The square was already thinning out — villagers dispersing like smoke, gossip clinging to their backs as they vanished into crooked alleyways and dirt paths. The sun hung lower now, casting longer shadows over the wood-planked stage that had become the center of an invisible war.
Kael was just about to make his way back to where Virelle and Saria waited, when a sudden jerk wrenched him backward by the collar.
> "Ugh—!"
His boots skidded on the packed dirt. For a heartbeat, he nearly crashed to the ground, but managed to catch his balance. Before he could whirl around, a gruff, familiar voice cut the air like a rusted blade.
> "You listen to me, boy."
Kael's shoulders tensed instantly. He turned — slowly — eyes hardening as they met the narrowed, weathered stare of Jorran.
The older man's grip didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened.
> "You stay the hell away from Saria. She's not your kind. Not your league."
Kael didn't respond right away. He studied his stepfather, watching the twitch of the jaw, the barely hidden contempt in the way Jorran looked down on him.
> There it is again, Kael thought. That disgust. That bitterness, masked as authority.
He remembered the breakfast table earlier that morning. The way Saria had smiled at him. The sparkle in her eyes when he made an offhand joke. Jorran had seen it too — and clearly, it had dug its claws deep into the man's pride.
> So that's what this is about.
---
The narrow cobbled path that ran beside the square led past a line of crooked homes, their tiled roofs sagging like tired shoulders. Kael walked silently down the path, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. The bitter taste of Jorran's words still lingered in his mouth — not because they hurt, but because they echoed a contempt Kael had long grown used to.
Behind him, the chatter of villagers still buzzed with the excitement of coin and the anxiety of mage-hunters. But Kael's mind was elsewhere — caught between memory, insult, and restraint.
> Stay away from Saria.
He scoffed internally. As if I was chasing after her.
In truth, he barely understood what he felt toward Saria. She was kind, certainly. Brighter than most. She listened without judgment and didn't recoil from him like others did when they heard his name whispered with the shadow of Rufus Laparch.
But did that mean he wanted something more? No. Not really. Or at least… not yet. The thought of companionship, of love, felt like a luxury in a world constantly trying to smother him.
> Jorran doesn't understand anything. He never has. He only sees shadows and clings to them like truth.
Still, Kael couldn't shake the question that lingered beneath Jorran's scorn — Why now? Why was he suddenly pressing this issue?
And then it clicked.
> The army recruitment.
Kael stopped walking, eyes narrowing. That's it, isn't it? He wants me gone.
It made too much sense. The kingdom army's campaign was always desperate for bodies — especially young ones. Five days from now, a parade of scouts and recruitment officers would roll through the town square. Those without ties or wealth would be prodded toward enlistment with promises of coin and glory — or threats of shame and punishment.
Kael fit the bill perfectly: no noble family. No money. No future.
And now with Jorran painting him as a dangerous burden, an embarrassment… it was only a matter of time before Kael would be "volunteered."
> He doesn't want justice for his sister. He wants peace of mind. He wants me gone so he can forget.
Kael exhaled sharply through his nose. His rage pulsed like a second heartbeat. But then — he remembered Virelle. Her trembling embrace. Her tears. Her unwavering belief in him.
She was the only reason he hadn't already abandoned this place… or burned it to ash.
> Five days, he thought. Five days to get stronger. Five days to prepare. After that…
Kael's gaze drifted up, toward the distant outline of the old barn where Virelle trained him in secret. He had no time to waste on people like Jorran. Nor did he care for the empty status games of nobility and peasantry. Those lines meant nothing when the world was burning.
> "Let them play their games," he muttered under his breath. "I'll be writing new rules soon enough."
He took a deep breath, allowed the anger to simmer down into something cold — something useful.
Then, he started walking again — toward Virelle, toward training, and toward whatever path the next five days carved for him.
Because once those days were over, Kael would no longer be anyone's burden — and certainly not anyone's pawn.
---
The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as Sir Raleigh's company rode southward along the worn forest road, the hooves of their horses kicking up dust that hung in the air like a ghostly veil. The seasoned mage sat upright on his steed, a slight furrow on his brow, eyes half-lidded in contemplation.
His soldiers rode in silence behind him, a disciplined cohort clad in reinforced leather and modest steel—far from elite, but respectable enough for a rural assignment. The silence wasn't unusual. They had all seen the golem. And they had all seen it die.
No, felt it die. That was the more accurate word.
One moment, the battle had raged, panic thick in the air, blades bouncing off rock-hard flesh, spells barely leaving a scratch. And then—obliteration. The sky had gone briefly white with crackling cold force, a soundless pulse of energy that froze and shattered the golem like brittle glass.
A Tier 3 elemental strike, Sir Raleigh was certain.
> But from who?
He rubbed his gloved fingers together, still feeling the phantom cold of the mana residue that had clung to the air after the spell's detonation. A cold certainty crawled down his spine. That spell hadn't been cast by a scroll. He knew the difference.
> No soul-dissonance. No signature of pain or forced will. That spell was clean, disciplined, alive.
Which meant… a living mage had cast it. A trained one. And a powerful one at that.
Sir Raleigh exhaled slowly, glancing to the west as the faint silhouette of Thornmere's walls began to rise in the distance. The thought gnawed at him like a persistent itch.
> A Tier 3 mage… hiding in a peasant village? That's absurd.
It defied every logic of the kingdom. Mages of such tier were either in service to noble houses, employed by guilds, or sought after by arcane institutions in the capital. They didn't hide in forgotten villages among barley fields and cow dung.
Unless… they were hiding from something.
That realization twisted something deeper in his gut.
The town district chief would need a full report. But not a complete one. Not yet.
"Form up," Raleigh called to his company, his voice even but commanding. "We make Thornmere by dusk. And keep your mouths shut about the spell until I say otherwise. Anyone leaks what happened at the battle, and they'll be writing apologies with their own blood."
A few riders straightened up nervously. Others nodded in grim understanding. In the world of mages and politics, knowledge was as dangerous as any spell.
As Thornmere loomed closer, Sir Raleigh's mind burned with possibilities.
> If a Tier 3 mage truly exists in Thormans… then I'll find them. And gods help them if they've aligned themselves with something... dangerous.
Because in Virela, power hidden was power suspected. And suspicion was never tolerated for long.