The light was too bright. Garlan squinted, breath short.

  The air he breathed no longer felt the same—thin, pure, tinged with the strange scent of polished stone and restrained magic.

  He was lying on a soft bed, in a pristine white room lit by floating orbs.

  He blinked a few times before hearing a soft voice to his right.

  — “You’re awake.”

  Marenna.

  She sat on a carved wooden chair, dark circles under her eyes but visibly relieved.

  She wore a simple gray tunic, far too big for her.

  Garlan sat up slowly.

  — “Where are we?”

  She hesitated.

  — “The capital. They… took us in.”

  He froze. Then the memories crashed back.

  The fight.

  Tharion. His severed head.

  Marenna’s scream.

  …And a fleeting memory.

  Tharion, beside a campfire, eyes half-closed.

  — “If I ever fall, don’t cry. Just get back up.”

  — “What if we want to cry anyway?” Marenna had asked.

  He had smiled, tired.

  — “Then cry. But live twice as hard—for me.”

  And that storm of fire—completely out of control.

  Garlan raised a hand to his temple. It was burning.

  A heartbeat later, the door opened.

  A man entered, dressed in a blue robe embroidered with gold thread, white hair tied at the nape, his gaze calm yet discerning.

  — “I am Master Halwen, mage of the Sixth Tower. You were unconscious when we found you. Tharion was already dead. You were the only survivors.”

  Garlan swallowed hard.

  Marenna lowered her gaze.

  Halwen continued:

  — “Tharion was a recognized hero of the capital. We don’t know why he was with you, or what you meant to him. But…”

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  He paused and sighed.

  — “Out of respect for his name, you’ve both been admitted to the Inner Circle’s Academy of Magic. You’ll attend lessons like any other novice.”

  That very day, they attended the national funeral.

  Tharion was carried by six paladins clad in ornate armor.

  A procession of hundreds—mages, soldiers, nobles, and citizens—wound through the capital’s main arteries.

  Hidden among the crowd, Garlan and Marenna watched the statue erected in the hero’s honor.

  Marenna wept silently.

  Garlan stared at the massive double-bladed axe, broken down the center, resting in the statue’s muscled centaur arms.

  A symbol of power, silenced.

  The capital was breathtaking.

  Towers of silver and glass stretched toward a sky crisscrossed by floating vehicles.

  Streets paved in white stone glowed with captured light, lined with enchanted fountains and floating lanterns.

  Automatons served drinks from magical stalls.

  The diversity was stunning—humans, elves, drakens—all moving in a choreography governed by order and hierarchy.

  The Academy, nestled in the heart of a vast suspended park, resembled a temple of knowledge.

  Shifting staircases, floating towers, glass walkways, and gravity-defying gardens.

  During the admission interview, the headmaster—a cold-eyed man—told them they would be assigned to separate dorms.

  But Marenna interrupted:

  — “We’re married.”

  The headmaster looked up from his grimoire, surprised.

  — “Married? That’s not in your file.”

  Garlan jumped in:

  — “Our rings were with Tharion’s belongings. The assassins took them.”

  A heavy silence followed. The headmaster slowly nodded.

  — “Very well. You’ll be housed together. But know this—discipline here is strict. No tolerance for… antics.”

  That evening, they discovered their quarters:

  A small apartment high above the ground, with a view over the hanging gardens.

  Two beds, a bookshelf, a magical washbasin, and a modest desk.

  Marenna unpacked in silence. Garlan sat by the window.

  Below, the towers shimmered.

  Spheres of light traced invisible paths through the sky.

  The capital never slept.

  — “We made it,” he said.

  Marenna joined him, placing her hand gently on his.

  The marriage excuse was perfect—

  She could touch him whenever she liked without raising suspicion.

  Garlan, feeling her hand on his, flushed (and not just emotionally) and stammered:

  — “W-What are you doing?”

  Marenna winked and chuckled softly:

  — “Why, my dear husband, I’m holding your hand. Perfectly normal, isn’t it?”

  Garlan eased, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

  They stayed silent for a while, eyes lost in the city's light-play.

  — “This city’s beautiful,” Marenna whispered. “But I feel like we’re being watched… constantly.”

  Garlan nodded.

  — “From what I’ve seen, all the mages and healers chant spells for everything—literally everything. We’ll have to learn fast if we don’t want to stand out.”

  — “You’re right. Let’s stay here for a while… and get better.”

  He paused. His gaze darkened, glowing like an ember hot enough to burn the fire itself.

  — “…So we can avenge Tharion.”