The morning sun rose quietly over Silvermoon, casting long golden beams across the white spires and winding streets below. The city, bathed in soft light, seemed peaceful—at least to those unaware of the unrest simmering beneath the surface.

  From the balcony of one of the Bastion’s upper chambers, Matrim stood beside Narianna, overlooking the city below. A faint breeze rustled the banners hanging from the tower’s edge, their sigils of the Guardians fluttering against the morning air.

  He hadn’t slept. Neither had she.

  Below them, the city stirred awake—merchants setting up stalls in the Dawn Market, early patrols moving through the streets, unaware of what brewed beneath their feet.

  “So,” Narianna said quietly, breaking the silence. “You stayed.”

  Matrim’s jaw tightened, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah.”

  No grand speeches, no proclamations. Just quiet acceptance.

  Narianna crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “The High Lady will expect results.”

  “So will I,” Matrim replied, his voice low.

  The conversation with Calthira the night before still lingered like a storm cloud. The choice she offered had gnawed at him long after she left the chamber. Freedom, or purpose. For years, he thought he’d been searching for freedom—wandering from battlefield to battlefield.

  But now, standing above Silvermoon, feeling the leyline pulse beneath the city, he realized purpose had always been the thing chasing him.

  “You still don’t trust me,” Matrim said, glancing sidelong at her.

  Narianna’s expression remained measured. “No. But we’re past locking you up.”

  He smirked faintly. “I’ll take that.”

  Silence stretched between them again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  “You felt it stronger this time, didn’t you?” she asked.

  Matrim nodded. “Last night, in the garden. The surge was... I wasn’t controlling it.”

  Her crimson eyes softened slightly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even among the leyline adepts of old.”

  He exhaled, his voice quieter now. “It felt like something waking up inside me. Something connected to this city.”

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  “And the well beneath the Gardens?”

  Matrim’s throat tightened. “It’s alive. Whatever’s pulling at us—it’s waiting down there.”

  Narianna’s gaze flicked back toward the rising sun. “The council will demand progress. The corruption’s already spreading. The Veiled Gardens, the ley channels near the market... it’s accelerating.”

  Matrim turned toward her. “Then we find out what’s beneath the well. Tonight.”

  She nodded once. “Tonight.”

  A faint tension lifted from her posture, and for the first time since they met, Matrim saw something that resembled... trust.

  He could feel it now—the bond between them shifting. Not allies yet. Not fully. But something had cracked open.

  As the city came alive beneath them, Matrim realized he wasn’t just caught in Silvermoon’s storm.

  He was part of it now.

  The great marble chamber of Silvermoon’s High Council was draped in shafts of morning light filtering through towering stained-glass windows. The murals above—depicting Guardians of ages past, defending the city from forgotten horrors—bathed the room in hues of gold and sapphire.

  The chamber’s circular table was already full.

  The twelve council members, cloaked in ceremonial garb, whispered amongst themselves, voices low but laced with tension. The news of the disturbance from the previous night had spread fast, carried by wards flaring across the city’s leyline grid.

  At the head of the table, High Lady Calthira sat unmoved, hands folded calmly, but her sharp gaze swept the room like a blade. She let them speak for a moment longer, reading the fear behind their measured tones.

  A gaunt elder elf, Councilor Thalrien, slammed a fist onto the table, voice cutting through the din. “An outsider disrupting the ley lines, Guardians defying orders—this is beyond negligence. This is treason.”

  Several councilors nodded grimly.

  A younger councilor leaned forward. “The Bastion was breached internally. And there are whispers from the Garden wardens that blood magic was found beneath the roots. The Umbral Court’s return is undeniable.”

  Thalrien’s pale eyes flicked toward Calthira. “Yet you shield this outsider.”

  Calthira remained composed. “Because he is no mere trespasser.”

  “You speak of him as if he is an asset,” another councilor snapped. “He is volatile.”

  “He is attuned,” Calthira countered. “He unlocked a surge powerful enough to trigger every ward from here to the Arch of Light.”

  “Precisely,” Thalrien shot back. “A dangerous uncontrolled element.”

  Calthira’s voice softened, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. “Or a key.”

  The room quieted.

  Across the table, a robed councilor broke the silence. “You believe the outsider is tied to the well beneath the Gardens.”

  “I believe,” Calthira said, “that he is part of something older than our wards. Older than the Guardians’ oaths.”

  Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

  “And the Guardian who aided him?” Thalrien pressed. “Will she be disciplined?”

  Calthira’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Narianna Valewind will remain in command.”

  Thalrien’s jaw twitched. “She has broken faith with—”

  “She has seen what most of you refuse to,” Calthira interrupted. “The ley lines are bleeding, and the corruption beneath the Gardens festers. The Umbral Court has returned, and it preys upon your hesitation.”

  Silence.

  The tension in the chamber was palpable, but no one dared interrupt further.

  Calthira stood, robes flowing as she moved toward the central dais. “You will have a full report on the outsider and the Garden leyline by nightfall.”

  As she turned to leave, she added, “Until then, Silvermoon remains under my protection.”

  Without waiting for a response, she swept from the chamber, leaving the council simmering behind her.

  In the shadows near the door, a lone attendant watched silently before slipping away—unseen, unnoticed.

  Vaelor would hear of this.