Nori felt wrong.
Not broken — just… unsettled.
Like the mountain was holding its breath.
For two days after the Emergence, the Aether Pool glowed with a brightness that didn’t belong to it. The molten channels that fed the city cooled too quickly, as if the heat itself was distracted. Even the air tasted metallic, sharp on the tongue.
Everywhere Manomi walked, people watched him.
Not with awe.
Not with fear.
Not with reverence.
With uncertainty.
As if they weren’t sure what they had seen rise from the Aether.
As if they weren’t sure what he was.
Kielia stayed close, a nervous habit she didn’t realize she had. Her eyes flicked constantly, scanning for threats she couldn’t name.
Rheum hovered behind them, hammer slung over his shoulder even when he didn’t need it. He wasn’t jumpy — Rheum never was — but he watched Manomi with a quiet, steady concern.
Manomi barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Aether darken.
He felt the cold thread seize.
He felt the mountain hum.
He felt Zephyron’s gaze settle on him like a weight he didn’t know how to carry.
But beneath all of that, beneath the confusion and exhaustion, there was something else.
A feeling he hadn’t felt since he was very young.
Reverence.
Not for the dragon.
Not for the Hourglass.
Not for the unknown.
For the mountain itself.
It felt familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.
Rumors spread through Nori like sparks through dry tinder.
“Gruin summoned the dragon.”
“No — the dragon came for the boy.”
“The Pact is shifting.”
“The outsider is cursed.”
“The outsider is chosen.”
“The outsider should leave before something worse happens.”
Manomi heard all of it.
He kept his head down.
He kept his breath steady.
He kept his hands still.
But the cold thread pulsed beneath his ribs, a quiet reminder that something inside him had answered the dragon’s presence.
He didn’t know what it meant.
He didn’t know what he was becoming.
He didn’t know why the mountain hummed when he passed the molten vents.
But he didn’t feel fear.
He felt… called.
On the morning of the third day, a runner found him.
A young apprentice, eyes wide with the kind of fear that came from being sent to deliver a message no one wanted to carry.
“Manomi,” the boy said, voice trembling. “Master Gruin… summons you.”
Kielia stiffened.
Rheum’s grip tightened on his hammer.
Manomi nodded.
He followed the runner down from the Academy, descending into the Council Ring — the inner throat of the volcano. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the hum of the mountain deepening beneath their feet.
Gruin’s chambers were carved directly into the stone, overlooking the Colosseum far below. From the balcony, the Sword Relic rose from the Aether Pool like a dark spine, its hum deeper than usual — as if still resonating with the dragon’s breath.
The door opened without a sound.
Manomi stepped inside.
Gruin stood with his back turned, staring through the archway toward the Relic. His massive frame was still, but the air around him felt charged — like the moment before lightning strikes.
A faint glow pulsed beneath his skin.
Aether Veins — deep purple, like cracks in the night sky.
Manomi felt something tighten in his chest.
Not fear.
Not awe.
Something quieter.
Something older.
A feeling he hadn’t felt since watching Mano work in silence, the world narrowing to the rhythm of breath and purpose.
Gruin spoke without turning.
“Manomi.”
His voice was iron.
“You will undergo Kai’Ren one year from today.”
Manomi’s breath caught.
A year.
He had expected time.
He had expected preparation.
He had expected answers.
But Gruin offered none.
“You are sixteen,” Gruin continued. “You should have faced Kai’Ren at twelve. You did not. You were not here. You were not ready.”
Manomi swallowed. “I’m ready now.”
“No,” Gruin said. “You are not.”
He finally turned.
His Aether Veins glowed deeper, constellations shifting beneath his skin.
Manomi felt the mountain hum in response.
Gruin’s eyes were not angry.
Not afraid.
Not confused.
They were measuring.
“You will face Kazuren Sa’Keth.”
Manomi felt the floor tilt beneath him.
Gruin stepped closer.
“You will train every day. You will break. You will rebuild. You will learn to fight someone stronger than you, faster than you, more disciplined than you. You will learn to survive an attuned opponent with nothing but your hands.”
Manomi nodded slowly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Gruin’s voice dropped to a low, final tone.
“Good. Because if you fail, you will die.”
There was no cruelty in the words.
No threat.
Just truth.
Gruin turned back to the Relic.
