Arrival at the Outer Gates
The road bent east, and there — rising through a haze of smoke and sunlight — stood Aeloria, the capital of the realm.
Kael halted on the ridge beside Lyra. The wind blew from the city, carrying the scent of stone, iron, and fire. Towers of pale marble thrust toward the clouds, their spires catching the last light of evening. Yet from this distance, beauty and ruin mingled; beneath the gleaming citadel walls sprawled a darker shadow — the Outer City, where the poor and the exiled dwelt.
"Ash and glass," Lyra murmured. Her tone was unreadable. "That's what they call it now."
Kael frowned. "Why?"
She pointed to the lowland below. "Because the fires never really die there. Aeloria may shine for kings and nobles, but down here… people burn just to keep living."
They descended toward the gates. The closer they came, the more the illusion of grandeur cracked. Streets of cobblestone gave way to mud. Smoke drifted from forges and chimneys. Ragged banners hung from archways once gilded in gold.
The gates themselves were carved with winged lions, symbols of the old gods — their faces worn by soot and time. Two guards stood watch, their armor dulled and dented, eyes sharp with suspicion.
"State your purpose," one barked.
Lyra stepped forward smoothly. "Travelers seeking passage to the capital. Mercenaries by trade."
The guard's gaze swept her — then Kael. His eyes narrowed at the staff strapped across the young man's back, the faint shimmer that seemed to cling to his skin when the light hit. "You carry yourself like a soldier. Which company?"
Kael met his stare evenly. "No company. Just the road."
For a moment, it seemed the guard might refuse. Then he grunted, waving them through. "Stay clear of the southern quarter if you value your purse. And your soul."
They passed beneath the gate's shadow.
Inside, the Outer City breathed like a wounded beast — the noise of hammers, the cries of vendors, the wail of a child somewhere beyond sight. Buildings leaned together like conspirators. Lanterns burned low, their light barely pushing back the dusk.
Kael's senses prickled. Power stirred here — faint but foul, like rot beneath perfume.
They stopped at a tavern built into the shell of a collapsed temple. Its cracked columns still bore the carvings of forgotten saints. Within, the air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and smoke. Travelers huddled in corners, their eyes flicking toward the newcomers.
Lyra found a table. "We'll rest here tonight," she said. "Tomorrow, we look for word of the tournament."
Kael nodded, though his gaze lingered on the door. Something about this place felt wrong. The hum in his veins that he'd felt since Branthollow grew stronger, like a storm gathering beneath his skin.
Then — from the shadows of the bar — a voice spoke. Calm, clear, and unsettlingly amused.
"Not many walk into the Outer City wearing light in their eyes."
Kael turned. A man sat alone at the counter — young, dark-haired, his cloak tattered but his posture elegant. His eyes were a striking amber, glowing faintly like embers. Before him, a candle flickered, though no wind stirred.
Lyra's hand brushed the hilt of her sword. "And you are?"
The stranger smiled faintly. "A friend, perhaps. Or a mistake you haven't made yet."
The Rogue Mage
The stranger's words seemed to ripple through the room. The murmuring of the tavern dulled, as if even the air waited.
Lyra rose slowly, her voice quiet but edged.
"Start with a name, stranger. Then we'll see if we're interested in friendship."
The man turned toward her, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim. "Eryndor. Of no house, no banner. Just the wind and the fire that obeys it."
Kael felt it before he saw it — the faint shimmer in the air, like heat over stone. The candle flame before Eryndor swayed, stretching toward him as though drawn by gravity.
Lyra frowned. "A mage."
Eryndor smiled. "Once. Before your king decided mages should serve the throne or burn for their independence."
That earned a few glances from nearby patrons. Kael sensed their unease; old prejudice ran deep here. The Inquisition had driven free mages from the cities years ago.
Eryndor leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You're heading toward the Skyblade, aren't you? The way the power clings to you, boy — even blind men would feel it."
Kael tensed. "How do you know that?"
"Because," the mage said softly, "I felt it too, when it fell. A pulse through the ley-lines of the world. The earth screamed, the heavens wept. The balance cracked open. Whatever you are, shepherd, you're standing on the edge of something vast enough to unmake us all."
Lyra's expression hardened. "And you want to help us… why?"
Eryndor's smile faded. For the first time, something raw flickered in his eyes — pain, maybe, or guilt. "Because the last time the gods forged a weapon like the Skyblade… I was the fool who helped them hide it."
Kael stared. "That's impossible. That was centuries ago—"
"I've lived longer than I should," Eryndor said simply. "Long enough to know what's waking again."
The room had grown colder. A gust rattled the window shutters. Outside, the city's noises had dimmed to an unnatural quiet.
Lyra's hand went to her sword. "Kael…"
He nodded. The air thrummed with something wrong — a rhythm beneath the floorboards, like footsteps pacing in the earth itself.
Eryndor's eyes flared gold. "They found you faster than I thought."
A tremor ran through the tavern; dust drifted from the rafters. Then came the sound — a whisper, thin as smoke, crawling between the walls.
Children of light… how far you've wandered from the fire.
The floor cracked. Black mist poured through, coiling upward like living shadow. From it stepped figures — the Shadeborn — men twisted by Bakaalka's power, their skin gray as ash, eyes burning red from within. Swords of shadow coalesced in their hands.
The tavern erupted into panic. Chairs overturned, patrons fled. Kael and Lyra drew their weapons — she with steel, he with his staff.
Eryndor stood perfectly still. "If you want to live," he said softly, "don't hold back."
---
Kael moved first. His staff swung in a wide arc; air cracked like thunder. The nearest Shadeborn flew backward, crashing through a table. But two more rushed him, their blades shrieking with dark light.
Lyra met them mid-swing. Her sword flashed silver, cutting through shadow like sunlight through fog. Sparks rained where their blades met. One Shadeborn fell — dissolving into mist — but another caught her arm. The touch burned black against her skin.
Kael's pulse roared. He slammed his staff down — and the ground shattered.
Flames burst upward in a ring, surrounding them. The Shades screamed as the fire devoured them. Yet Kael barely saw them; the light poured from him unchecked, wild and alive.
Lyra's voice cut through the roar. "Kael! Stop! You'll bring the whole building down!"
He tried — but the magic fought back, surging beyond control. The air thickened; the walls glowed crimson; glass shattered outward into the street. For a moment he saw through the flames — and in them, a vast shape, black wings unfurling across the sky.
Then a hand closed on his shoulder — cool, steady.
Eryndor's voice whispered beside him. "Breathe, boy. You command the fire — not the other way."
Kael gasped. The flames bent inward, folding back into his palms. The tavern lay in ruins — half the roof gone, the night wind pouring through. Outside, people screamed and scattered.
Eryndor looked at the damage, then at Kael. "Now you see why they'll hunt you."
Lyra pressed a cloth to her burned arm. "You just saved us, Kael… and almost burned the quarter doing it."
He swallowed hard, staring at his trembling hands. The power still whispered under his skin — beautiful, terrible.
Eryndor picked up a charred piece of wood and snapped it in two. "The Shades were scouts. The ones coming next won't stop until you're ash. If you want to reach the Skyblade, you'll need to learn to survive your own strength."
Kael looked up, meeting the mage's ember-bright eyes. "Then teach me."
The older man smiled faintly, weary but approving. "We start at dawn."