The morning broke with a strange stillness, as if the city itself was holding its breath. The banners of Maelis swayed faintly in the wind, and the sky—washed in pale hues of silver and rose—hung heavy above the guild's towers. Léon stood before the council hall, the echo of Maelis's summons still resonating in his chest. Something about her tone the previous night had carried an edge—neither anger nor fear, but a calculated urgency that unsettled him.
He had not told the others. There were moments a leader must hold silence, not out of secrecy, but to shield the fragile calm that kept a group together. And Éclora was still learning to be a family.
The great oak doors opened with a low groan, and Maelis herself appeared, flanked by two of the senior councilors—Eiden, calm and precise as ever, and Lady Corven, her sharp eyes scanning every corner of the hall as if truth itself might try to flee.
"Léon," Maelis called, her voice clear, "assemble your team. We have a new assignment."
Moments later, the members of Éclora gathered around the long marble table, still brushing away the remnants of sleep. Finn leaned casually against a column, Althea stood at attention, Liora fidgeted with the edge of her cloak, and Seris was already taking mental notes.
Maelis gestured toward a large map unrolled before them. "Reports have reached us from the western frontier—specifically the ruins of Elvarin. A trade convoy vanished near the old citadel three days ago. The local guilds refuse to investigate. Too many... disappearances."
Liora swallowed audibly. "Disappearances?"
Eiden nodded. "No remains. No signs of struggle. Only silence. The kind that frightens even the beasts."
Finn whistled softly. "Sounds charming."
Althea shot him a look sharp enough to cut stone. "Show respect. If Maelis herself is briefing us, it's no simple patrol."
Maelis continued, unperturbed. "You will leave before dusk. Your mission is reconnaissance and recovery—if possible. But remember, these ruins once belonged to the Guild of Dawnlight... before it fell to corruption. Some say echoes of their magic still linger."
At the word corruption, Léon's pulse quickened. He had seen enough shadowed magic in the forest to know the stench it left behind. "Do you believe the Guild of Chaos is involved?" he asked.
Maelis's expression flickered. "We suspect so. Their influence spreads westward. This may be their testing ground." She stepped closer, her gaze steady on Léon's. "Be cautious. Light and shadow are never as distant as they seem."
The meeting ended in silence. Outside, Éclora prepared their supplies—rations, potions, enchanted seals. The air buzzed with the strange energy that always preceded a new journey: part excitement, part dread.
Finn grinned as he adjusted his gloves. "West, huh? Always wanted to see what's left of those ruins. Maybe we'll find treasure."
Seris snorted. "Or your grave."
He winked. "Then I'll make sure it's a scenic one."
Liora gave a nervous laugh, breaking the tension. Even Althea allowed herself a small smile.
By late afternoon, they departed the gates of Maelis, the wind carrying the scent of wild herbs and damp soil. The road west wound through meadows and old watchtowers, remnants of an empire that had long forgotten its own glory.
As they walked, Léon kept his eyes on the horizon. The sunlight was softer here, almost fragile, as though reluctant to touch the earth.
Hours passed in quiet conversation. Althea analyzed terrain patterns; Seris studied the map; Liora asked questions about tactics; Finn occasionally hummed an old ballad about heroism that made them all roll their eyes.
By twilight, they reached the borderlands—a place where the grass thinned and the wind spoke in hollow tones. Ahead, the ruins of Elvarin emerged like broken teeth against the dying light.
Once, this place had been a fortress of learning and discipline, home to hundreds of magi sworn to the Dawnlight. Now, it was little more than bones—arches collapsed, towers strangled by ivy, streets swallowed by moss.
Liora shivered. "It feels… wrong."
"It is wrong," Seris murmured. "The flow of mana here is inverted. Something's feeding on it."
They entered cautiously, torches flickering against the cold stone. The air grew thick with the scent of ash and old parchment. Faint glyphs still glowed along the walls, fading in and out as if whispering in their sleep.
Léon raised his hand, light gathering at his palm. "Stay close."
Finn chuckled quietly. "Not a problem."
Their footsteps echoed as they moved deeper into the ruins. Strange markings—new, not ancient—appeared along the walls. Circular, precise, and dark as dried blood. Seris crouched beside one, tracing it carefully. "These are sigils of binding... but reversed. Someone used them recently."
"Reversed?" Liora repeated.
"It means they weren't meant to contain something," Seris said. "They were meant to release."
