The city of Velrenmar, carved into the cliffs above the Moonfen River, was never quiet — but now it pulsed like a heart under pressure.
For weeks, Velrenmar had been packed with visitors — students, mentors, officials, and scouts arriving from all corners of the world. The streets were lined with floating banners and glowing glyph-screens, showing countdowns and highlights from past trials. They hovered midair like drifting butterflies. Overhead, sky-drifters buzzed through the sky, carrying delegates from distant Academies — some well-known, others cloaked in mystery.
Students in uniforms from dozens of academies moved through the crowds. Each uniform bore a unique sigil stitched with motion-reactive thread that shimmered with every step.
Crystal panels along the walls responded to voice or touch. Hover-rails moved groups from platform to platform. Some students stared at glowing tablets, others spoke into illusion-call pendants.
In a single plaza, you could hear a dozen languages: sharp Northern dialects, smooth Eastern tones, rough coastal slang mixed with clipped military speech. And always nearby, silent observers in crisp uniforms trailed behind — talent scouts, guild agents, or something else entirely.
This wasn't a medieval tournament.
This was where the future was chosen.
"They really pulled out all the stops this year."
A fourth-year in white-trimmed robes looked up as swirling banners flashed dueling emblems and countdowns high in the sky.
"Of course. All seven faction leaders are attending in person. That's never happened before."
"Even Ledgerhall's Director? I thought she never left the capital."
"She doesn't—unless she's hunting for recruits herself."
All around the central plaza, students leaned over balconies, lounged on café awnings, or crossed layered skybridges in tight groups. The city was alive with enchantments and energy — a blend of old rune-tech and modern magic.
Someone pointed toward the northern cliffside, where the newly remodeled coliseum sat like a jewel carved into the mountain.
"They rebuilt the entire north quarter for this."
"No budget limits, apparently. Did you see Umbravale's entrance? Their whole envoy arrived cloaked, then just appeared inside the arena like nothing."
"And Verdant Cross brought an entire living grove with them. The roots extended into the training arena like they were claiming territory."
Rumors sparked like wildfire—about duels that left the ground fractured, about factions ready to poach talents before opening ceremony even began. The tension wasn't just excitement.
It was hunger.
But not all the preparation was public.
Far from the lights and banners, in the shadow of twilight-colored pines…
And somewhere beyond the crowds, in the shadowed forest behind the Academy, a different kind of preparation was underway—silent, unseen… and far more dangerous
Tents marked with faction crests — Stonehelm's iron sigil, Silverquill's feather, and Northcrest's silver-lined emblem — stood in a ring. Scouts, engineers, and researchers moved between them, speaking in low tones.
"They're not just tunnels," a Silverquill agent muttered, studying a shifting glyph-map. "They keep changing. Every new team comes back with a different layout."
The 3D projection of the ruins shifted constantly — blinking corridors, collapsed zones, sealed doors lit in red.
"They'll hunt us down if they catch wind of this," muttered the Silverquill agent, voice barely more than a whisper.
Primary Descent Chamber, Ruin Sector 3
The tunnel opened into a choked cavity. Enchanted lanterns dangled from makeshift hooks, their light wavering where ancient resonance pulsed through the stones. The air smelled of dust and something older—metallic, like a heartbeat.
Caydren paused, checking over his shoulder. No sounds aboveground. No Academy patrols. Then he stepped forward.
Footsteps, crisp on the flagstones.
Stonehelm's envoy gave a short laugh. "Let them try. We slip in, grab what we need, and slip out. Simple."
Caydren Vale, Northcrest's quiet overseer of this little op, adjusted his gloves and stared at the map's blinking red zones. "Keep it quick. No shine on your gear. No stray spells. If the Academy shows up, we vanish."
"Ready?" Caydren asked. He tucked the map away and motioned toward the sealed breach—it pulsed faintly, as if guarding its secrets.
No one answered. They only nodded.
They were trespassers in an old place that didn't want them there.
Then, Rhael Moren stepped into the chamber.
The commander of Northcrest wore a coat of dusk-grey and cobalt, high-collared and layered with frost-sigil etchings that glinted like cold steel under the arena lights. No unnecessary flair. Everything about the cut and cloth was precision — the kind that didn't need approval to be noticed.
