The rain had just passed, leaving the stones of the Scion courtyard glistening with fading light.
Arasha stood beneath the covered arch near the central tower, a parchment clutched in her gloved hand—the royal seal of Linalee unmistakable, stamped in blue wax embossed with arcane sigils.
She exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the elegant yet firm script once again:
"You are cleared to investigate Hollow Valley only after the mage I am sending arrives and has conducted a thorough inspection of your condition. If you are deemed unfit, do not—under any circumstance—set foot in that cursed place, Arasha. I mean it."
Arasha handed the parchment to Garran, who raised a brow, reading it aloud in a dry tone, "'Do not think for a moment your rank allows you to defy me in this matter.'"
He looked up at Arasha, one brow lifted. "She sounds like she's writing to a reckless squire, not the Scion Commander."
Arasha's lips curled into a wry smile. "Linalee always had a flair for dramatics when it comes to my health."
Garran gave a short laugh. "That's because your 'health' flickers like a candle light, for your wound seems likely to kill you every fortnight. If I had to drag you back from death's doorstep one more time, I'd petition the gods for hazard pay."
"I'm not that bad."
"You fell off your horse two weeks ago with shallow breath, Again."
Arasha raised a finger as if to argue, then paused, thinking. "...Fair point."
Garran folded the letter and tucked it into his ledger. "I'll draft a reply. Something diplomatic, but reassuring. Like 'your threat of arcane imprisonment has been duly noted.'"
Arasha chuckled and looked toward the eastern horizon. "Still, if Linalee is sending someone… that mage may know how to deal with the corruption. I feel like Hollow Valley is calling to me—not as a place of doom, but a puzzle I need to unravel. There's something there. Something waiting."
Garran's expression sobered. "Your gut's saved us more than once. But we can't afford to lose you to it either. Let the mage test you. Rest until then. If Hollow Valley holds something dangerous—or precious—you'll need all your strength to face it."
Arasha nodded slowly. "You're right."
She turned her gaze back to the north, where Hollow Valley slumbered beneath cursed fog and silence.
"Soon," she murmured, voice a whisper of steel. "I'll find what waits for me there. And I'll be ready."
****
A low hum of anticipation swept through the Scion Hold as a horse-drawn carriage inscribed with arcane runes pulled through the gates.
The air shimmered faintly around it—a veil of protective spells still clinging to its surface.
When the door opened, out stepped an elderly man with flowing silver hair bound in a simple cord, his robes the color of morning frost and woven with shifting threads of starlight.
His eyes, pale as clouded moonlight, held a calm that seemed to see through the years themselves.
"Rewald the Ancient," murmured one of the knights, awestruck.
Arasha was already moving toward him, flanked by Garran and Leta.
"Welcome, Master Rewald," she said, placing a hand over her heart and bowing. "You honor our hold with your presence. I've instructed the staff to prepare the guest wing—"
The archmage raised a hand. "Please, Commander, I've no need for fanfare. I come as a friend of a friend. Treat me as you would any other guest."
Arasha straightened, pausing only for a heartbeat before nodding. "Then as any guest, would you join me in the garden for tea and something warm to eat?"
Rewald smiled, deep lines creasing his face like ancient parchment. "Now that, I would enjoy."
Within the stone-walled tranquility of the Scion Hold's garden, they sat at a small wooden table beneath a spreading shade tree. Birds chirped gently in the hedges, and sunlight danced through the leaves, casting dappled light over the tea service.
Arasha poured tea with practiced grace, sliding a plate of shortbread toward Rewald, who accepted it with an amused twinkle in his eye.
"So," she said, not even attempting to veil her eagerness, "what must I do to enter Hollow Valley?"
Rewald took a long sip of tea before responding. "Straight to business. I like that." He tapped a biscuit thoughtfully against his saucer. "You must pass my inspection."
"What kind of inspection?" Arasha asked immediately.
The archmage smiled enigmatically and bit into the biscuit. "The kind that determines whether your body, mind, and soul can survive what lies beyond the misted veil."
