The clearing trembled beneath the weight of unspoken violence. Matrim could feel it—the storm about to break. Vaelor’s blade hovered, inches from drawing blood. The soldiers around them were coiled tight, awaiting the signal. Narianna stood ready to strike, her stance sharp and unyielding, but Matrim could see the subtle flicker of calculation in her crimson eyes.

  Then, like a blade through cloth, a soft voice cut the tension in two.

  “That’s enough.”

  The words were calm, yet they carried a weight that froze every soldier where they stood.

  From the edge of the grove, a figure emerged beneath the fractured moonlight. Draped in flowing robes of deep silver and indigo, with golden embroidery glinting faintly at her sleeves, the woman moved with the effortless grace of someone used to command.

  Her presence alone shifted the air. Magic, subtle but palpable, wove itself into every step she took as if the ley lines themselves bent to her will.

  “High Lady...” Vaelor’s voice faltered as he lowered his blade, his posture stiffening as if struck by an invisible force.

  Matrim instinctively stepped back, watching her warily. Even without knowing her name, he knew this woman was dangerous—not in the sharp, immediate way Vaelor was, but in the way of someone who could topple kingdoms with a word.

  The High Lady’s sharp, calculating eyes—pale as starlight—swept across the scene, lingering on Narianna’s drawn weapon and Matrim’s crackling aura before settling coldly on Vaelor.

  “You will sheath your sword,” she said quietly. There was no question in her voice, only expectation.

  Vaelor hesitated but obeyed, biting back whatever venomous retort was about to leave his lips.

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  The soldiers followed suit, stepping back a pace, though their grips on their weapons remained tense.

  Narianna, too, lowered her sword, but her expression remained guarded. “High Lady, I—”

  Calthira raised a hand, silencing her. The High Lady’s gaze flicked from Narianna to Matrim.

  “You are Matrim Kaelen,” she said, as if reading the answer directly from his thoughts.

  Matrim’s heart skipped. “I am.”

  “You were found in a restricted chamber,” she continued. “You trespassed where even few Guardians dare tread. And now you have summoned a force that threatens to destabilize the ley lines beneath this city.”

  The quiet finality of her words wrapped around him like chains.

  “I didn’t summon anything,” Matrim replied carefully. “Something in this city called to me. And it’s been calling for a while.”

  For a moment, her eyes narrowed in consideration.

  Calthira stepped closer, and Matrim could now see faint sigils etched into the hem of her sleeves—runes of power older than any he had seen before. The kind of markings belonging to someone who dealt not in swordplay, but in manipulation and control.

  “You felt it too, didn’t you?” she asked.

  Matrim blinked. “What?”

  “The pulse,” Calthira said. “The old magic buried beneath Silvermoon.”

  His lips parted, but Narianna spoke first.

  “We both felt it, High Lady,” Narianna said, stepping forward. “The corruption has spread to the Gardens.”

  “And you chose to free a prisoner to investigate it on your own?” Calthira’s tone sharpened, though her voice never rose.

  Narianna didn’t waver. “The council refused to act.”

  Calthira’s gaze darkened. “The council follows my lead.”

  The silence stretched until Matrim’s voice broke it. “You’re here because you felt it too.”

  The High Lady turned to him, eyes cool but intrigued. “I’m here because the Bastion’s wards flared. Your... awakening sent ripples through every ley channel in Silvermoon.”

  Matrim clenched his jaw. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Calthira replied softly.

  For a heartbeat, Matrim saw something flicker behind her calm exterior—a hint of concern? Fear?

  She stepped between Vaelor and Narianna, gaze sharp as steel. “Both of you will return to the Bastion with me.”

  Vaelor stiffened. “High Lady, I must object—”

  “You may object silently,” she interrupted, without turning to him.

  Vaelor’s face twisted with frustration, but he obeyed.

  Calthira turned back to Matrim. “You as well.”

  Matrim’s muscles tensed, but Narianna gave him the faintest nod. A warning.

  The power beneath the well still pulsed, faint but steady, as though waiting for him to return.

  Matrim’s gut told him that when it did, nothing in Silvermoon would be the same.