Morning crept into Vaelrin like a slow sigh. The twin moons were retreating beyond the spired rooftops, and sunlight spilled across the cobblestones in long, gold ribbons.
Lysera waited outside the modest inn Alatar had chosen—a quiet structure of pale stone and blue glass, known as the Sapphire Hearth. She was surprised, though not shocked, when the door opened and Alatar stepped out.
He looked entirely different again.
Gone was the black robe from yesterday. In its place, he wore a long coat of deep cerulean silk, the edges threaded with faint silver sigils that shimmered as he moved. Beneath it, a vest of pale ash-gray and tailored trousers gave him the air of a foreign noble—serene, self-assured, untouchable.
His pale hair caught the light as he descended the steps. Around them, townsfolk turned discreet glances toward him—curious, respectful, a few even bowing slightly out of habit, as though in the presence of someone who ought to be bowed to.
Lysera chuckled softly. "You look like a governor's envoy. Planning to impress the whole town before breakfast?"
Alatar's lips curved faintly. "I've found mortals place great value on appearances. It would be… unwise not to adapt."
"Adapt, he says," she muttered under her breath, smiling. "Come on, then, your highness. Let me show you Vaelrin before the streets fill up."
---
They walked the winding avenues as the town stirred awake. Vendors arranged baskets of pale fruit beneath shimmering canopies. Mages in cobalt robes swept light through the air to cleanse the streets of dust. Children darted between stalls, chasing floating lanterns enchanted to hover low for play.
Alatar took it all in—the mingling scents of spice and smoke, the hum of low-level magic in the air, the quiet rhythm of mortal life.
"Vaelrin's small compared to Naeris, but it's old," Lysera said, gesturing toward the distant hill where white towers caught the morning light. "The governor's manor is up there. Everything down here—markets, guild halls, temples—grew around it over centuries. You'll see a mix of people too: humans, fey, some dwarin traders from the southern ridge. Lumenari make up most of the population, though."
"I see." Alatar's voice was calm, detached, but his eyes followed every motion, every flicker of aura that passed him. "It feels… structured. Woven by habit rather than intent."
Lysera gave him a look. "You talk like a scholar. Or someone who's lived too long in solitude."
"Perhaps both," he said simply.
She laughed, shaking her head. "Well, solitude doesn't suit you much here. The governor likes new faces, especially if they can handle a sword—or magic. You might want to meet him before long."
---
As they passed through the central square, a strange chill swept over Alatar. It was faint—like a whisper of cold air moving opposite the wind. He paused.
Beneath his calm exterior, his perception expanded. The Chrono-Cognitive Field brushed across the square like ripples through still water, unseen but deliberate.
He saw the flow of time in subtle fractures—the flicker of a merchant's hand out of sync by half a heartbeat, the slow pulse of a fountain where the water lagged ever so slightly behind its reflection.
Something's wrong here.
But just as he focused, the sensation faded—vanished like a dream half-remembered.
Lysera looked back at him. "Alatar? You alright?"
He blinked once, then resumed walking. "Yes. Merely… sensing something unfamiliar."
She frowned but didn't press.
---
By midday, they reached the Guild of Vaelrin, a tall marble structure inscribed with shifting sigils that shimmered in response to passersby. Inside, the air smelled faintly of parchment and steel. Alatar stood still as Lysera exchanged a few words with the clerks.
From a balcony above, someone was watching him.
An older Lumenari—silver-horned, dressed in the formal navy of guild officers. His eyes narrowed as he studied the stranger below, and his hand tightened around the rail.
He felt it—a presence that pressed faintly against the edges of his mind, not invasive, but ancient, heavy, as if the world itself leaned toward the one in blue.
When Alatar glanced up, their eyes met.
The guildmaster froze. Just for a second. Then the stranger looked away, serene, unbothered, as though the exchange had meant nothing.
But something stirred in the older man's chest—an instinct he hadn't felt in centuries. Awe. And unease.
---
Later, Lysera and Alatar sat at a shaded café overlooking the canals that wound through the heart of Vaelrin.
"Governor Havren lives there," Lysera said, pointing toward a spire rising over the rooftops. "He used to be a scholar of law before taking office. Keeps the peace through trade and diplomacy. The guildmaster—Vernis—is his right hand, though sometimes I think the guild carries more weight."
"Power divided in two," Alatar murmured. "A balance of necessity."
"Exactly. Keeps one from ruling too long unchecked."
Alatar tilted his head slightly. "And yet…" His gaze flicked toward the distant hill again. "There is something else here—beneath the peace you all prize."
Lysera frowned, uncertain. "You mean the beast? The tiger from the forest?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes had grown distant, reflecting faint motes of light from the canal. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps something older has begun to stir in response to me."
Lysera blinked, unsure she'd heard correctly. "In response to you?"
He looked at her then, calm and faintly sorrowful, like one addressing a question that could never be answered.
"Everything moves in echo, Lysera. Even silence."
Before she could reply, the wind shifted—carrying with it a faint, ashen scent from the north. Alatar felt it first. The same residue that had lingered in the tiger's soul.
His hand brushed the edge of the table, and for a brief instant, his fingertips left faint trails of glowing ember across the surface.
Lysera's eyes widened slightly. "Alatar…"
He withdrew his hand, and the embers vanished as if they had never been.
"Forgive me," he said quietly. "A habit I haven't yet forgotten."
The moment passed. The conversation moved on. But the air around Vaelrin had changed—just slightly, like the first tremor before a storm.
---
That night, as Alatar stood by the window of his room at the Sapphire Hearth, the moonlight silvered his robes—today deep blue with thin golden seams. Below, the town lay silent and bright.
He closed his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he was back in the sanctum—the scent of frost and ash, Barachas's voice echoing faintly.
Refine the frost as you did the ash. Let them move side by side, as extensions of you.
When he opened his eyes again, his reflection shimmered in the glass—not one, but two sets of eyes.
One of them faintly gold. The other, a depthless blue burning like frozen flame.
And far to the north, unseen beyond the hills, the remnants of the tiger-beast's soul pulsed once—then dissolved into the earth, its essence carried toward something vast and waiting.