“Go. Your year begins now.”
Manomi bowed deeply, then left the chamber.
The mountain hummed behind him.
And for the first time in days, he felt steady.
Training began before sunrise.
Manomi woke to the sound of bells, the cold sting of mountain air, and the ache of muscles that had not yet adapted to the new regimen. The instructors wasted no time. They pushed him through drills, footwork, breathwork, conditioning, sparring — each exercise designed to break him down and rebuild him stronger.
He had trained since childhood. He was nearly a master of hand?to?hand combat. But this was different. This was not training for skill. This was training for survival.
By the third day, he collapsed.
Pure, human exhaustion.
He hit the mat and didn’t get up.
Kielia was the first to reach him. She dropped to her knees, her crimson hair falling over her shoulders, her orange?and?gold eyes wide with worry.
“Manomi! Hey — hey, breathe. Slow down.”
Rheum hovered behind her, hands shaking. “He’s burning up.”
Instructors gathered. Students whispered.
“He’s too old.”
“He’s too weak.”
“He’ll die in the arena.”
“He won’t last a minute against Kazuren.”
Manomi heard all of it through the haze.
And then—
He stood.
Slowly.
Unsteadily.
But he stood.
The whispers stopped.
He didn’t know why he could.
He didn’t know how he could.
He just knew he had to.
He bowed to the instructor.
“Again.”
The instructor hesitated. “Manomi—”
“Again.”
And so they continued.
The First Veilstep
It happened during a spar with a senior student — a boy two years older, faster, stronger, already attuned.
Manomi ducked under a strike, pivoted, and stepped back.
Except—
The world hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
A Veilstep.
The student’s punch slowed — not visibly, not dramatically, but enough. Enough for Manomi to move. Enough for him to survive.
He slipped past the blow and swept the boy’s legs out from under him.
The student hit the ground, stunned.
The instructor blinked. “How did you—?”
Manomi didn’t know.
He felt a cold tightening in his chest.
A faint pressure behind his eyes.
A heartbeat out of sync.
He shook it off.
“Again.”
Kazuren Sa’Keth was everything Manomi wasn’t.
Attuned.
Disciplined.
Precise.
Perfect.
He trained alone, surrounded by silence, his movements sharp enough to cut air. When he fought, he didn’t waste a breath. When he struck, he didn’t miss.
He watched Manomi from across the training hall.
Not with curiosity.
Not with contempt.
With calculation.
Their first spar came two months into the year.
Kazuren stepped into the ring without a word.
Manomi followed.
The room fell silent.
Kazuren bowed — a gesture of respect, but also dominance.
Manomi bowed back.
The fight began.
Kazuren moved like a blade — clean, efficient, merciless. Manomi blocked, dodged, absorbed, adapted. Veilstep triggered twice — tiny hesitations in the world that let him survive blows he shouldn’t have.
Kazuren noticed.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
His eyes narrowed.
He pressed harder.
Manomi refused to break.
The fight ended when Manomi landed a single clean strike — a palm to Kazuren’s chest that forced him back half a step.
The room gasped.
Kazuren froze.
Then he spoke, voice low, cold, certain.
“You’re not one of us.”
He left the ring without looking back.
The whisper spread through the Academy like wildfire.
The days after Manomi’s first spar with Kazuren felt different.
Not louder.
Not more dramatic.
Just… heavier.
Students didn’t whisper anymore. They watched.
Instructors didn’t question him. They measured him.
Even the mountain seemed to hum more often, a low vibration that settled into Manomi’s bones.
Kielia and Rheum stayed close, though neither said why.
Kielia trained harder than usual, molten sparks flicking from her palms whenever she grew frustrated. She kept glancing at Manomi as if checking whether he was still breathing.
Rheum grew quieter, hammering late into the night in the Academy’s lower forges. He didn’t talk about Kazuren. He didn’t talk about Kai’Ren. He didn’t talk about the whispers.
He just worked.
And Manomi trained.
Every morning before dawn.
Every night until the bells rang.
Every moment in between.
He didn’t know what he was becoming.
He only knew he couldn’t stop.
Gruin never spoke to him after the summons.
Not directly.
Not openly.
But Manomi felt him.
Sometimes in the training hall — a massive silhouette in the doorway, arms crossed, Aether Veins faintly glowing beneath the skin.
