The sun rose pale over the capital, its first light scattering against the tiled roofs and spearing through the courtyards of noble estates. The city stirred awake with clattering carts and the distant cries of merchants, but in Kiasin's mansion, the air was too still, as though silence itself had tightened its grip.
Two days had passed since the Emperor's command. Kiasin had not explained the details to Asaira. He had said only that duty called, his tone sharp with the edge of finality. A strategist's wife could read what was unsaid, but even she did not press further.
He had ridden out with a chosen band of cavalry, their banners stiff against the wind. For a day and a night they combed the countryside – not in search of the Blessed child, but to weave the appearance of obedience. Kiasin allowed whispers to rise in taverns, left his name on the lips of gatekeepers and peasants, and let his men scatter questions in villages that did not need answers. The performance was thorough. No eye that followed him could report negligence. By morning of the second day, rumor itself testified that the Commander searched without rest.
But while he rode under open sky, shadows moved within the city. Walderin, cloaked in his beggar's guise, had already stepped into the mansion. By the time Kiasin turned homeward, the sorcerer's report was already flowing into the Emperor's hand like poison poured into a waiting cup.
The gate closed behind him with a muted groan. Dust clung to his armor; his boots were caked with mud from river crossings. The long march had carved weariness into his stance, but his eyes remained sharp, measuring. His hand touched the sword at his side – not in threat, but in readiness.
"Asaira." His voice broke the silence of the courtyard, low but weighted.
She stood at the chamber's center, her eyes locked on the air before her. She did not answer at once. Her gaze was trapped, caught on something that should not be.
Kiasin's steps quickened. Shadows shifted across his armor as he entered, and only then did Asaira's voice come, tight and uneven.
"A man came." She spoke as though naming a ghost. "He called himself a philanthropist. His presence was wrong. And when he left… this remained."
Her hand lifted, and there in the center of the hall drifted the staff. It floated without support, a weapon meant to obey gravity now standing above it, golden glow twisting in slow, unnatural arcs.
Kiasin stopped dead, breath caught. His voice sharpened instantly. "A yellow staff should never rise on its own. Not with a fourth-tier inscriptional rune and yellow stone. Where are the inscriptions? Did you see any spell marks?"
She shook her head, lips pressed tight. "Nothing. And that is what unsettles me most. I know the hierarchy well in its order: green, blue, and yellow staffs hold only up to fifth-tier cores. Even perfected, their weight is still bound to earth. Only the higher colors – red, purple, black, white, and gold – those rooted in seventh-tier runes or beyond, may float. Yet this…" her eyes narrowed, "…this staff defies the law of its rank."
Her strategist's tone gave shape to her fear – every sentence ordered, every fact like a blade laid on the table.
Kiasin's breath drew tight. His mind raced through all he knew of seals and hidden formations. "Then it is not what it claims. A mask is set upon it. Whoever left this wanted it to be touched."
He stepped closer.
"Kiasin, wait–" Asaira's voice cut through, urgent, but too late.
His fingers brushed the wooden haft.
The staff answered.
Symbols erupted in sudden brilliance, spiraling down its length like lightning shackled into script. Light burst outward in violent waves. The chamber roared as though a storm had forced itself inside; the ground shook, shelves rattled, dust cascaded from beams above.
Kiasin's body staggered, but his armor surged alive. Holy Sigils from his Holy Armor ignited, blazing with pale fire. The surge slammed against him, broke, and scattered. Sparks hissed into corners, burning brief holes in mats before dying. The stone floor shivered like a beast underfoot.
Then came the sound of breaking – sharp, clear, final.
The yellow gem at the staff's heart fractured, exploding into shards that fell tinkling across the stone. In its place, a new crystal emerged, pulsing with its own light: purple as dusk, its edges laced in red like veins of fresh blood.
The staff itself dulled. The polish that once gleamed now clouded to ash-gray. Across its surface, lines appeared – runes not carved by mortal hand, but alive, twisting, shifting, searing themselves into the wood. Each pattern hummed faintly, as though whispering names long forgotten.
Shadows bent toward it, stretched unnaturally, and then recoiled as if scorched. The chamber itself seemed to hold its breath.
Asaira's voice was a tremor. "It is… not the same staff anymore."
The words hung, fragile and damning.
Kiasin uncurled his hand slowly, the muscles of his arm rigid as if he had held back the weight of a boulder. His eyes locked with Asaira's, and in the silence between them lay more than fear – it was recognition. Recognition that what had entered their home was not merely a staff, but a message. A weapon planted, timed, meant to expose them.
Neither spoke further. The air was too heavy, the morning too bright for words. Outside, life in the city went on – merchants cried their wares, children chased each other down alleys – yet within these walls, silence pressed like a blade against the throat.
The staff hovered still, pulsing faintly, its new crystal alive with secrets that no vow of loyalty could conceal.
The silence afterward pressed like a held breath.