The early air burned with promise as Ilyas pounded a familiar rhythm along the fort's outer wall, his sneakers striking worn, weathered stone in a measured cadence. The wind's chill whispered against his skin, intertwining with the rising heat that promised another scorching day. Outside, the landscape was alive with anticipation—a sea of bodies pressed against carefully maintained barriers, their collective energy humming like a living thing.

  Near the palace gates, two precise rows of soldiers stood in pristine white robes, their weapons planted into the ground before them like silent sentinels. Their eyes darted around every now and then. A meticulously cleared pathway stretched between their ranks, leading from the ornate palace gates to an elevated podium adorned with royal banners. The crowd's cheers and occasional shouts rose and fell like waves, a cacophony of excitement that seemed to have materialized from nowhere.

  Ilyas paused, momentarily disoriented. How had he not heard this earlier? The noise should have carried over the fort's walls, yet he'd been oblivious until now. He made his way outside, scanning the bustling scene. A low murmur of voices, desperate shouts, and clattering footsteps filled the air as Ilyas moved away from the fort's walls. The crowd gathered in a frenzied mass—a patchwork of anger, fear, and disbelief. Someone near him cried, "They say the cult will take towns down in full chaos!" Another retorted with a quiver in their tone, "I heard they're in every shadow now, that abomination’s spreading!"

  Ilyas pulled out his phone and squinted at the glowing screen. Breaking news messages flashed: "Cult of the Dragon Rises—Chaos Unleashed Across the Land." He kept scrolling past news and frowned beneath the weight of eager headlines. A man in a threadbare tunic pressed closer, insisting, "Those damned cultists will be the death of us!" He jerked away from the man in surprise.

  Ilyas tilted his head, his fingers tapping softly on the smooth surface. He stood silent as the crowd's despair coalesced into explosive outrage. Across the murk of anxious faces, whispers floated, "I heard they've taken over half the outskirts," and "Even the palace can't hold them back now! If they kept them secret for so long, who knows how many are already inside!"

  "Rumors have legs in times like these." His tone was measured as he mumbled to himself, yet internally, he grieved for the burden of news too heavy for one soul—news that tied closely to his own secret, his heritage, and the dread of unchecked power rising beyond control.

  A feisty child darted by, laughing despite the gloom, shouting, "Dragons are going to be back, they say! Are you scared, mister?" The crowd surged and broke into smaller clusters, voices mingling in anxious conjecture. A man with a scarred face added, "I saw a guard run because he thought a shadow was a beast. Madness, all of it."

  Ilyas's eyes narrowed as he looked up from his device. The digital news continued to confirm it, the cult's influence spread like wildfire. His pulse quickened, yet a part of him remained still, locked in thought. Every report, every hushed conversation, tallied with the dread he had carried silently. All that crap about keeping it secret, just to let the entire public in on it?

  He tightened his grip on his phone as one final message scrolled across the screen, stark and unforgiving in its tone. "All roads lead to damnation if the cult is allowed its reign."

  No words escaped him as he lingered at the edge of the tumult. In a cramped alleyway aside, voices argued over the fate of their city, while others clung to hope in desperate whispers. Ilyas stepped back and let the chaos flow past him like an endless current. He wanted to be as far away from it as he could be. He stood alone among the disarray when, near the gathered soldiers, a figure in the royal guard's distinctive uniform moved with purposeful grace, deliberately catching his eye. It was Aeon. Ilyas felt like he was a glowing beacon in a dark ocean. With a sharp, practiced motion, his hand rose—a crisp, unmistakable signal beckoning Ilyas to approach.

  He made his way beside the blonde, his golden hair caught the morning light like spun silk. Aeon smiled almost as brightly as the sun, his teeth gleaming and eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hey, you look good, seems you got your beauty sleep?"

  "Yeah, it’s important and all that stuff." He rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

  "You really made an impression in the war room," he pulled a folded cloak out, its rich fabric rippling like water as he handed it to Ilyas. "Here, wear this."

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  Ilyas wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, the soft material draping elegantly against his broad frame. He stood a bit taller, trying to match the mood. "You've become a royal guard too?"