Sometimes on the balcony above the Colosseum — watching the students spar, gaze lingering on Manomi a moment too long.
Sometimes in the forge — the air shifting, the heat deepening, the metal ringing differently when Gruin was near.
He never corrected Manomi.
Never instructed him.
Never interfered.
He simply watched.
And that was somehow worse.
Because Gruin didn’t watch people.
Gruin watched weapons.
It happened during footwork drills.
Manomi was moving through a sequence — pivot, step, strike, retreat — when the world thinned again.
A breath.
A flicker.
A moment that wasn’t there.
He stepped through it.
When the world snapped back, he was three paces ahead of where he should’ve been.
Kielia froze mid?movement.
Rheum nearly dropped his hammer.
“Did you—?” Kielia started.
Manomi shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Rheum frowned. “You moved wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“Like you skipped something.”
Kielia stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Do it again.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
He tried.
Nothing happened.
The world stayed solid.
The air stayed thick.
The moment stayed whole.
Kielia crossed her arms. “I don’t like it.”
Rheum nodded. “Me neither.”
Manomi didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t sure if he liked it either.
Kazuren trained harder after their first spar.
Not louder.
Not more aggressively.
Just… sharper.
Every strike cleaner.
Every movement tighter.
Every breath measured.
He didn’t look at Manomi.
He didn’t speak to him.
He didn’t acknowledge him.
But he watched.
Always from the edges.
Always with that cold, calculating stare.
When Manomi practiced footwork, Kazuren mirrored the movements across the hall.
When Manomi sparred, Kazuren studied the angles.
When Manomi rested, Kazuren trained.
It wasn’t rivalry.
It wasn’t hatred.
It was obsession.
A quiet, disciplined obsession that made the air feel thinner whenever Kazuren entered the room.
The pressure began to show.
Kielia snapped at Rheum during drills.
Rheum snapped back.
Manomi tried to mediate and failed.
They trained together, but the rhythm was off.
Kielia’s molten shaping grew erratic — too hot, too fast, too emotional.
Rheum’s Forge?Bind wavered — cracks forming where none should.
Manomi’s Veilstep hovered at the edge of his awareness — unpredictable, unsettling.
One evening, after a particularly brutal session, Kielia threw her gloves across the training hall.
“This is stupid,” she muttered. “We’re falling apart.”
Rheum wiped sweat from his brow. “We’re not falling apart. We’re just—”
“Scared,” Manomi said quietly.
They both looked at him.
He didn’t flinch.
“I’m scared,” he continued. “You’re scared. Everyone’s scared. Kazuren’s stronger than all of us. Gruin’s watching me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve. And I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Silence.
Then Kielia stepped forward and punched him lightly in the shoulder.
“Good,” she said. “Fear means you’re alive.”
Rheum nodded. “And alive is enough.”
The tension broke.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
It happened late at night.
Manomi couldn’t sleep.
His muscles ached.
His mind wouldn’t quiet.
So he walked.
Down the Academy steps.
Across the training grounds.
Toward the molten channels that fed the city.
The air grew warmer.
The stone beneath his feet vibrated faintly.
He stopped at the edge of a vent — a narrow fissure where heat rose in shimmering waves.
The mountain hummed.
Low.
Deep.
Ancient.
It wasn’t sound.
It wasn’t vibration.
It was presence.
Something in the stone recognized him.
Something in the heat acknowledged him.
Something in the mountain whispered to him.
He didn’t understand the words.
He didn’t know if they were words at all.
But he felt them.
A pull.
A calling.
A familiarity he couldn’t explain.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment — just a moment — the world thinned again.
A Veilstep without movement.
A breath between breaths.
A moment between moments.
When he opened his eyes, the hum faded.
But the feeling didn’t.
Manomi turned to leave — and froze.
Gruin stood behind him.
Massive.
Silent.
Aether Veins glowing faintly beneath the skin.
Manomi bowed instinctively.
Gruin didn’t acknowledge it.
“You feel it,” Gruin said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Manomi swallowed. “I… think so.”
Gruin stepped closer, the heat around him intensifying.
“The mountain speaks to those it chooses.”
Manomi’s breath caught. “Chooses for what?”
Gruin’s gaze was unreadable.
