[Silver Star Tower - Exterior]
The Silver Star Tower, its granite blocks adorned with black iron rivets, stood tall against the azure sky. At its base, the Flame Feather Order lined up, their red cloaks billowing in the wind and steel hissing as they drew their leather sheaths.
Limon swallowed, the taste of ozone thick on his tongue. He glanced sideways. Alden sat atop his black destrier, spine rigid. The Prince’s vision was fixed on the highest window; he didn't blink, and his chest barely rose.
Below, the heavy iron-reinforced doors remained barred. A line of disciples stood defiant, knuckles white around staves that hummed with unstable, flickering light.
Behind the knight line, shutters slammed shut. Voices shouted. Footsteps scattered across cobblestones.
"Disperse," Alden said. His voice didn't rise, yet it cut through the wind.
"We will not yield!" a disciple screamed. His hands shook, the wand in his grip tracing erratic arcs in the air. "Tower Master Geralt commands—"
Alden raised two fingers.
"Commander Devon. Shield formation—center position. Civilians first."
"Commander Freya. Flank formation."
His fingers dropped. The air immediately warped around Commander Devon as a pillar of azure light erupted from his sword. The grass beneath his boots flattened under the weight of the pressure.
To the left, Commander Freya's blade ignited with crimson fire. The eleven swordmasters moved in formation, their forms blurring into streaks of light.
Devon's voice boomed across the square. "Flame Feather! North and east flanks—form barricade! No civilians past this line!"
Red cloaks moved. Knights dismounted, planting themselves between the tower and the market behind them.
Freya gestured with her blade. Her riders split—half forming a defensive wall, half circling toward the tower's rear.
Then, the high window shattered.
Glass fell in shards. The spheres arced through the gray sky, trailing thick, toxic purple smoke. Limon's heart hammered against his ribs.
"Devon, Shield!" Alden's command cracked like a whip.
Commander Devon didn't look up. He slammed his boot into the earth. The azure aura exploded upward, solidifying into a translucent wall of blue light.
Violet fire washed over the barrier. Shrapnel hammered the dome. The ground beneath the horses' hooves shuddered.
Freya and her riders circled the tower's base, red cloaks vanishing around the far edge. The purple smoke thickened, spreading across the courtyard. They disappeared into it, heading for the rear entrance.
"The tower's exploding!" someone screamed from the market square.
Limon shielded his eyes from the glare. The blue dome held, but the bombardment was relentless.
Then, the black destrier moved.
Limon's breath hitched. "Your Highness!"
Alden didn't stop. He spurred the horse straight toward the impact zone where the purple fire still burned.
Limon's knuckles turned white on his reins. He looked for the shimmer of a protective spell or a shield but found only the Prince's red cape fluttering. He winced, bracing for the worst.
But Alden was not there.
A piece of masonry crashed down. The destrier swerved left. Violet fire erupted where they'd been. The horse cut right, hooves pounding across scorched earth. Another explosion—the horse was already past it. Alden leaned into the turns, movements fluid with the beast's.
Limon looked at Commander Devon. The scarred commander stood with both hands pressed against his sword, veins standing out on his neck as he poured aura into the barrier. Sweat ran down his temple. But his eyes were riveted on the Prince's path, wide and shining.
The destrier reached the base of the tower. Alden kicked his feet free of the stirrups. He launched himself from the saddle.
Alden's boots struck vertical stone. His essence flared beneath his soles, anchoring each step to sheer masonry as he sprinted upward, body tilted forward as he covered the six-story height in seconds—a blur of black motion against gray stone.
[Silver Star Tower - Interior, Earlier that morning]
The glass pipette shattered in Geralt's grip.
A heavy, frantic pounding hammered against the iron-reinforced oak of the laboratory door. Geralt froze, staring at the vibrations shuddering through the wood.
'Who dares?' Anger flared.
"Master! Master, open the door!"
The voice was muffled but shrill with terror. Feroz. The second disciple.
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Geralt wiped the spilled reagent onto his robe and marched to the door. He threw the heavy bolts and yanked it open.
Feroz stood in the hallway, fist raised to pound again. His face was drained of blood, chest heaving as if he had run up every step of the tower.
"What is the meaning of this?" Geralt hissed.
"News... from the Court," Feroz choked out. "Prince Alden lives. He stands before the Emperor. Rhodri betrayed us."
"What? Rhodri?" Geralt's pupils dilated. The silence of the laboratory suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. "Impossible."
"It's true," Feroz gasped. "The Imperial Guard is mobilizing."
"Prepare defenses," Geralt barked, his voice climbing an octave. He swept his arm across the workbench, sending priceless vials crashing to the floor as he hunted for his catalyst pouch. "Tell the others to hold the perimeter. Stall them."
He moved toward the rear alcove, but the doorway was blocked by a wall of gray robes. Disciples crowded in from the hallway, eyes widening, seeking their teacher for guidance.
"Master? Where are you going?" one asked, voice trembling. "What is happening?"
Geralt froze. He spun around, turning to face them with a snarl.
"An imposter," he spat. "A usurper pretending to be the Crown is attacking our tower with a rogue army. They want to kill us all and steal our life's work. Take up arms! Call the executives and guards to me. NOW!"
One sprinted to call the executives.
The older disciples' gazes flared with indignation. "How dare this fraud..."
Another shouted, grabbing a pestle like a club. "It must be those Arcanum bastards!"
But some stepped back, shaking. "We... we are not fighters... A rogue army?"
Geralt reached under the heavy slate of his desk and slammed his palm against a hidden rune-plate.
