"It was the kind of silence that makes you realize how loud life used to be."
---
The city hadn't healed, not really. But it was trying.
Guild-funded repair crews had taken over the worst-hit zones. Cracked buildings now wore new scaffolding like braces on broken bones. The air smelled of sawdust, wet clay, and something stubbornly hopeful. Bazaars had begun to reopen, stalls blooming like wildflowers in the ruins. It wasn't the same city—but it was a city fighting to be whole again.
The Council, rattled by Velyour's wrath, had acted swiftly. A new order spread across the capital and neighboring towns: every youth above sixteen was now mandated to undergo basic magical and defensive training under the Guild's supervision. Not to create an army—so they claimed—but to ensure no child, brother, sister, or lover would be helpless again.
Public reaction was mixed. Some were furious. Some relieved. But most… were just tired. Too tired to resist another layer of rules in a world that now seemed bent on breaking them.
Rumors about Velyour's attack flooded the city like a bad curry rumor on hostel WhatsApp groups.
Six main stories caught traction among the masses. Only one was even remotely close to the truth—
and none were boring:
1. He was cursed by a failed love potion that turned into a bloodlust elixir.
2. He used to be a Guild janitor who snapped after someone kept clogging the enchanted toilets.
3. He found an ancient scroll that said "If lost, please destroy capital." And he took it literally.
4. He was actually three raccoons in a cloak controlled by forbidden necromancy.
5. He got rejected by a librarian and vowed to erase all books from existence.
6. He once fought in the Guild's war, refused an immoral order, and vanished. (Okay, maybe just maybe, that one was real.)
But with every retelling, even that sixth rumor turned into:
"He once punched a Guild captain with a burning sword, said 'peace out losers', and disappeared riding a thunderbird."
Leo, Ari, and Rayleigh knew the real story.
But sometimes, even they weren't sure how much of it was history and how much was prophecy in progress.
Meanwhile, Leo was recovering fast. Too fast, according to Rayleigh, who had been observing him with a suspicious squint and tight-lipped muttering. By the third day, Leo had stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders, and casually lit a spark between his fingers.
Ari slapped his hand. "What did I say about doing magic while healing?!"
"That it's cool and makes me hotter?" he grinned.
"I will throw you into the fish cart outside."
---
And then came the Guild summons. Not optional. Not gentle.
Leo, Ari, and Vellum were officially drafted into the Guild's youth ranks.
Rayleigh's response?
A 1.5-hour full dad-mode lecture inside the Archive. His arms were crossed. A chalkboard appeared from nowhere. There were charts. Diagrams. Metaphors.
"Rule number one," he barked. "The Guild does not care how cool your spell looks if it turns your eyebrows into toast!"
Leo slouched. Ari took notes. Vellum… well.
Vellum accidentally tried to practice a defensive charm mid-lecture, thinking it was just a silent ward.
He opened a portal to the janitor's storage room.
On the ceiling.
Rayleigh froze. "Vellum."
"Yes, sir?"
"Why is there a mop on the chandelier?"
"...Tactical initiative?"
The mop fell on Leo's head with a wet splosh.
---
Later that night, they sat quietly on the Archive steps.
Leo gazed out over the half-rebuilt city, watching lights flicker in windows and small groups of kids practicing wand forms under supervision.
He let out a sigh. "Everything's moving again."
"Not the same," Ari said.
"No. But maybe that's not all bad."
Vellum laid back with a yawn. "Did I pass the Guild test?"
"You almost summoned a kitchen cabinet instead of a shield," Ari said flatly.
"Yeah. But it blocked the knife," he shot back with a grin.
Leo chuckled. Then went quiet again. That hollowness… it hadn't left. Not really. Something had died that day—in the city, in the people.
And yet… the laughter tonight felt real.
---
Far away, under the silver glow of mountain stars, a figure walked barefoot through a dense forest. Leaves whispered around him. His cloak dragged behind him like a shadow with weight. His voice hummed low, singing a song only the trees seemed to remember.
Not a curse.
Not a war cry.
Just sorrow.
And somewhere deep in that melody—regret.
The winds carried it to no one.
But if you listened hard enough… you'd swear the forest was crying with him.
---