He turned and walked away, leaving Manomi alone with the fading hum.
The Academy settled into a rhythm after the Emergence — not a comfortable one, but a rhythm nonetheless.
The Trio trained together every morning before the bells.
Not because anyone told them to.
Not because they had a plan.
Because they needed each other.
Kielia arrived first, always.
She moved like a spark waiting for tinder — restless, bright, unpredictable.
Her molten manipulation had grown sharper since the Emergence; she shaped heat with a confidence that made instructors nervous.
Rheum arrived second, hammer slung over his shoulder, steps steady and deliberate.
He didn’t talk much in the mornings.
He didn’t need to.
His presence grounded them.
Manomi arrived last, breath steady, mind focused, body aching from Gruin’s relentless expectations.
They didn’t speak at first.
They didn’t need to.
They simply moved.
Three rhythms.
Three styles.
Three lives beginning to braid together.
Kielia’s molten shaping had always been impressive, but now it was something else entirely.
She stood before a training dummy, palms glowing faintly.
A thin ribbon of molten metal curled from her fingertips — not dripping, not chaotic, but controlled.
She flicked her wrist.
The ribbon hardened into a thin, curved blade.
Rheum whistled under his breath. “That’s new.”
Kielia grinned. “I’ve been practicing.”
She swung the blade experimentally. It held its shape for three full seconds before cooling into dull metal.
“That’s longer than yesterday,” Manomi said.
“By a lot,” Rheum added.
Kielia shrugged, though pride glowed in her eyes. “I’m getting better.”
She didn’t say why she was pushing herself so hard.
She didn’t need to.
Kazuren’s shadow stretched long over all of them.
Rheum’s growth was quieter, but no less impressive.
He stood before a cracked training pillar — one of the older ones, its stone weakened by years of use.
He placed his hand against it, closed his eyes, and breathed.
A faint vibration pulsed through the stone.
Then he struck.
Not hard.
Not fast.
Just right.
The crack sealed.
Kielia blinked. “You fixed it.”
Rheum shrugged. “It was bothering me.”
Manomi stepped closer, studying the pillar. “Your Forge?Bind is stabilizing faster.”
Rheum nodded. “Feels like I can… hear the metal now. Or the stone. Or both.”
Kielia nudged him with her elbow. “You’re becoming a real smith.”
Rheum’s ears reddened. “Shut up.”
But he smiled.
Manomi’s Veilstep came without warning.
They were practicing footwork — a simple drill, nothing special.
Kielia darted forward, molten sparks flicking from her palms.
Rheum circled behind, hammer raised.
Manomi pivoted.
And the world thinned.
A breath.
A flicker.
A moment that wasn’t there.
He stepped through it.
When the world snapped back, he was behind Kielia.
She spun, startled. “How did you—?”
Rheum stared. “You moved wrong again.”
Manomi swallowed. “I didn’t mean to.”
Kielia stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Do you feel it before it happens?”
Manomi hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“What does it feel like?”
He searched for the right words.
“Like the world… softens. Like the air gets thin. Like there’s a place I’m supposed to step into.”
Kielia shivered. “I don’t like it.”
Rheum nodded. “It’s unnatural.”
Manomi didn’t argue.
Because he agreed.
Kazuren trained alone on the far side of the hall.
He didn’t look at them.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t acknowledge their existence.
But he watched.
Every time Manomi Veilstepped, Kazuren’s movements sharpened.
Every time Kielia shaped molten metal, Kazuren’s jaw tightened.
Every time Rheum stabilized stone, Kazuren’s eyes narrowed.
He wasn’t jealous.
He wasn’t afraid.
He was calculating.
Studying them.
Measuring them.
Preparing for something only he understood.
Kielia noticed first.
“He’s staring again.”
Rheum didn’t look. “Ignore him.”
Manomi tried.
But Kazuren’s presence pressed against the air like a blade.
Gruin appeared without sound.
One moment the balcony above the hall was empty.
The next, he stood there — massive, silent, Aether Veins glowing faintly beneath the skin.
He watched the Trio train.
Not with approval.
Not with disappointment.
With intent.
Kielia froze mid?movement.
Rheum straightened.
Manomi felt his breath catch.
Gruin didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
He simply watched.
And the mountain hummed beneath their feet.
The pressure finally cracked something.
