While Ivor remained seated and waiting, the news of a newly registered high-grade was spread quietly by the woman behind the desk.
Far from the registration hall, preparations were already underway.
A middle aged man stood near the edge of a stone platform, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore full black armor that covered his body from neck to heel, with two swords strapped to his back. He was tall and lean, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested long familiarity with danger.
A burn-like scar cut across his forehead, raw and uneven, leaving a patch where hair no longer grew. Dark hair framed it on either side. His eyes, black and steady, followed the movements of the people working below him.
They moved quickly. Gear was checked. Seals were reinforced. Lines were drawn and redrawn on the stone near the spatial rift ahead.
A disturbance brushed against his senses.
The man turned his head to the right.
The air folded in on itself and a figure stepped through, momentum carrying him forward. He was wrapped in black cloth, his face hidden beneath a hood.
The armored man recognized him immediately.
He didn't greet him. He simply watched as the last ripples in the air faded.
His eyes remained locked onto the Scar ahead and the crimson glow of the spatial rift the represented entry into the Scar.
World Scars are permanent wounds in the planet's mana circulation, left behind by an ancient catastrophe. They are not anomalies that can be erased; they are chronic conditions of the world.
They exist across the land, especially beyond domain borders. They have persisted for centuries, and the current civilization is built around containing and managing them.
The newly arrived man dropped to one knee the moment his boots touched the stone.
"Lord Cilian," he said.
Cilian acknowledged him with a low grunt, his gaze never leaving the scar gate ahead.
"I carry one order and one piece of information," the man continued.
"Order first," Cilian replied.
"The Patriarch has called for the Council of Shadows to convene in seven days," the man said. "The matter concerns the anomaly from twelve years ago. New leads have surfaced."
He fell silent immediately, lowering his head further.
Cilian did not respond at once.
Twelve years.
The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp enough to tighten something in his chest. The night. The disturbance. The slitted eyes of that being still sent a chill through his spine.
"Understood," Cilian said at last.
He turned slightly, just enough to look down at the kneeling man.
"And the information?"
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second. Not long enough to be disrespectful. Long enough to be human.
"The son of Kael and Rhea has awakened," he said. "He has been registered with a high-grade mana core."
For the first time, Cilian's expression shifted and turned toward the kneeling man.
"So," he murmured. "It finally happened."
His eyes narrowed, dark and calculating, as the noise of preparation continued around them, unaware that something had just changed.
"Where is the boy now?" Cilian asked.
"He is still at one of the registration offices," the man replied. "Only two hours have passed. I came here as soon as I received confirmation."
Cilian hummed softly and turned his attention back toward the scar gate.
"Make sure he doesn't leave the building alive," he said.
The kneeling man's breathing tightened, just slightly.
"Lord, the deal—"
"That deal no longer matters," Cilian cut in. "Circumstances have changed."
He did not open his eyes as he continued.
"I'll handle any fallout if it comes to that. Use disposable beasts for the task. If something goes wrong, they can be sacrificed without question."
Silence stretched.
"You may go," Cilian said.
The man lowered his head further before rising quickly and retreating, leaving Cilian alone with the steady hum of the scar and the memory of slitted eyes that still refused to fade.
*****
At the same time, far from the registration halls, a different kind of preparation was underway.
Inside a training chamber carved directly into stone, a middle aged man moved alone.
He wore nothing but loose trousers, his upper body bare and marked with old scars that told of fights long finished and others never forgotten. His hair was pulled back into a tight knot at the back of his head. The lines of his face, sharp and severe, carried a faint resemblance to Ivor's, most visible around the eyes.
With each swing of his sword, the air split.
He stood nearly ten feet from the far wall, yet shallow cuts appeared across the reinforced stone as if an invisible blade had passed through it. The vibrations lingered after every strike, humming softly before fading.
He slowed, drawing the sword back into a resting position.
A rhythmic tapping reached him through the door.
His eyes narrowed.
"Come in," he said, already turning.
The door opened and a man in black rushed inside, his clothing wrapped tight around him from head to toe. He did not kneel. He did not pause. He barely remembered to breathe.
"Lord Maelor," he said quickly. "It's urgent."
The sword lowered slightly.
"Speak."
"Young Master Ivor has awakened," the man continued. "He has been registered as a high-grade mana core."
Maelor's eyes widened slightly and a smile began forming on his face.
"He's no longer in the Shrouded District," the man added. "He was escorted out. He should still be at the registration building, but—"
Hearing that his smile vanished instantly. He began moving.
He sheathed the sword in one smooth motion and reached for the robe hanging near the wall. The air in the chamber seemed to shift as he stepped forward, pressure settling into the space without effort.
"How long?" he asked.
"Less than two hours," the man replied. "But Lord Cilian will know by now."
Maelor's expression did not change, but something colder settled behind his eyes.
"So he's moved," he said quietly.
The man swallowed.
"Yes, my lord."
Maelor tied the robe at his waist and walked toward the exit.
"Kael isn't aware of what's happening," Maelor said. "If he were, he wouldn't have sent Ivor for registration. He still believes we will protect him."
"My lord—" the man flashed forward suddenly, appearing in front of Maelor to block the exit, and dropped to one knee. "You cannot leave this place."
Maelor stopped.
"Please," the man said, his voice tight. "We'll handle it. We'll do everything we can. But if you leave now…" He hesitated, swallowing hard. "Then Young Master Ivor and many of us, may not have a place to return to."
Maelor's jaw clenched.
For a brief moment, the air around him felt heavier, as if the training chamber itself was bracing.
"Go all out," Maelor said at last. "Nothing happens to Ivor."
Relief flickered across the man's face. He rose instantly.
"Yes, my lord."
He rushed out without another word.
Maelor reached for his sword and drew it slowly, the familiar weight settling into his hand. He turned back, took his stance, feet firm against the stone, blade angled forward.
His voice was low when he spoke again, meant for no one else.
"Cilian," he muttered, steel humming softly as he prepared to strike, "we share the same blood."
The sword moved.
"Do not make me prove it."