She opened her mouth to press further but held herself back when Rewald raised a brow at her. He took another sip, clearly savoring the moment.
"You've endured much, Commander," he finally said. "But I've traveled long and I'm not as young as I look—today, I rest. Tomorrow, I test. No exceptions."
Arasha bowed her head slightly. "Apologies, Master Rewald. I wasn't considering your weariness."
"No need for titles," he replied, setting down his cup. "I'm not your enemy, nor your superior. Just a man who owes a favor to an old friend."
He looked at her more closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But I will say this—you carry more than corruption in your veins. Something old clings to you. Not just the crest... not just the wound. Something from beyond."
Arasha blinked but said nothing. He nodded as though she had confirmed it anyway.
"You're not as well as you pretend to be," he added gently. "If you wish to reach the Hollow Valley, let tomorrow's inspection decide if you're ready. And if not… you must trust in those around you."
Arasha exhaled slowly. "Understood."
Rewald leaned back in his chair, watching the sky darken with oncoming twilight. "Good. Now—let an old man enjoy his tea in peace. We have a difficult tomorrow ahead."
Arasha smiled faintly and poured him another cup.
And for the first time in many moons, she allowed herself to sit in silence—letting her heartbeat slow, the wind move softly through her hair, and the weight of purpose settle without crushing her completely.
****
The sun was high in the sky, warm light blanketing the open meadow just beyond the old stables of Scion Hold.
The wind stirred the tall grass gently, and a faint magical current hummed through the air—subtle, but unmistakably ancient.
Arasha stood in silence beside Rewald, dressed in a light training tunic, her sword sheathed at her hip, though she doubted steel would be of any use for what was to come.
Rewald, ever composed, leaned on a gnarled staff carved from pale sycamore wood, runes glowing faintly along its grain.
"This place will do," Rewald murmured, lifting his gaze to the sky, "Old, undisturbed ley lines run beneath this field. Quiet, but potent. Perfect for our work."
He turned to Arasha. "There will be three stages to this test. First, I will examine your physical vessel—how the corruption has settled in, how your body resists it. Second, I will observe your mental state through a sequence of illusionary visions. Lastly, I'll conjure a controlled simulation of the Hollow Valley itself."
Arasha gave a firm nod. "I understand. I'm ready."
Rewald didn't smile. He simply raised a hand, and in a flash of pale light, a circle of sigils spiraled beneath her feet.
The air thickened as the ancient archmage began his scan.
Arasha felt the magic push into her, not painfully—but thoroughly, searching, examining every inch of her being.
Her breathing grew ragged as her wound—hidden beneath skin and layers of divine suppression—flared to life.
Black veins shimmered under her skin briefly before disappearing again.
Rewald's brows furrowed deeply.
When he finally stepped back and released the spell, Arasha staggered slightly, catching herself.
"Well?" she asked, though she already suspected the answer.
"You're not ready," Rewald said with neither pity nor scorn. "Your body is compromised. The corruption reacts violently to deeper magical exposure—if you went to Hollow Valley in this state, the miasma there would devour what's left of your strength. And that would be the best-case scenario."
Arasha's shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "So I've failed already."
Rewald shook his head. "No. You've revealed the truth early enough to address it. That is not failure. That is fortune."
"I will not let you venture into Hollow Valley until we formulate a purging regimen more comprehensive than any attempted so far. Leta and Roen will assist me, but it will take time," he said.
Then he looked at her again, a rare softness in his expression. "However… I will permit you to experience the third phase—a Hollow Valley simulation—only when I am present to monitor your condition. It won't be perfect, but it will grant you insight, allow you to mentally prepare."
Arasha bowed her head, deeply moved. "Thank you. I am truly grateful, Master Rewald."
Rewald chuckled, the warmth in his voice breaking the sternness of the moment. "Don't thank me too quickly. Linalee told me to be strict with you, said you were a hopeless workaholic."
