Elian and Elise were taking breakfast in the room where they had spent the night after the conference with the elders and the prime minister. The bitter aroma of freshly ground beans mingled with the faint scent of charred wood rising from the fireplace, creating a dense, almost suffocating atmosphere. Elian had barely slept; his mind spun without rest, haunted by the images of the previous day.
The absence of justice for his father's death still weighed on his chest like a cold stone. Yet, in the midst of that spectacle they dared to call a trial, a single detail had shifted the course of things: Elder Marduk had accepted him as an apprentice of the Dark Throne and, beyond that, had granted protection to his family. To Elian, this did not erase the bitter victory of the Baron, but it opened a narrow crack of hope—a path toward the power he sought. Power enough to protect his own. Power enough to take vengeance.
He was not someone who forgot a wrong suffered, nor someone willing to forgive. He would not kill for pleasure, but he would never hesitate to kill to defend those he loved—or to claim blood for blood. Baron Hoffmann was already carved into his soul as an inevitable target. Whether the encounter came sooner or later did not matter—Elian would hunt him until his vengeance was fulfilled.
His clothes were no longer those of the day before. Now he wore simple brown trousers, cut at the calves, and a long-sleeved red cotton shirt. The color stood out against his long red hair, tied low in a loose ponytail resting at his shoulders. His golden eyes reflected the fire in the hearth, fixed on the crackling flames as they devoured wood and silence.
Above the mantel rested a clay vase filled with flowers whose delicate petals he did not recognize, but their sweet, cloying perfume spread across the room, trying—and failing—to mask the harsher scent of smoke.
The neutral city of Askov remained cloaked in constant cold. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks of the window, and the distant clatter of hooves echoed across the cobbled streets, a reminder that life moved on, indifferent to the burden he carried.
Then a firm knock at the door cut through his thoughts. The sound reverberated in the narrow room as if louder than it truly was, awakening within him the sense that something inevitable was about to arrive.
Elise, sharing breakfast with Elian, was the first to answer. Her voice rang firm, steady, as though she had already been expecting the visitor.
"Who is it?" she asked, her gaze shifting toward the dark wood of the door.
From the other side, a man's voice replied. It was not harsh, but carried a natural weight, a silent authority that did not need to force itself to be felt.
"My name is Lysander. I am an envoy of Elder Azemir."
His tone filled the corridor as if it owned the space. Elise, who had indeed been waiting for a representative of the Tower of Wisdom, adjusted herself in her chair. She still wore the same ceremonial robe from the day before, the heavy fabric draping over her thin shoulders. Unlike the strict formality of the conference, however, her graying hair now fell loose to her shoulder blades, no longer pulled into the small, severe knot Elian had noticed yesterday. The contrast drew his eyes for a moment, a fleeting distraction.
Before Elise could raise her hand to the latch, Lysander's voice echoed again, breaking the quiet of the room:
"Alongside me is a mage of the Dark Throne."
The words hung in the air, carrying a sudden weight, as if the presence mentioned had already seeped into the room itself. The fire in the hearth hissed softly, and for a moment Elian felt the air thicken, as if the mere mention of that order could alter the very atmosphere.
Elise opened the door, admitting the two envoys into the fire-warmed chamber.
Lysander appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties. His silver hair caught the firelight like strands of metal, and his blue eyes carried the steady weight of one who had witnessed many judgments and secrets. His long purple overcoat swept near his ankles as he walked, swaying with controlled grace. Beneath it, a dark leather vest bore numerous pockets, each seeming to hold tools and mysteries of his order. On his right arm, bound like a bracelet, was a golden pendant marked with the symbol of the Tower of Wisdom: a triangle with a watchful eye at its center—an emblem of more than prestige, but of authority within the order.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Elise," Lysander said, bowing briefly, his tone respectful yet firm.
"The same, Lysander," she replied, returning the gesture with equal solemnity.
Beside him stood the woman, imposing without a word. Her upright posture, each movement precise, exuded discipline. Her long black overcoat swept to her heels, opening with her stride to reveal the metallic gleam of partial armor across her shoulders and forearms. Crimson epaulets, embroidered with patterns reminiscent of living embers, glowed faintly beneath the trembling firelight. A heavy cloak, clasped at the chest with a brooch shaped like an inverted sword, fell like a funeral shroud—and for an instant, Elian thought it moved on its own, as though breathing with its bearer.
