"Xavier."
A soft, commanding voice stirred through the air. Calm, yet filled with unshakable authority.
"Xavier."
It called again, more insistent this time.
"My Lord."
Master Xavier, seated in his study, leaving the rest of the discussion to the team. The room around him shimmered, shifting. Suddenly, he stood within an ancient temple, etched with intricate designs that whispered of forgotten magic.
Atop a high platform sat seven colossal Dragons, each radiating power and presence. Their eyes, like living stars, flickered toward an unseen figure far away—an echo of life that mattered greatly.
"Xavier."
"My Lord," he replied immediately, dropping to a bent knee recognizing Lord Tharion's voice.
"There is a presence in your house. That girl… she is dangerous."
Vaelith's calm voice spoke from the left.
"What do you mean, Lady Vaelith?" Xavier asked, bowing his head.
"We sense a Vyre Stone shielding her," she said softly, eyes like molten silver. "Her life is entwined with forces she does not yet understand."
Xavier's head shot up, shock and understanding battling across his features.
"A Vyre Stone? Her father must have tied her life force to it… to hide her from Zarin. Only someone of great power could perform such magic."
"Xavier," Elmyra interjected, her tone soft yet firm, "there are graver matters. Keep her close. She will inevitably confront Zarin—whether she knows it or not. We have glimpsed her path… it is perilous, yet vital."
"Understood," Xavier whispered, keeping his head bowed.
Then Korvath's deep, chilling voice echoed, slow and deliberate:
"A time will come when the truth must be unveiled, Xavier… and when it does, the shadows will devour all you hold dear."
The temple faded, the Dragons' eyes dimming but the sense of their watchful gaze lingering. Even as the room returned to normal, Xavier felt it—their awareness stretching across lands and lives, already tracing the steps of the girl they deemed dangerous.
He remained seated, heart pounding. The last warning rang relentlessly in his ears, a cold reminder of the terror yet to come.
---
Eric stepped into Andrew's house cautiously, every movement measured. The air smelled faintly of burnt wood and dust, a lingering reminder of the recent chaos. The room in front of him looked like a miniature battlefield—chairs overturned, scattered papers, and broken trinkets littered the floor. Clearly, Andrew had put up a fight, trying to resist the officers before being overpowered.
No one else was in sight, yet Eric knew better than to assume the house was entirely safe. He moved quietly, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, every surface. It was obvious that Andrew had tried to live a normal life here, to maintain a semblance of peace despite the shadow of danger looming over him. Eric's mind raced, trying to pinpoint what could have betrayed him to the Purge Units.
He pushed open a door to one of the bedrooms. There, in the far corner, sat a large, worn box. Its edges were scuffed, the latch slightly rusted, but it radiated an aura of importance nonetheless. Eric approached it, curiosity sharpening his senses. Kneeling, he gently lifted the lid.
Inside lay a collection of books—most of them old, some dating back to before the war. The pages were yellowed and brittle, titles faded but still legible. Eric's lips parted slightly. "Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself.
Had anyone else seen this box, it would have been damning evidence that Andrew was a survivor, someone with knowledge of a time most had tried to forget. Such knowledge, now, could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
Eric's fingers brushed the edges of the books. With a subtle gesture, he placed the lid back and locked the box. Then, letting his power flow, he allowed the box to shift and change. Slowly, the large, conspicuous container shrank, its corners folding in on themselves. Its surface shimmered, colors bending and blending until the once bulky box had become a simple briefcase—unremarkable, easily overlooked. The transformation was seamless, a perfect concealment for the dangerous history it contained.
Satisfied with his work there, Eric scanned the rest of the room. Small charms hanging from the shelves, scrolls left open, scattered papers that might contain magical notations—all potential hazards if discovered. One by one, he manipulated them. Books folded into harmless pebbles, charms condensed into tiny orbs, and papers rolled into neat cylinders. Any trace of magic that could alert someone to Andrew's abilities or presence was neutralized, hidden in plain sight.
It had been a long time since Eric had exercised his power like this—shaping matter and magic with precision—but the familiar flow of energy through him felt good, almost comforting. Each subtle movement of his hands, each word whispered under his breath, reminded him of the control he could wield when necessity demanded it.
Once the room was secure, Eric stepped back, surveying the space with critical eyes. The house now looked ordinary again, the chaos of the Purge Units' search masked, and any evidence of magic carefully concealed. There was no indication that someone powerful had lived here—at least not to the untrained eye.
Satisfied for the moment, Eric moved toward the next room. His steps were silent, confident. Every corner of the house would be checked, every potential danger neutralized. He had work to do, and nothing—not even the remnants of fear lingering in the shadows—would stop him.
-----
I lingered at the doorway for a moment, glancing back at Amanda as she ate quietly, the first real peace she'd had in hours. My hand hovered over the whistle Eric had given me—it worked only once, a single call for help. I felt torn, unsure if using it was the right move.
In the end, I decided to wait. Somehow, I believed he would come. If Eric was as righteous as he claimed, he would need to see that Amanda's father had some assurance—some sign that his daughter was safe. He was smart enough to have suspected she'd be here, and I trusted he would act on it.
Somewhere deep down, I just knew he would show up.