Kielia snapped during a sparring drill, molten sparks flaring too hot.
Rheum snapped back, hammer striking harder than necessary.
Manomi tried to mediate and failed.
They argued.
They shouted.
They said things they didn’t mean.
Then silence.
Kielia turned away, fists clenched.
Rheum stared at the ground.
Manomi felt the weight of everything pressing down on them.
Kazuren watched from across the hall, expression unreadable.
Gruin watched from above, unmoving.
The mountain hummed.
And Manomi felt something inside him shift.
He stepped forward.
“We’re scared,” he said quietly.
Kielia turned.
Rheum looked up.
Manomi continued.
“I’m scared. You’re scared. Everyone’s scared. Kazuren’s stronger than all of us. Gruin’s watching me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve. And I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Silence.
Then Kielia punched him lightly in the shoulder.
“Good,” she said. “Fear means you’re alive.”
Rheum nodded. “And alive is enough.”
The tension broke.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
Later that evening, after training, after the argument, after the quiet reconciliation, Kielia burst into the dorm common room with a wild grin.
“Let’s go east.”
Rheum groaned. “Why.”
“Because I want to see what’s out there.”
Manomi blinked. “We’re not supposed to leave the mountain.”
“We’re not not supposed to,” Kielia said. “They just don’t recommend it.”
“That’s worse,” Rheum muttered.
Kielia leaned forward, eyes bright. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Manomi hesitated.
Then he saw something in her expression —
a spark, a need, a desire to breathe beyond the weight of the Academy.
He nodded.
Rheum sighed. “Fine. But if we die, I’m haunting you.”
Kielia grinned. “Deal.”
They left before dawn, slipping past the Academy gates while the bells still slept. There is an old eastern path that winds down the mountain in narrow switchbacks, carved centuries ago by quarry workers who’d long since vanished into legend.
Kielia led, her crimson ponytails bouncing, her breath visible in the cold. Rheum followed, hammer slung over his shoulder, muttering about loose stone and unstable ledges. Manomi walked last, watching the mountain rise behind them like a silent witness.
A Ferru?Hare darted across the trail — a flash of metal?tipped fur and quick feet. Kielia lunged after it.
Rheum grabbed her collar. “No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Manomi laughed — a real laugh, the first in weeks. Kielia grinned back, triumphant even in defeat.
The world felt lighter here.
Less watched.
Less weighted.
For the first time since the Emergence, Manomi felt like he could breathe.
They stopped at a narrow ledge halfway down — a place where the stone opened into a sweeping view of the lowlands. The lake shimmered in the distance, its circular shape barely visible through the morning haze.
Rheum went ahead to check the next stretch of trail, leaving Manomi and Kielia alone.
She leaned against a boulder, catching her breath. Manomi stood beside her, eyes drifting toward the south — where the desert of Es’Imed began.
He hesitated.
“Kielia,” he said quietly. “When you found me… near the border. Why were you there?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Her gaze stayed on the horizon, but her expression shifted — a flicker of seriousness beneath her usual spark.
“I figured you’d ask eventually,” she murmured.
Manomi waited.
Kielia exhaled. “People were disappearing.”
He turned to her. “Disappearing?”
“Yeah.” She kicked a pebble off the ledge. “Traders. Scouts. A few travelers. All near the desert’s edge. No bodies. No tracks. Nothing.”
Manomi felt a chill. “And you went alone?”
Kielia shrugged. “Someone had to look.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She smirked faintly. “You sound like Rheum.”
“Kielia.”
Her smile faded.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you were alive. No one did.”
Manomi swallowed.
“I went because the timing was wrong,” she continued. “The disappearances started the night the sky cracked. The night you vanished.”
Silence.
Not heavy.
Not accusing.
Just real.
“I didn’t know what I was looking for,” she said. “I just knew something was wrong. And then I found you.”
Manomi looked away. “Half?dead.”
“Half?dead,” she agreed. “But alive. And older. And glowing.”
He didn’t speak.
Kielia nudged his shoulder. “I’d do it again.”
He met her eyes.
“Why?” he asked.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Because you were the only one who didn’t look away when the world got strange.”
Rheum’s shout echoed from down the trail. “You two done? The path’s clear!”
Kielia pushed off the boulder and started walking.
Manomi followed, but her words stayed with him.