  "Yep. Me and Callaia decided to leave the squad after that whole shebang. Being used like that isn't right.” His eyes dimmed for a moment. He bit down on his lip, finally blowing air out of his chest like he was smoking. “It’s not why we were serving. Damn, that wasn’t what we signed up for..But then, not even a couple hours later, we got offered to be royal guards. With all this speculation of war, opportunities came our way."

  "Callaia too?" Aeon nodded, pointing across them. Callaia waved at them with a smile that transformed her usually stoic features, soft and unexpected. Ilyas's eyes widened, he didn't think she could smile. Next to her stood a tall man with short, black hair. His eyes had a cyan like a crystal clear lake. He seems to watch her reactions carefully, like a father did with their child. "She seems happy."

  “Of course, she always wanted to be a part of the royal guard. In a sense you helped her with that.”

  "I didn't do anything intentional."

  "Oh, the classic hero's modesty," he nudged his shoulder, a constellation of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Excited?"

  "Distant, at best."

  "Come on, it's the princess we're talking about—a canvas of royal intrigue and potential adventure."

  "Just another thread in the tapestry of assignments," Ilyas said, his tone as dry as desert wind.

  Aeon’s shoulders sagged. His voice now grumbly. “What a poet of pessimism.”

  “Do you blame me, the whole of Falcia is stressed.”

  Aeon shrugged. “The generals spoke with the royals, decided it was best to reveal it now, and discuss it with the other lands. I agree though, letting the entirety of the layman know, was a bit stupid. These people could have stayed oblivious and once we had everything sorted, then let them know. As is, they're just panicking aimlessly.”

  Ilyas raised his brows, studying the figure standing beside Callaia. His keen eyes immediately noticed the distinctive cloak, black stripes weaving through the fabric like shadows. His posture was straight, everyones was, but he was like a ruler. "Who's the guy next to her?" he murmured, curiosity piqued.

  "The high paladin, Jet Magnus," his companion replied, a hint of reverence in his voice. "He was Callaia's mentor."

  Ilyas's eyebrow arched skeptically. "That guy? Really? With him as a mentor, how didn't she become a royal guard sooner?"

  "She has no affiliation to their temples or beliefs, which made things... complicated," he explained, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  "I see," Ilyas nodded, processing the information. His shoulders relaxed a bit more.

  "Besides, the royal guards are handpicked by the King, Queen, and Princess. You've got to truly stand out for that honor. And it seems our little act of defying the princess's cousin made quite the impression."

  Ilyas felt his nose involuntarily scrunch, a mixture of confusion and intrigue crossing his features. "Taldris is a royal?"

  "You didn't know?" Aeon smirked, clearly enjoying Ilyas's surprise. "Taldris Turina of Endorica, first cousin to the princess."

  "Would never have guessed," Ilyas muttered, scratching his head. "What about you? Any other ties to the Watchers or the royals?" He turned his head towards Aeon.

  He shook his head, his expression becoming more serious. "I have no family. I was simply a good student at the college of Kyneris." Aeon tugged at the hem of his cloak.

  So that's why he could wield those mesmerizing green flames. Ilyas thought. Well I’ll be damned, I’m going to get taught illusion magic by a real prodigy here. The college of Kyneris was the most renowned magical institution in Falcia. Being a top student there was more than impressive—it was a mark of exceptional talent. "Nice," he said simply, acknowledging the achievement.

  "Stand straight," Aeon whispered, a note of warning in his voice. "Here she comes.”

  Ilyas leaned forward, his breath catching as the ornate gates creaked open. His heart began to race a bit more. A woman glided down the row, her white gown flowing like falling snow against the austere stone backdrop. Her head was bowed, each step a choreographed dance of precision, moving in perfect synchronization with the stone-faced guards flanking her path. He craned his neck, straining to glimpse her face hidden beneath the delicate veil of fabric. Suddenly, her bright red hair caught the light, a vibrant flame unfurling like a banner against the muted tones around her. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped involuntarily as recognition dawned, sharp and sudden. This elegant vision—with her meticulously tailored gown, hair swept into an immaculate coiffure, and makeup applied with delicate artistry—was worlds apart from the woman he had encountered before, a transformation so complete it seemed almost magical.

  “Mabel?”