Arasha smiled faintly, sheepish. "She's not wrong."
"But," he continued, his eyes distant for a moment, "you remind me of my granddaughter. Stubborn, principled… far too willing to burn herself out for the sake of others."
He looked at her again, more kindly now. "So forgive me if I go easy on you when I shouldn't."
Arasha gently placed a hand over her heart. "Then I'll do my best to honor that kindness without wasting it."
Rewald nodded. "Good. Rest for today. Tomorrow, if your vitals stabilize, we begin the simulation."
As they walked back toward the hold side-by-side, the sun dipped slowly toward the horizon, casting long shadows behind them—shadows that whispered of challenges yet to come, but also of hands reaching out to carry the weight alongside her.
****
The sun had barely risen when Rewald, still cloaked in travel dust, swept through the halls of the Scion Hold toward the medical ward.
His steps were brisk, his expression unreadable, though his eyes bore the heaviness of quiet urgency.
Inside, Leta was carefully cataloguing ingredients, while Roen adjusted some monitoring crystals beside Arasha's unused cot.
"I need to speak with both of you," Rewald said, his voice curt yet calm.
Leta turned immediately. "Of course."
Rewald folded his arms, leaning slightly on his staff. "I've scanned her. The corruption is... persistent. I need every detail of Arasha's condition prior to your current treatment—before any suppression, before the concoctions."
Roen and Leta exchanged a glance.
"She should have died," Roen said without hesitation. "Several times. When she first came back from Lord Vexen's assault, we almost lost her during the first hour."
Leta added grimly, "There have been flare-ups every two to four weeks since then. Unpredictable. Some worse than others. We've stabilized her, but that's all we can do—it's a delicate containment, not a cure."
Rewald sighed deeply, as though their answers confirmed his worst concerns. "And how many near-death episodes?"
"Too many for comfort," both replied in unison.
The ancient archmage closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself. "Then we don't have much time. If that corruption anchors deeper or entwines itself with her crest's magic, it could rewrite her core."
"What do you need us to do?" Leta asked, already pulling out a fresh notebook.
"I'll begin by crafting talismans—low-tier for now—intended to slowly purge and contain. But the crest of twisted fate may cause… interference," Rewald explained. "So I'll test them directly with her mana signature. In the meantime, we need to calm her body and mana network. It's like stitching on torn cloth; if her foundation is fraying, everything else fails."
He paused, then looked sharply at them both. "I need your best sedative-stabilizer compound—something that soothes without suppressing awareness. And Roen, I need your bloodline resonance readings again. We're going to work fast, but we're going to work smart."
And with that, the three fell into their roles like clockwork gears: notes flying, spells etched into parchment, potions brewing.
Meanwhile…
Unaware of the exact flurry of activity in the medical ward, Arasha stood before the strategy table in the main chamber, hand braced on its edge as she reviewed the growing list of alerts and reports.
"Three monster attacks in the southern villages. Two more caravan ambushes. One breach near Arlow's pass," John read aloud from the new reports, brows furrowed.
"They're accelerating," Arasha muttered. "And it's not random anymore. Look—converging paths toward populated hubs."
Garran leaned in. "We've intercepted a few cult messages. Garbled, but all mention 'the surge' and 'harvest season.'"
Arasha's frown deepened. "It's them. Rift cults. They're stirring something."
"Commander, shouldn't you be resting?" John said carefully.
"I am resting," she replied dryly, flipping the next scroll. "By letting all of you do the running around."
Despite the banter, her gaze remained sharp—haunted even—as she tried to keep the growing unrest in check. Yet deep down, a gnawing sense of guilt twisted inside her.
Have I been too relax? Too slow? Have I let the cult dig deeper while I focused on recovery?
Still, Arasha pressed forward, assigning squads, dispatching liaisons to nearby cities, and ensuring scouting parties were placed strategically.
The world was growing more volatile by the day—and somewhere in that chaos, the truth of the twisted fate crest, her wound, and Hollow Valley waited.