Disappearances.
The border.
The night the sky cracked.
And the girl who went looking when no one else would.
The path widened as they descended into the foothills. Old mining shacks dotted the landscape — wooden frames half?collapsed, Aether?tech lamps long dead but still faintly metallic in the morning light.
A Shale?Crawler skittered across a rock face, its stone?textured skin blending perfectly with the cliff. Kielia pointed at it.
“See? Cute.”
Rheum snorted. “It’s a lizard.”
“A cute lizard.”
“It eats other lizards.”
“Still cute.”
Manomi smiled.
The world felt alive here — not magical, not Aether?touched, just raw and real.
They reached a narrow pass where the stone walls rose high on either side. The air grew still. Too still.
Rheum slowed. “Something’s off.”
Kielia frowned. “What?”
“Listen.”
They did.
No wind.
No birds.
No insects.
Just silence.
A faint clatter echoed from deeper in the pass — stone against stone.
Manomi’s pulse quickened.
A Cliff?Rambler appeared on a ledge above them — a creature with iron?tipped horns and hooves that sparked lightly on the rock. It stared down at them, muscles tense.
Kielia whispered, “It’s cute.”
Rheum whispered back, “It’s about to charge.”
The Rambler pawed the ground.
Manomi stepped forward. “Don’t move.”
The creature snorted.
Then it leapt.
Everything happened at once.
The Cliff?Rambler barreled down the slope, hooves sparking.
Kielia threw up a molten barrier — thin, imperfect, but enough to redirect the charge.
Rheum slammed his hand against the wall, Forge?Binding a crack before it could widen.
Manomi pivoted—
And the world thinned.
A Veilstep.
He slipped past the Rambler’s horns by a breath, landing behind it as it skidded across the stone.
Kielia shouted, “Manomi!”
“I’m fine!”
The Rambler turned, furious.
Rheum stepped forward, hammer raised. “On your left!”
Kielia melted a small ridge into the ground, forcing the creature to stumble.
Manomi moved in, sweeping its legs.
Rheum struck the ground beside it, not the creature — the shockwave enough to send it scrambling away.
The Rambler fled up the cliff, bleating angrily.
Silence returned.
Kielia collapsed onto a rock, laughing breathlessly. “Okay. That was fun.”
Rheum glared. “We could’ve died.”
“Yeah,” she said, still grinning. “Fun.”
Manomi sat beside them, heart still racing.
He didn’t say it aloud, but he agreed with both of them.
They continued deeper into the foothills, the path narrowing again. The stone beneath their feet grew loose, shifting with each step.
A Ferru?Pup darted across the trail — small, metallic whiskers twitching. Kielia gasped.
“It’s adorable.”
Rheum sighed. “Please don’t—”
Kielia crouched. “Come here, little—”
The ground rumbled.
The Ferru?Pup bolted.
Rheum’s eyes widened. “Move!”
The rockslide hit like thunder.
Stone shattered.
Dust exploded.
The world tilted.
Manomi felt the ground vanish beneath him—
And the world thinned again.
A Veilstep.
Instinctive.
Desperate.
He reappeared on a stable ledge, coughing, heart pounding.
Kielia dangled from a jut of stone, molten hooks dripping from her palms as she tried to climb.
Rheum anchored himself with one hand, the other reaching for her.
Manomi scrambled forward, grabbing her wrist.
“Got you!”
Rheum pulled them both up, muscles straining.
The slide settled.
Silence.
Then Kielia burst into laughter — shaky, breathless, relieved.
Rheum sat heavily beside her. “I hate this.”
Manomi lay back on the stone, staring at the sky.
He didn’t hate it.
Not at all.
They limped back up the mountain as the sun dipped low, covered in dust, bruises, and adrenaline.
Gruin stood at the Academy gates when they arrived.
He looked at them — really looked — taking in the dirt, the cuts, the exhaustion, the wild spark in their eyes.
He didn’t scold them.
He didn’t question them.
He just said:
“Next time, take water.”
Kielia beamed.
Rheum groaned.
Manomi smiled.
Kazuren watched from the training hall doorway, expression unreadable.
But something in his gaze had changed.
Something sharp.
Something cold.
Something dangerous.
The Trio didn’t notice.
Not yet.
They were too busy laughing.