Before Léon could reply, a low sound rippled through the corridors—a whisper, too faint to be human. The torches flickered violently. Then the ground trembled.
From the shadows ahead, shapes began to emerge—humanoid, but distorted, their bodies made of mist and faint crimson light. Echoes of the fallen mages. Their faces were twisted remnants of memory, their voices overlapping in a chorus of sorrow.
Finn instinctively drew his blades. "Ghosts. Great."
Althea's tone was sharp. "Not ghosts—fragments of corrupted mana. They're drawn to light."
Léon's hands glowed brighter. "Then let them come."
The air exploded into motion. The first wraith lunged, its form disintegrating against the barrier of Léon's light, but others followed, relentless. Althea's sword cut through the mist, each strike leaving trails of radiant heat. Finn moved with dazzling speed, slashing, dodging, taunting.
Liora tried to summon her magic, hands trembling, but the energy resisted—wild, chaotic. "It's not working!"
"Focus!" Seris shouted. "You're channeling through interference!"
Liora bit her lip, forcing herself to breathe. She remembered Léon's words—Courage doesn't always look perfect. Her eyes flared with determination. The air around her shimmered, and a beam of pure light burst forth, piercing through three wraiths at once.
When the dust settled, silence returned—heavy and unnatural. The echoes had vanished.
Finn leaned on his sword, panting. "Remind me not to vacation here."
Seris approached one of the crumbling pillars, examining faint scratches along its base. "They weren't attacking at random. They were guarding something."
Althea's eyes narrowed. "The central chamber."
They moved deeper into the ruins. The air grew colder, the walls closing in as if the citadel itself resented their presence. Finally, they reached a vast hall illuminated by a single, pulsing crystal embedded in the ceiling. Beneath it lay a sigil carved into the floor—large, intricate, and unmistakably recent.
Léon stepped closer. "This isn't ancient magic."
"No," Seris confirmed grimly. "This was drawn days ago."
As if in answer, a voice echoed through the chamber—a smooth, mocking tone that sent a chill down their spines.
"So the little guild comes sniffing around."
From the shadows emerged a man dressed in obsidian robes, his mask shaped like a serpent. Behind him, three others appeared—each bearing the emblem of the Guild of Chaos.
Finn cursed under his breath. "Well, that answers who drew the circles."
The masked man tilted his head. "You're Éclora, aren't you? The pet project of Maelis. I've heard whispers of your little success in Rysborne. How touching."
Léon's voice was calm but firm. "We're not here to exchange words. This place is under our jurisdiction. Leave."
The man laughed softly. "Jurisdiction? You misunderstand, boy. We don't leave—we reclaim. The West belongs to the Chaos."
He raised his hand, and the crystal above them shattered, plunging the room into darkness. When light returned, dozens of spectral figures had reappeared, but this time, their forms burned with crimson fire.
The battle that followed was chaos in its purest form. Magic collided in blinding arcs, steel clashed against conjured flame. Finn's blades danced through the air like silver lightning. Althea fought with measured fury, every strike fueled by precision. Seris weaved barriers and counterspells, the hum of mana resonating through the chamber.
Liora struggled, fear clawing at her, but Léon's voice cut through the noise—steady, unwavering. "You're not alone."
Her magic surged anew, golden light streaming from her fingertips, forming a radiant shield that engulfed the group. Léon followed, channeling every ounce of his power into a single burst that tore through the spectral ranks.
The masked man staggered, his smirk fading. "Impressive… but you've only delayed the inevitable."
He retreated into the collapsing shadows, his voice echoing as he vanished. "The light may rise—but so does the chaos."
When silence finally fell, the hall was in ruins. Dust and fading embers drifted through the air like dying stars.
Finn exhaled slowly. "If that was a scouting mission, I don't want to see what a real battle looks like."
Liora collapsed to her knees, trembling. Léon knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You did well. We all did."
Althea surveyed the destruction. "This wasn't random. They wanted us to find them."
Seris nodded grimly. "And to deliver a message."
Outside, as they emerged into the pale moonlight, the ruins behind them shimmered faintly—an illusion breaking apart. Léon glanced back once more, sensing the lingering shadow of the masked man's words.
He whispered, almost to himself, "Then we'll answer their message—with light."
The wind carried his vow into the distance, over the broken walls and sleeping fields, as Éclora began the long journey home—unaware that far to the south, in a candlelit chamber, the Guild of Chaos was already preparing their next move.