Her black leather gloves gripped with firmness, and her brown eyes, austere and unyielding, held the hardness of one who had survived battlefields. Yet when she spoke, her voice was neither harsh nor cruel. It was strong, steady, imbued with a calm kindness—but one that made it clear any disrespect would not be tolerated.
Her long black hair, faintly streaked with blue, cascaded down her back like a midnight mantle, shimmering faintly in the hearthlight as though touched by cold moonlight.
Upon her shoulder hung a leather satchel marked with the sigil of the Dark Throne: the image of a tree with roots sinking deep into the shadows of the Qliphoth.
When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of judgment:
"I am Iolanda, mage of the third hierarchy of the Dark Throne," she declared, her stern eyes locking onto Elian. "I come under the command of Elder Marduk."
She placed the satchel upon the table by the hearth, her gloves creaking as she moved. From it, she withdrew two objects with ritualistic care.
First, a metallic seal, cold as freshly forged steel, etched with the order's emblem: a triangle entwined in roots. Then, a set of ceremonial garments—black, lined with crimson details—whose fabric carried the faint scent of burnt incense mingled with treated leather.
"This seal confirms your identity as a member of the Dark Throne," she said, raising it so the firelight gleamed upon its surface. "And these are the robes you will wear henceforth. From today on, your appearance will reflect the order to which you belong."
Elian's gaze lingered on the items. The firelight danced on the cold metal of the seal, and for a moment it seemed as though the symbolic weight of it pressed heavier upon him than any weapon could.
Elise, standing beside Lysander, also fixed her gaze on the items laid upon the table. Her green eyes reflected the flames but betrayed nothing more than a silent stillness. It was impossible to know whether that look held only pride for the student she had raised, or if it carried a shadow of sorrow—for the boy she had once known would now march under a banner not her own.
In contrast, Lysander made no effort to hide his disdain. His blue eyes narrowed with open repulsion, as though the very sight of those Dark Throne symbols defiled the room. The contempt in his face was not directed only at Elian, but also at Iolanda, judging them both unworthy before a single word had passed.
It was true that, in public, the orders showed a façade of cooperation. Yet beneath it, rivalries and ancient grudges pulsed unhealed. Lysander was their living embodiment.
"How could you allow your apprentice to crawl into the hands of these barbarians, Elise?" His voice cut the air like a blade, echoing across the chamber.
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of burning wood in the hearth.
Iolanda raised her chin, her eyes sharpening to tempered steel. The aura she gave off seemed to ripple—unseen, yet heavy enough to weigh upon the shoulders of all present.
"Watch your tongue, Lysander," she retorted, each word hard with certainty. "The fact you bear rank within the Tower of Wisdom does not mean I could not kill you here and now."
Lysander's lips curved into a cold, humorless smile, his eyes gleaming with arrogance.
"Try your luck."
The room collapsed into tension. The fire surged, flames bending as though disturbed by the invisible energies spilling between the two. The chamber seemed narrower, suffocated by the imminence of violence.
It was Elise who shattered the spell of hostility. Her voice rang clear and severe, an order that admitted no defiance.
"Enough," she said, her gaze cutting between them. "We are in the neutral city of Askov. Battles are forbidden here, and I will not allow any violation of that law."
The weight of her words pressed the tension down, though the spark still burned in their crossing gazes. Elise then turned to Lysander.
"Wasn't it your purpose here to take me to the meeting with Elder Azemir? Then let us go. I believe Iolanda still has matters to address with Elian."
Iolanda straightened, drawing a steady breath before speaking, her tone controlled yet unyielding.
"Yes. I still have words for him."
Elise gave a small nod, sensing the oppressive pressure in the room at last beginning to fade. Before leaving, she turned to the Dark Throne mage with a rare note of respect in her voice.
"Would you stay with him until I return? I know you are no one's caretaker, but I ask that you watch over him in my absence."
Iolanda inclined her head in acceptance.
"I will stay," she said, then added with calm assurance, "In fact, I intend to take him for a walk through the city. There is a Dark Throne branch here in Askov. He should see it."
Elise allowed herself a faint, fleeting smile, bowing her head in gratitude.
"Thank you," she said, departing the chamber.
As the door was closing, Lysander turned one last time. His gaze pierced the air and fixed on Elian like a silent blade—the same disdain as before, now sharpened, carrying with it a veiled promise of future hostility.