When Aelric opened his eyes again, the walls loomed higher than before. His body ached less, though every joint still screamed. The man with the staff returned, this time in formal robes, a crest embroidered across his chest: a crowned falcon against a storm. His presence was colder now, sharpened with authority.
"I am Serath, Warden of the Aerathian Fortress," the man said. "You are no common wanderer. So I will ask plainly—what is your rank?"
Aelric blinked. The word meant little to him. Rank? He had never heard of such a measure. His throat tightened. "I… don't know."
Serath's eyes narrowed. "Impossible. Every magician, even the lowest apprentice, knows their rank. Tell me—what magic can you perform?"
The silence stretched. Aelric's heart pounded. To speak of the wall, of the book—it would expose too much. Yet he needed their trust. He steadied his breath.
"Flight," he said quietly.
The chamber froze. For a moment, even the guards who lined the walls forgot to breathe. Serath's expression cracked, disbelief flashing across his face.
"Flight? You mean to say you can… lift yourself into the air?"
Aelric nodded. "Yes."
Serath stepped closer, his voice low and urgent. "Do you understand what you are claiming? Flight is not the magic of an initiate. It is not even of the middle ranks. It is a High Art, taught only to those who stand at the summit of the Second Rank, near touching the Third."
Aelric's silence was answer enough.
Serath's gaze pierced him. "Then tell me—what were you doing alone in the wilds, half-dead, torn to pieces?"
Aelric searched for words. He could not say he had broken through the wall, nor that he had come from the outer world. He forced the thought aside and said, haltingly, "I came to… learn." He struggled, fumbling for the right words. "I… lack knowledge. I only know flight."
Serath studied him with a strange mixture of suspicion and awe. Then, almost gently, he asked, "Where is your country? Who sent you?"
Aelric's jaw clenched. He could not reveal the truth. His voice was steady, but his gut twisted with the lie. "I… don't know. I only remember… I came from the far North."
The room stirred with whispers. Serath's eyes sharpened.
"From the North?" His tone shifted, heavy. "That land is dead. It has been ashes for centuries. If you truly came from there… then you are either a liar, or something beyond our understanding."
The Warden's voice rang cold as steel.
"Do not think me blind. This Kingdom of Aerath has enemies everywhere. Dark Magicians corrupt our borders, spreading like rot. Their Dark Lord seeks dominion, and every Kingdom bleeds in the war against them. If you are truly of the North… then you carry shadows I must uncover."
Aelric said nothing. His lips pressed together, his mind racing. For now, silence was safer than truth.
But inside, as the guards' eyes bore into him, he thought of the stars he once reached for. And of the vow whispered under thunder: I promise.