As Hyura stepped out through the doors of the Council of Sages, the murmur of onlookers swarmed around him like a hive. Each step he descended rang along the high marble stairs, multiplying the echo of his footsteps.

  The crowd’s eyes fixed on him. They were not eyes that looked at a boy, but at a spectacle: the monster that had burned with black smoke in the middle of the arena. Some recoiled in revulsion; others leaned forward, eager to see him. Words floated like knives: “shadowed wings,” “dark magic.”

  But among them, three figures waited with their hearts in their throats. Thoiran, Elara, and Vaenia stood at the foot of the stairs, and at the sight of him, the crowd blurred away in an instant.

  Vaenia moved first. She ran to him and hugged him tighter than the iron of the chains that still marked his skin. Her reddish hair smelled of fresh herbs, clashing with the metallic reek that clung to Hyura.

  “Hyura…”—her voice was breaking, her tears soaking his shoulder—“I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Elara arrived at once, holding his face in small trembling hands. Her eyes, gentle by nature, now shone with fear.

  “My dear…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Hours without news of you, hearing awful rumors… that you’d been condemned, that you were a danger.” She swallowed, breaking into sobs. “Have they sentenced you? Will they lock you up again?”

  Thoiran hung back a moment, blackened with soot. When he finally came forward, he grabbed Hyura by the shoulders, rough.

  His voice was hard as a hammer in the forge. “What in the hells happened to you? Tell me the truth, Hyura.”

  Hyura opened his mouth, but the memory clenched around him: pressure in his chest, burning skin, smoke spilling out like poison.

  “Don’t say it like that!” Vaenia burst out, stepping between them and clutching Hyura again. “It’s clear he doesn’t know what happened—we have to help him. I don’t care what the others say.”

  Thoiran looked away, fists clenching so hard his knuckles went white. Elara, instead, wrapped Hyura in a desperate embrace.

  “Promise me it will be all right, son…” she whispered through sobs. “Just promise me you’ll stay with us.”

  Hyura felt the air leave his lungs. What hurt most wasn’t the crowd’s suspicion, but the shadow of doubt in those he loved most.

  The murmur swelled like a rising tide. Every whisper was a knife cutting the air. “Darkness,” “monster,” “fallen god.” Hyura felt shame shrink him, as if the noise itself wanted to strip off his skin.

  Then a new silence took hold. It wasn’t sudden but dense, as if the air itself had decided to hold its breath.

  A figure advanced through the crowd with steady steps. No one dared stand in the way.

  Lord Arion.

  His mere presence lowered voices. He wore a deep-blue robe, embroidered with silver threads that seemed to trap the light. The fabric billowed softly with each movement, heavy and solemn. His wings, folded behind him, looked larger than any Lynhe’s, each feather catching glints like polished crystal. He had the bearing of a king and the calm of one used to mastering any ground he walked on.

  “I understand you are his foster family.”

  He didn’t need to raise his voice; the grave tone alone cut the silence.

  Thoiran, Elara, and Vaenia tensed. The smith swallowed before answering, a faint tremor in his voice.

  “That’s right, Lord Arion.”

  Hyura didn’t look away. He knew Arion only from stories: the Guardian who had survived five wars, the Counselor whose word weighed as much as law. To have him before him was like looking at a statue that breathed.

  Arion set his eyes on him. A cold, relentless look that pierced him like a blade. Hyura felt stripped bare, as if he could hide nothing of what had happened in the arena.

  “The boy is in a complicated position,” Arion went on without hesitation. “I have been tasked with discovering what occurred. I need to speak with you two”—he pointed to Thoiran and Elara—“but first I must take him home, under the custody of my Guardians.”

  Elara turned pale. Thoiran narrowed his eyes, torn between pride and fear. A Counselor never descended to the tunnels, and least of all that Counselor, turned legend.

  “Of course, Lord Arion,” Thoiran answered at last, voice thin. “We’ll do everything we can to help. You are welcome in our home whenever you wish.”

  Arion inclined his head just a fraction, a gesture sufficient to end the conversation.