His presence was… measured.
Controlled.
But absolute.
Not a speck of dust on him.
Not a sound from his boots.
The faint shimmer of controlled resonance clung to him like a second skin — clean, exact, restrained.
His eyes didn't even lift.
"You're off by seven degrees," he said flatly. "Realign it before it triggers a rebound loop."
One of the Silverquill researchers blinked. "Actually, the formula—"
Rhael's gaze shifted toward him. Just a glance.
"Don't speak when I'm correcting you."
The voice wasn't loud.
But it sliced through the air like a blade through parchment.
The man shut up instantly.
Even the armored Stonehelm enforcer — built like a siege wall — took a cautious step back.
Rhael walked past them like they weren't even there. His attention was fixed on the ruin's floor — spiraling glyphs carved into ancient stone, humming faintly with old magic.
He stopped near a worn ring etched into the ground and raised his hand, tracing the air with two fingers.
"Still active," he murmured. "Like it's waiting for the wrong hand."
Behind him, no one dared speak.
Well… not out loud.
[Whispers followed the moment his back turned.]
Verdant Cross scout said with low voice, "Tch. Who pissed in Northcrest's wine and told him he was a god?"
Silverquill researcher rolled his eyes, "Must be exhausting carrying that much ego on such a skinny frame."
"Wouldn't mind if the ruin swallowed him whole." Stonehelm enforcer grumbled.
One of them mocked in a stiff, clipped tone,
"'Don't speak when I'm correcting you.' Yeah, alright, Professor Dead-Eyes."
They laughed under their breath — dry, quiet, just enough to bleed tension. No one was dumb enough to say it to Rhael's face.
Yet.
Rhael straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his glove. "I'll be doing a perimeter sweep. South ridge first, then looping through the north gulley."
No one asked why.
He didn't give a reason.
Just turned slightly toward the treeline, the pale shimmer of resonance still clinging to his cloak like mist.
"If anything changes in the chamber, don't touch it. Log it. Wait."
His tone left no room for argument.
Silver quill scout said under his breath,
"Of course he's doing a solo patrol. Wouldn't want us slowing down his god-complex."
"Or maybe he just doesn't want witnesses."
Stonehelm enforcer replied "Or he's scouting for something he doesn't plan to share."
Someone scoffed. Another rolled their eyes.
But no one stopped him.
Rhael vanished into the trees without a backward glance — just a fading shimmer where his field brushed the edge of a hanging root.
The air was thick with mist.
Water crashed somewhere just beyond the trees, the sound steady, endless. Moonfen Reach shimmered under the fractured light, soft and still — until footsteps broke the quiet.
Rhael Moren stepped through the ferns, dressed in Northcrest's grey-and-cobalt command uniform. His coat carried the weight of rank — sharp-cut, trimmed in frost-lined sigils, the fabric barely touching the underbrush.
He moved like someone used to being obeyed.
His eyes locked on the figure near the falls.
Seren stood motionless at the cliff's edge. Arms loose. Eyes half-closed. Unbothered.
Rhael clicked his tongue.
"Unauthorized personnel aren't allowed this deep in the Academy forest."
No response.
"I don't like repeating myself."
Seren opened his eyes.
"You don't give orders," Seren said.
Rhael's brow twitched.
"Northcrest was granted jurisdiction during the initial exploration phase. Meaning: you're trespassing."
Seren turned slightly, just enough for half his face to catch the light. His expression was unreadable.
"These woods belong to the Academy."
A pause.
"You're a guest. Just like me."
Rhael stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
His smile was thin. Precise. All teeth. No warmth.
"There's a difference between a guest and a stray."
That made Seren turn fully.
"Then show me the provisional paperwork."
A beat of silence.
Rhael tilted his head slightly — not surprised, but amused.
"You think you're in a position to ask for that?"
Seren's voice stayed calm. Cold.
"You just called me a trespasser. If you're here on official orders, proving it shouldn't be a problem. So go ahead."
A pause.
"I'll wait."
