The moon hung like a cracked silver coin over the Council's temporary base — an abandoned cathedral swallowed by the forest's dark lungs. Smoke from the nearby watchfires curled toward the sky, painting the air in shades of ember and ash. The banners of the Council fluttered limply in the wind, their once-proud insignia now faded, half-burned, and frayed.
Amylo walked alone.
His boots pressed into the wet mud, each step a dull echo of the storm brewing inside him. He had wandered for days since the battle — since he'd left Troady and Lyra. His cloak was torn, his mana pulse dim and flickering like a dying flame. But worse than his wounds was the silence that followed him — the kind that screamed louder than any war drum.
He stopped before the cathedral gates. Guards in black armor crossed their halberds before him.
"State your business."
Amylo raised his head slowly. The firelight glimmered in his eyes. "Tell them… Amylo's returned."
One of the guards blinked in disbelief. "You have some nerve showing your face here, traitor."
Amylo didn't flinch. "I didn't betray anyone."
"Didn't you?" another spat. "You abandoned your post to play hero with that outsider — that fool who stands against the Council."
He said nothing. Only the wind answered, sweeping through the ruined courtyard with the smell of burnt wood and rust.
They hesitated, then shoved the heavy doors open. "Fine. Let's see what the others have to say."
Inside, the base was a grim theatre of whispers — candles burning low, mages muttering incantations, the clatter of armor echoing through the halls. Every gaze turned when Amylo entered. Every whisper sharpened into accusation.
"Amylo? He's alive?"
"He has some nerve walking in after everything."
"Didn't he help that swordsman escape the Reaper's Edge battle?"
The voices overlapped like knives scraping against glass.
Amylo walked toward the inner chamber where the lower councilors met. His cloak brushed the floor — a quiet defiance.
A man slammed his hand against the table. "You've got guts coming back here."
Amylo met his glare. "I came to talk."
"Talk?" the man sneered. "You vanished mid-mission, disobeyed a direct order, and sided with the enemy. You think we'll talk?"
"I didn't side with anyone," Amylo said quietly. "I just stopped fighting for things I didn't believe in."
The room fell silent for a heartbeat — just long enough for his words to sink in.
Another voice, a young woman in crimson robes, spoke sharply. "You're defending him again — that outsider, Troady. You always were weak-hearted, Amylo. Letting emotions cloud your duty."
"Duty?" His tone deepened. "Since when did duty mean blind obedience?"
Her eyes flared with fury. "You're speaking treason!"
He didn't back down. "Maybe. But I've seen the kind of 'justice' the Council carries out. Burning villages, silencing anyone who questions orders, using people like tools. If that's justice, then I'd rather be a traitor."
The room erupted.
A chair scraped. Spells crackled to life — sparks of blue, green, and red darting through the air like angry insects. The tension snapped.
The first bolt of lightning came from the left — Amylo dodged, his boots sliding on the stone floor. The wall behind him exploded, scattering shards of rock.
He flung his arm forward, and a burst of flame roared out, spiraling like a dragon's breath. It smashed against a mage's shield, hurling him backward.
"Stop this madness!" someone shouted.
"Madness?" Amylo snarled. "You call truth madness?"
More came at him. Fire collided with frost, steel clashed against crackling air. The hall glowed with violent light — orange embers spinning in every direction, painting Amylo's face in chaos.
He moved like a storm — not to kill, but to survive. Each spell he cast burned with control, aimed at disarming, not destroying. Yet rage surrounded him like wildfire — the Council's young enforcers, drunk on loyalty, blind with hate.
"You think he's some hero?" one shouted mid-duel. "He'll burn you next, just like he burned the border camps!"
Amylo froze mid-motion. His chest tightened.
That was a lie. But it didn't matter. Lies had already won here.
A blade grazed his arm — blood welled, warm and red. He stumbled backward, panting. The air stank of smoke and magic.
For a moment, he saw it — the face of Troady, standing before a bonfire days ago, eyes calm, voice steady.
"You don't have to walk alone forever, Amylo."
His breath hitched.
And then —
A blast of energy roared across the room. Amylo raised his arms, summoning a wall of flame — but the force was too strong. It shattered his defense, flung him across the chamber. His back hit a pillar hard enough to crack it.
Dust filled the air. His vision blurred. The shouts around him faded into a dull roar.
He coughed, trying to stand, his palms bleeding.
"End him!" someone screamed. "He's not one of us anymore!"
Spells gathered. Dozens of them.
Amylo clenched his fists, ready to meet them — when the ground itself trembled.
The cathedral doors blew open.
A rush of wind swept through the hall, scattering firelight and smoke. The air grew heavy — not with magic, but presence.
A voice — deep, steady, familiar — cut through the chaos.
"Enough."
Every soldier froze.
Amylo's head turned — slowly, disbelieving.
Troady stood in the doorway.
Moonlight poured behind him, framing his figure like a blade drawn from its sheath. His cloak swayed, edges tattered from travel. His eyes were calm but sharp — the kind of calm that silences storms.
"Anyone who lifts another spell," he said softly, "won't get a second warning."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the embers seemed to pause midair.
Amylo's breath trembled — half shock, half relief. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt something familiar inside him flicker back to life.
Light.
Not from magic — but from someone who still believed he could be more than his mistakes.
To be Continued ....
Written By:-Punit Israni
Enhanced by Chatgpt