  “Then there’s no time to lose.”

  Hyura wanted to speak, to say goodbye, but no words came. He felt only the shame tightening his chest and the fear of disappointing those he loved.

  Arion took him firmly by the arm and led him away. The crowd opened before them like water before a rock. No one dared raise a voice. Silence accompanied their steps until they vanished from the square.

  They left the square in a strange hush, broken only by the distant beat of wings. Hyura walked beside Arion, feeling the steady pressure of his hand on his arm. It wasn’t violent, but unyielding, reminding him at each step that he was no longer free.

  The fresh air of Lybendol did nothing to ease the tension. In the distance, flocks of Lynhes crossed the balconies with practiced ease, leaving trails of feathers that fell like flakes. Houses lined the road on both sides: pale stone walls, polished glass catching the sky’s light, open balconies draped with flowers and banners streaming in the wind. Hyura noticed a detail that had always unsettled him: there were no doors. The Lynhes came and went through the air, as if walking were only a secondary concession.

  He, on the other hand, could only follow the hard line of cobblestones, bearing the weight of all those open windows watching him from above. He felt like an intruder in a world never meant for his feet.

  Arion’s mansion rose in the city’s highest quarter, near the Council. White marble columns climbed like towers, and crystal mosaics set into the fa?ade cast bluish flashes under the sky’s light. It was a building that inspired not only respect, but also distance—beautiful and inaccessible.

  At the base of the structure, Arion unfurled his wings. The motion whipped up a sudden wind that tossed Hyura’s hair and sent nearby banners fluttering. Without a word, Arion took him by the waist and lifted him with a majestic beat.

  Hyura felt the air strike his face and, for a moment, clung to the Counselor with his eyes shut. The city shrank beneath his feet, its streets reduced to strokes of stone and glass. Never had he hated his lack of wings as much as in that moment.

  They landed on the main balcony. Translucent curtains swelled inward, inviting them through. Hyura stepped inside with a racing heart.

  The central hall stole his breath. A circular marble table stood at its center, ringed by bluish drapes that filtered the light as if it passed through water. Indoor gardens opened within the hall, with crystal fountains and a tree whose leaves glimmered like tiny stars. The air smelled of incense and wet stone—a heady contrast to the tunnels’ grime and iron.

  For a moment, Hyura forgot the weight of chains, forgot the smoke and voices. He felt as though he’d stepped into a place made for gods.

  And then he saw them.

  Three figures awaited in silence. Their white wings, folded with discipline, filled the hall like living walls. Their eyes, fixed on him, were as sharp as blades.

  Arion stepped to the center of the hall.

  “Young Hyura, meet my Guardians: Daoan, Artan, and Dharion.”

  Hyura raised his gaze.

  The first to stand out was Dharion. Tall as a tower, with wide shoulders and a shaven head, he looked like a fortress made flesh. He wore a sleeveless leather vest that left arms bare and solid as stone columns, braced with studded vambraces. His white wings, folded with iron discipline, seemed capable of engulfing the entire hall. Hyura recognized him at once: the Guardian who had put him down in the arena with a single blow that cast him into unconsciousness. The memory sent a chill up his neck. Dharion didn’t move, but his gray eyes—keen and watchful—cut through him as if still passing judgment.

  A step away, Artan shattered that stony air with a different energy. He was young, with blond hair falling to his shoulders and amber eyes that seemed to spark even in the hall’s blue dusk. His armor, though ceremonial, had a practical feel: dark leather reinforced with white-bronze plates engraved with solar symbols, a broad belt trimmed with feathers, and straps threaded with crystals that glowed faintly. As Arion spoke, Artan tilted his head, a nearly mocking smile on his lips, as if all of this were more game than duty.

  The third was Daoan. Hyura was surprised; he hadn’t expected to find a woman among the Guardians. Her bearing was regal, her features sharp as blades, and her dark hair fell in waves across her shoulders. She wore a black leather corset embroidered in gold, fur edging the neckline, and sweeping sleeves ending in white lace. A heavy skirt hid her steps, but glimpses of interlaced straps and silver buckles showed through with precise order. Daoan did not smile; she merely watched in silence, with a calm more unsettling than any show of hostility.

