
Soleil froze, one dagger inches from his ribs.
It was a draw.
Silence hung over the courtyard.
Then the old elder stood, his hand trembling slightly as he gestured to the sky.
"That… was not Spiral. Nor Augmentation."
Another leaned forward. "He summoned weapons of pure mana. Conjured without chant or element."
Delastra's voice was soft.
"What… are you?"
Ajax looked up. His voice did not shake.
"I'm someone who's seen what war becomes when the wrong people are left in charge. I don't want glory. I want to prevent another collapse."
Reva stood beside him now, shocked, proud and flushed.
"I didn't realize not using mana had you held back so much against me in our spars, 'Jax"
Delastra stepped down from the dais. She looked to Karian.
"They'll be scouts. Shadow work. Reconnaissance. You have your team."
Karian nodded once.
As they turned to leave, the elder Varn looked to his sword, Soleil, and whispered, "He moved like the dead kings. Like those from before the Calamity. His sword mastery was not something a practitioner of eight years is capable of. Not even a practitioner of eighty years could ever hope to match his swordsmanship."
"Karian has raised a monster."