Northcrest had been claiming zones like this since the start of the Trials. But Seren had seen the maps. He knew the Academy hadn't signed off on every "exploration phase" Northcrest declared. Half of it was bluff, the other half was assumption.
"Arrogant little—"
He caught himself. Exhaled sharply. His voice dropped, all frost and contempt.
"Fine. Stay here, then. Poke around. But when you trip into something you weren't meant to find…"
"…don't expect anyone to pull you out."
Rhael's cloak whispered against the underbrush as he turned. No threats. No warnings. Just a sentence hung in the mist — sharp enough to cut.
Seren didn't move. He watched the man vanish into the trees, the echo of his controlled steps fading into the rush of the waterfall. Then, silence.
The overlook behind him emptied without command. Rhael didn't watch them go.
He stepped aside into the shadow of a column, drawing a slender, slate-black device from his coat sleeve. Smooth and angular, its surface shimmered faintly at his touch, like moonlight glinting off still water.
He didn't need to speak loudly.
Just a touch. Just a name.
A faint shimmer pulsed across the screen — then a voice answered.
"Receiving. Go ahead."
Rhael's tone stayed flat, quiet enough that even the wind didn't catch it.
"I completed the southern sweep. No patrols. No Academy presence."
A pause.
His eyes narrowed, gaze drifting toward the misted ridges beyond the forest line.
"There was one anomaly."
Static shifted, then:
"Details?"
"Student. Male. Not marked on any assigned route logs. Alone. Roughly three miles from the perimeter of the lower site."
"…Did you engage?"
Rhael's expression didn't change.
"Brief contact. No overt threat. Didn't pursue."
A long silence.
The silence on the line stretched — not tense, but waiting. Deliberate.
Then, miles away, in a high tower of Velrenmar's ancient citadel, the true speaker of that voice lowered his own comm to a low table carved from obsidian and glass.
The light from the balcony painted the room in pale gold. Far below, the city glimmered with enchantments and banners, but here — in the quiet height of the tower — time seemed slower.
He didn't rise at first.
He unfolded — slowly, like a shadow stretching across polished stone.
Kieran Duskvale stepped barefoot onto the balcony, his long coat catching the breeze. Midnight blue, tailored to the inch, edged in raven-feather embroidery that shimmered with barely-contained enchantment. He moved with an effortless grace, the kind that made people wonder whether it was practiced… or just natural.
His hair — silvery-white, tousled and styled like wind-kissed silk — caught the golden light. And his eyes… pale cyan, glowing faintly even in daylight, sharp as frost and twice as cold.
A man born for war, dressed like a prince.
"You've been doing well, Rhael. Precise. Cold. Not reckless like some of the others. But…"
Clink.
He tapped the glass once against the railing.
"Let's not do anything stupid over a lone Academy stray. Not yet."
The tone wasn't scolding.
It was entertained.
"It's Velrenmar. There are eyes in the wind. You shove the wrong student and suddenly every guild and Council parasite starts hissing about breaches and protocol."
He took a sip, watching faint clouds gather over the riverbanks in the distance. A breeze caught the loose ends of his coat.
"Besides…" he murmured, "I'm told the Academy still hasn't signed off on our deeper incursions. If someone like him ends up filed in a complaint, that ruins our timeline."
He didn't say the student's name.
Not yet.
Instead, he set the wine glass down and turned slightly, as if finally acknowledging the figure on the other end of the line.
"Do nothing. Watch if you like. Intervene? No. Not unless he steps into one of the restricted zones… or tries to leave with something we don't want found."
"Everyone's a guest until they unlock the wrong door."
He turned from the balcony.
"If he does—
[ ∎ SYSTEM ACCESS GRANTED ∎ ]
→ OPENING: COMMAND FILE — NORTHCREST
NAME REVEALED: Kieran Duskvale — "The Blue Hand of NORTHCREST"
AFFILIATION:
Northcrest Faction
POSITION: Supreme Leader of Northcrest
AUTHORITY LEVEL: Final Command | No Oversight
TITLES: █████████
AFFINITY STAR RATING: ❂❂❂❂❂❂❂ (Suppressed from system view)
—Do what's necessary. I'll write the apology letter myself."