Deep within the walls, heavy iron bolts slammed home.
A young disciple broke from the group, running for the door. His hands hit the iron handle. He pulled.
It didn't budge.
He pulled again. Nothing. He slammed his shoulder into it. "Master—the emergency exit doors won't open!"
Another disciple ran for the side exit. "This one too! We're locked in!"
Panic rippled through the room. Voices rose into a cacophony of fear.
"The shield is up!" Geralt shouted over the rising murmur. "No one enters. No one leaves. We stand together!"
'Or you die for me,' he thought, turning his back to them. His fingers curled around several vials resting on his desk—the glass cold, the liquid inside a dark, viscous red.
The heavy lab doors burst open again, forced by armored shoulders. A mix of tower guards and robed executives rushed in from the corridor. "Tower Master! You called?"
Geralt turned, shoving the vials into their hands. "Drink. This formula will amplify your mana reserves. The enemy is at our gates."
The guards, trained to follow orders before instinct, uncorked the vials and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.
The executives, however, hesitated. One held the vial up to the light, narrowing his eyes. "This viscosity... and the smell. Sir, this hasn't been tested—"
"We don't have the luxury of time!" Geralt’s voice cut like a whip. He looked at the guards, whose eyes were already glazing over with a dull, unnatural focus. "Guards. Seize them. Pour it down their throats."
The guards moved instantly. No questions. No hesitation. They tackled the screaming executives, pinning them to the floor.
Geralt watched the struggle with a cold, satisfied sneer.
'Good sheep,' he thought, before shouting, "Use the stockpiles! Acids and fire! Make them pay for every inch!"
But the next moment, the tower shook.
The floor shuddered beneath their feet. A low vibration rumbled up through the stone—the unmistakable thunder of a marching army and the impact of battering rams.
Geralt’s chest tightened. Breath came short and fast.
"Shit. They are already here."
He barked an order, his breath catching in his throat. "Create a defensive circle! Place Bavarium at the center and detonate anyone who attempts to breach the windows!"
He didn't wait to see if they obeyed. He retreated, feet slipping on the stone as he put the students between himself and the entrances. He scrambled until his back slammed into Feroz.
"Master, the underground vault!" Feroz grabbed his sleeve, his eyes frantic. "We need the keys to the reserve explosives. If they breach the lower doors—"
"Take them!" Geralt ripped the heavy iron ring from his belt and hurled it across the room. "Use everything! Stop them at all costs!"
Feroz caught the keys. He turned, a cold smile replacing his panic, and rushed down the stairs.
Geralt, still panicked, slipped the catch on the bookshelf. The secret door clicked open—the only exit the lockdown didn't seal.
He didn't look back at the chaos, the screaming executives, or his doomed students.
He ran.
[Silver Star Tower — Underground Vault]
Time stretched in the darkness, measured only by the rhythmic dripping of condensation against stone.
A man entered the gloom. With ordinary brown hair and brown eyes, he clutched a wrapped bundle in one hand. He moved toward the cells, the heavy key ring at his belt jingling softly.
He turned the mechanism of the first gate.
Moving to the next, he worked his way down the line until every iron door stood slightly ajar. Then, he stepped back to the center of the room.
"I have opened your locks," he said, his voice low but clear. "You are free."
Silence answered him. No one moved, nor did they look at the open doors. They stared at the walls, at the floor, or at nothing at all.
The man shifted his weight. "It might be hard to believe, but I am not Geralt's man. I did not come here to torment you."
Still, there was no response.
He hesitated, his gaze lingering on the crouching figures. "Soon, my Master will be here. He can help you. Just know that I am Code 38."
Placing the keys on a barrel, he turned away, his boots retreating up the stairs.
As the door closed above, the silence shattered.
"One-two-three-one-two-three—"
"Not real not real not real not real—"
"Free. Free. Free."
[Silver Star Tower — Upper Executive Floor]
Shouts and the crash of breaking glass filled the tower, until a voice from outside silenced them all.
"You are surrounded!"
The command boomed through the stone walls like thunder, shaking dust from the ceiling rafters. "Geralt! Surrender and your disciples may live. Resist, and you burn."
The disciples wavered. Uncertain glances darted around the room.
"Lies!" a senior disciple screamed, eyes wild. "They want us to lower the shield so they can slaughter us!"
An executive stepped forward. "The circles are completed. Everyone, gather on the top floor. We will—"
"Wait," a young disciple stammered, gripping his head. "This voice... where have I heard it?"
"Stop dawdling! Bring the reagents! Where did Feroz go?"
Shouts erupted from every direction, overlapping into a wall of noise.
Then, a new sound cut through the chaos. Not the march of soldiers, but the heavy, rhythmic thunder of a single horse galloping toward the base of the tower.
One executive rushed to the narrow observation slit. He squinted down.
A single rider. Black armor. No shield.
The executive leaned further out. An easy target. He raised his hand, clutching a flask of liquid fire, and prepared to drop it.
"I remember now!" the young disciple screamed, his voice cracking. "That voice—it's 'The Red Gale'! It's Commander Freya of the Flame Feather Order!"
"What nonsense are you spewing?" a senior hissed. "How would you even know—"
"No, I... Please believe me!"
The executive turned back to the slit, ready to drop the flask. But he froze.
The rider wasn’t on the ground. He was sprinting vertically up the stone, boots striking the masonry as if running on level ground.
The executive rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He looked again—the view didn't change.
The rider’s face was a blur, but the eyes were visible. Pitch black. And they were locked onto the window.
His hand trembled, and he struggled to find the words to speak, only managing a single word: "Monster."