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  Three gazes settled on him—distinct yet aligned: Dharion’s, hard and vigilant; Artan’s, lively and cheeky; Daoan’s, cold and probing, as if weighing every word Hyura had yet to speak.

  Hyura lowered his head, awkward. His throat felt dry.

  “Sit,” Arion said, indicating the marble table.

  The boy obeyed. The Guardians’ folded wings seemed to close in around him, like invisible bars.

  Arion watched him in silence, then spoke in a grave tone:

  “I suppose you have questions.”

  Hyura swallowed.

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  His voice sounded too small in that solemn hall. Artan arched an eyebrow, amused; Dharion set his jaw even harder; Daoan, by contrast, only dipped her chin as if she’d found a crack in Hyura’s armor.

  Arion remained standing, hands on the chair’s back. The blue light of the mage-lamps traced the severity of his face.

  “That depends on you, Hyura,” he said, voice deep. “And on that ‘power,’ if we can call it that, which you released. I want an honest answer. What do you know about what happened yesterday in the trials?”

  The memory seized Hyura—the smoke, the pressure, the burning crawling over his skin. And that voice.

  “There was… something else,” he stammered. “A voice. It spoke to me in the tunnels.”

  A frozen silence fell over the hall.

  Daoan reacted first—one eyebrow faintly lifted, gloved fingers brushing the gold embroidery of her corset, as if his confession confirmed something she already suspected.

  “A voice?” Her tone was low, each syllable honed to an edge.

  “What did it say?” Arion asked, gaze never leaving him.

  Hyura swallowed.

  “First: ‘Wake up, Hyura. The return of the fallen god is near.’” The air trembled in his chest. “The second time… when we were leaving the tunnels. It approached Vaenia. She didn’t see him, no one did. He stroked her hair and said to me: ‘Soon you will lose everything you have. When he comes, you will die. And it will be your fault that she dies too.’”

  Artan, who had been toying with his sword’s pommel, stopped smiling. His amber eyes tightened, as if for the first time he took the conversation seriously.

  “That’s no child’s tale or game,” he muttered.

  Dharion, on the other hand, tensed like a drawn bow. He crossed his arms, leather creaking over corded muscle. His folded wings shivered almost imperceptibly. Hyura felt that stare spear him again, a reminder that Dharion had already dropped him once and could do so again.

  Arion broke the silence.

  “I see…” His eyes narrowed, measuring every word.

  Hyura lowered his head, cornered by the weight of their gazes.

  Arion regarded him with the calm of a judge who has already decided the sentence.

  “What is your first memory? Do you remember your parents?”

  The question struck him harder than a punch. Hyura bowed his head.

  “A pool of blood…” he murmured, voice breaking. “The miners found me there. I had no wounds. The blood belonged to someone else.”

  His fingers clenched on the tabletop. The memory wasn’t clear, only fragments: the cold of the rock, the metallic smell, the frightened voices of those who found him. He had always thought that day was when he was truly born, because before that there was only emptiness.

  “And after?” Arion pressed.

  Hyura closed his eyes.

  “Nothing. Thoiran and Elara took me in, but they didn’t know where I came from either. Whenever I asked, they just said the miners saw no footprints, no weapons, no bodies… only me, in the middle of the blood.” He swallowed. “I never wanted to believe they were hiding something. Maybe there was simply nothing else to tell.”

  Artan let out a low, incredulous whistle. Dharion’s gaze only hardened, as if that lack of a past made Hyura even more dangerous.

  Hyura went on, almost without realizing:

  “I tried. Once I went down to the tunnels with Vaenia, searching the overseers’ records for answers. Another time I asked the miners’ elders, but none remembered more than rumors. Some said they saw a black gleam in the fissure that day. Others… that an avalanche swept away any proof. I never found anything.” He pressed a hand to his chest, anger held in check. “And every night I ask what it means. Why I’m still alive, whose blood it was, what in the hells I am.”

