The summons came at dawn two days after the tournament, delivered by a stone faced instructor I’d never spoken to before, a sealed scroll with the academy crest but edges singed like it had been carried through fire, and when I broke the wax the words were simple: Harlan Voss requests a meeting. Neutral ground. Observatory platform. Unarmed. Witnesses allowed.I read it three times.Liora read it over my shoulder, close enough her breath stirred the hair at my neck.“He’s scared enough to talk,” she said. Voice steady, but her fingers tightened on my arm.Rag grunted from across the bunk. “Trap.”Mira looked up from her breakfast honey cake, eyes wide. “Don’t go, Eli.”I folded the scroll slow.“I have to.”Because running from this now would mean running forever, and I was done running.We went as a group me, Liora, Rag carrying Mira on his shoulders like a shield, Jax and Kora flanking because they wouldn’t stay behind. Valeria met us at the lift to the observatory platform, mechani

The days after Harlan’s summons blurred into a rhythm that felt almost normal if you ignored the constant itch under my skin, the way the bloodline thrummed every time I looked up at the golden manor drifting lazy circles in the sky like a predator too proud to pounce yet, and we used the private cavern as our war room now, maps spread across crates, Mira coloring in the edges with charcoal because she insisted on helping, Rag pacing slow circles while he listened, Liora sharpening her sword in steady strokes that matched the quiet planning in her head, Jax and Kora arguing over approach vectors but always coming back to the same conclusion we had to hit hard, fast, unexpected.Valeria gave us space but not ignorance; she stopped by twice, mechanical arm clicking as she pointed out weak points in the manor’s defense grid she’d “happened to notice” over the years, her scarred face giving nothing away except the faint approval in her eyes when I asked the right questions, and I wondered

The atrium fight didn’t end clean, it just shifted, the rival alliance pulling back step by reluctant step as our push cost them too much blood and pride, Lord Veyne’s storm mana flickering dimmer with every lightning strike I shattered against crimson veil, until he finally raised a hand and the forces disengaged, retreating up grand staircases that curved like wings toward the upper decks, leaving behind groaning wounded and the acrid smell of scorched marble hanging thick in the air. We didn’t chase. Not yet. Needed breath. Needed to bind wounds. Rag sat heavy against a pillar, shirt torn away, cuts across his chest already knitting slow thanks to beastkin stubbornness, but blood still seeped dark. Jax slumped beside him, earth mana spent, hands trembling from holding barriers too long. Kora leaned on her staff, wind quiet for once. Liora stood guard at the stairs, sword lowered but ready, violet eyes scanning shadows. I wiped Reaper on a fallen banner, Voss gold stained darker

The fight in the throne hall paused for a breath, the kind of lull where everyone’s panting and bleeding and realizing the manor’s tilt is getting worse, the whole structure groaning like an old beast ready to give up, and I stood there with Reaper low, crimson aura flickering dim to save strength, watching Liora across the shattered floor as she wiped blood from her cheek not hers, someone else’s and the way she moved even exhausted told stories she’d never said out loud. She caught me looking. Later, when the alliance lords pulled back to the dais to regroup around a furious Lord Voss and a pale Harlan, and Seraphine held the side door with steady flame to buy us time, Liora came to me. We found a shadowed alcove behind a fallen banner, just enough space to lean against the wall side by side, shoulders touching, breathing the same smoke thick air. “You’re staring again,” she said. Voice rough from shouting and lightning. “Thinking.” “About?” “You.” She huffed soft almost a l

Rag doesn’t talk much about before. Most nights he just eats whatever’s in front of him, laughs loud enough to rattle the cavern walls, and crashes like a felled tree, snoring deep and steady while Mira uses his arm as a pillow without asking. But one evening, after a hard training session where Jax had pushed him through earth drills until both were caked in dust and sweat, Rag sat heavier than usual on the crate, staring at his massive hands like they belonged to someone else. I was sharpening Reaper slow, Liora leaning against my side reading an old tactics scroll, Mira coloring quietly in the corner. Rag spoke without looking up. “Earth mana not like yours or hers.” His voice rumbled low, like stones shifting deep underground. Liora lowered the scroll. I set the whetstone aside. We waited. He flexed his fingers. Dirt fell from the creases. “My pack from deep wilds. North crags. Mountains older than empire. Beastkin there dig burrows, hunt wyrms, live half in caves.” He