  The hall froze over. Daoan leaned forward a fraction, eyes bright with icy interest. Artan’s smile was gone. Dharion did not even blink.

  Arion, however, kept the same grave expression.

  “Have you ever had wings? Any scars on your back?”

  Hyura slowly shook his head.

  “None, sir.”

  For a while, no one spoke. The distant trickle of a garden fountain became the only sound in the world.

  At last, Arion straightened.

  “It’s getting late. Tomorrow we’ll approach this with clearer minds. Come, I’ll show you your room.”

  Hyura obeyed, feeling each step on the marble drag him deeper into a destiny he didn’t understand.

  Morning came with a cold glow filtered through the room’s curtains. Hyura woke with a start, body stiff and shoulders burning from the tension of the previous day’s chains. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then the white marble, crystal lamps, and the faint perfume of incense brought him back to reality: Lord Arion’s mansion.

  Silence surrounded him, until a metallic sound guided him: the whistle of a sword cutting air.

  He followed the echo to an open courtyard at the heart of the house. The ground was covered in pale sand, ringed by marble columns that cast long shadows. There, in the center, Artan turned with a sword in hand. His white wings opened and closed in brief movements, keeping pace with the dance of steel. Each turn was precise and swift, like a bird playing with the wind.

  Noticing him, Artan halted the sequence and shot him a half-smile.

  “Finally awake.”

  Hyura lingered on the threshold, ill at ease.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Daoan’s out on a mission. Arion and Dharion went to the Council to look for answers… about you.” Artan’s smile tilted with irony. “And I got stuck here as babysitter.”

  He tossed Hyura a wooden sword. Hyura caught it on instinct.

  “Come on, show me what you’re made of.”

  Hyura shook his head.

  “I don’t feel like training.”

  “No will, no wings, no answers.” Artan shrugged and, without warning, rapped Hyura across the face with the sword’s tip.

  The impact sent him reeling. He tasted blood.

  “Is that all?” Artan laughed, twirling the sword like a toy. “I thought you were faster.”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Hyura growled, wiping his lip.

  “You should.” Artan advanced, agile as a cat. “If you can’t even lift a weapon against me, how do you expect to survive when your ‘power’ wakes again?”

  Hyura forced himself to raise the sword. One step, then another. He struck—but every blow met empty air. Artan slipped aside with ease, even springing up to plant both feet on Hyura’s shoulders before bounding away again.

  The mockery was relentless.

  “This is what put an entire coliseum on edge?” he laughed, tapping Hyura’s side. “Come on, little one! Where’s that monster everyone’s talking about?”

  Rage flared in Hyura. His breaths came shorter and shorter. His muscles trembled with fatigue. He fell face-first into the sand, Artan’s laughter booming around the courtyard.

  But something within him kindled. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath. He pictured each step, each movement of his opponent. When he rose, he moved with a speed that even startled Artan.

  He attacked again and again, forcing the Guardian to get serious. The smiles vanished in an instant.

  The shift was immediate: Artan blocked cleanly, pivoted, swept Hyura’s legs, and in the same motion drove a fist into his stomach. Hyura flew across the sand to the courtyard’s edge, gasping.

  He lay there, feeling the brutal gap between them. Artan was a sworn Guardian, one of the finest in the realm. He… was barely an inexperienced boy.

  Artan approached. For an instant, Hyura thought he’d finish him. Instead, he offered a hand.

  “Not bad,” he said with a smile that was no longer mocking, but acknowledging. “If they don’t execute you, we might train you. I see potential.”

  Hyura hesitated, then took the hand. He rose, brushing sand from his face and hair. He didn’t know whether he hated the man or was grateful that he saw him as something more than a monster.

  They walked back into the house together. The sharp pain in Hyura’s ribs lingered; each breath reminded him of his weakness. But also, for the first time, a small pride burned: he had forced a Guardian to wear his serious smile.

  The corridor back was lit by floating crystal lamps. Each step echoed on the marble, and the ache in his ribs made him walk bent. Even so, he forced himself not to show weakness. Sand still scraped his skin, clinging to sweat.

  The kitchen surprised him. It wasn’t like the tunnels’—dark and sooty. Here everything was spacious, with windows open to the inner gardens. A light-stone table was set with warm bread, sliced fruit, and a pitcher of golden liquid that gave off a spiced aroma.

  Artan sat with easy familiarity, as if the mansion were his home as well. He jerked his chin toward a chair.

  “Sit. I don’t bite.”

  Hyura obeyed in silence. The warm bread in his hands felt strange and comforting in equal measure. After the humiliation in the courtyard, this breakfast seemed almost an impossible gift.

  “Truth is…” he said at last, breaking the quiet, “this isn’t how I thought any of this would end.”

  Artan arched a brow as he bit into a piece of fruit.

  “And what did you expect? If you’d finished the trials, what would you have wanted to be?”

  Hyura hesitated.

  “A smith, like my stepfather. No wings needed there, and he’s taught me a little of the trade.”

  “A smith…” Artan smiled, amused. “Honest work, but dull. What if you could dream higher? If you had wings, what would you have wanted to be?”

  Hyura fell silent, staring at his hands.

  “A Guardian,” he murmured at last. “Like you. Like Arion. Go to war, prove my worth.”

  Artan set the bread aside and sighed.

  “A guard, huh… Not bad. But since you brought it up, I’ll tell you something no one says out loud.”

  Hyura looked up, intrigued.

  “If you stand out in the trials, they can put you forward as soldier, city guard, or Guardian. Everyone thinks being a Guardian is the greatest honor—and it is. It’s the path Aetherios seems to reserve for the most capable. But what they never mention is the price.”

  Hyura leaned forward, heart pounding.

  “What price?”

  Artan turned the cup in his hand, weighing his words.

  “Before consecration, you must face the High Lynhe in a duel. He must defeat you. It isn’t a mock duel. The oath has cost lives before.”

  Hyura swallowed. Imagining himself against Arion was unthinkable.

  “And after the duel?”

  Artan’s gaze hardened.

  “After comes the real price: the bond. Once you swear, your life is bound to the High Lynhe’s. If he dies… you die with him. Without exception.”

  The world seemed to close in on Hyura.

  “And the other way around? If a Guardian dies?”

  “Then the High Lynhe is weakened. He loses part of his strength. And if all his Guardians fall… he dies as well.”

  Artan paused, and for the first time a trace of gravity edged his voice.

  “I saw it with my own eyes on the Valdori frontier. A High Lynhe fell in battle, and three Guardians died with him in the same instant, as if their souls were torn out. The fight turned to chaos. Not a rumor. I was there.”

  Silence filled the kitchen. Hyura held the bread, now cold, forgotten in his hands.

  “And why accept it?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

  Artan let out a bitter laugh.

  “Because there are benefits. Look around. I was born on the lower surface, in misery. Not even as a soldier would I have come this far. As a Guardian, in peacetime, you gain wealth, power, and respect. There’s choice, of course—soldier or city guard. But soldiers are fodder, and guards spend their days watching doors. Boring. If you’ve got an ego, if you dream of being someone, you choose to be a Guardian. And when the oath comes, you’re already so convinced… you don’t hesitate.”

  Hyura didn’t answer. A knot tightened in his throat.

  Artan leaned closer, lowering his voice.

  “If you’re exceptional, you can become a Counselor. That changes everything: you’re free of the bond, and you can have your own Guardians. Highest status in Lybendol.” He paused and smirked. “But don’t tell Arion I said so.”

  Hyura lowered his gaze. The bread crackled in his fingers. The idea of the oath stalked him like a shadow: to die for someone, to bind his life to another, to lose everything without a say.

  For the first time since that day in the arena, he understood that Lybendol’s power wasn’t a gift, but an invisible chain. And still, within him, a stubborn spark burned: the thought that, perhaps, someday, he could be one of them.

  Wednesday/Sunday (EU time), and we’re just getting started!