The courtyard echoed with the sharp crack of wooden swords clashing in one of the training arenas of the Zyvereth military, a vast coliseum of stone and sand. It was very early morning, and the colossal statues of draconic warriors loomed over the field, their carved gazes eternal and stern. This was where generations of dragonkin trained, where strength was tempered into legacy.

  Jol gritted his teeth as Raela's strike came in fast—too fast. He parried with a grunt, the impact numbing his arm. His stance faltered slightly, and she capitalized on it, sweeping his leg. He stumbled back, catching himself just before hitting the ground.

  "Don't let up," Balthazar's voice rang from the observation platform above. He stood above on the high observation balcony, cloaked in azure and pearly-white. The threads shimmered faintly in the mountain light. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture like stone—unyielding, unmoved. Only his eyes, glowing faintly with force-infused magic, showed any flicker of emotion.

  Raela didn’t respond. She pressed forward, relentless. Another swing, feint, pivot—Jol tried to counter, but she was already behind him, her wooden blade tapping against his ribs.

  "Dead," she said with a small smirk.

  Jol dropped to one knee, panting. Sweat dripped down his brow despite the cold mountain air. "You don’t hold back, do you?"

  "You’ll never grow if I do," Raela replied, helping him up.

  They were both sweaty and focused, as the sparring had been going on for over half an hour. A half an hour in which Jol’s wooden blade never touched Raela’s body.

  “Reset,” Balthazar’s voice cut the warm air like a winter’s breeze.

  The two combatants moved back into position. Jol shifted on the sand, his feet sliding into a combat-ready stance. Across from him, Raela twirled her wooden blade once, the motion casual—almost dismissive. Her stance was relaxed, but he knew better. She didn’t telegraph her movements. She didn’t waste energy.

  “Begin.”

  Raela moved like lightning—her blade slashing downward in a brutal arc. Jol stepped aside, catching the strike with his own weapon, but the power behind it still reverberated through his arms. He turned the momentum into a spin, attempting a follow-up sweep.

  Raela leapt over it, twisting mid-air, and came down with a precise strike toward his shoulder.

  Thwack.

  The wooden sword kissed his collarbone, under the armor. Jol winced.

  “Dead,” she said simply, stepping back.

  Jol inhaled sharply, frustration flaring behind his eyes. “Too slow again…”

  “You hesitated,” Raela said, walking a slow circle around him. “You thought about the counter before committing. That’s a delay I can exploit.”

  “Reset,” Balthazar’s voice echoed from above, clear and cutting like a blade.

  Jol exhaled through gritted teeth and returned to his mark. The warm air filled his lungs. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip. The sand crunched beneath his boots. He could feel the rhythm. His body remembered. But still—he was always just a step behind her.

  They circled.

  Raela’s eyes were steady, measuring. Jol tried to match her calm, to read her movement. The first strike came fast—a jab toward his ribs—but this time he anticipated it. He stepped in, not back, catching her wrist with his off-hand while redirecting the blade with his own.

  He twisted.

  She flowed with the motion, rolling over his shoulder with an acrobatic flip, landing behind him with a practiced elegance. Jol whirled around, blade up.

  Their swords met with a harsh crack. Once. Twice. He parried low, swept wide, stepped in.

  This time he landed a hit. A clean strike against her shoulder.

  “Point,” Balthazar announced, and Jol felt a surge of something like gratitude toward himself, that he finally did it—or was it relief? And a hint of pride.

  Raela gave a small nod, barely a smile. “Better.”

  They reset again, blades raised.

  She rushed him this time. The tempo was different—faster, more erratic. Jol faltered. She feinted left, then came low. He blocked, but not in time. Her blade hooked around his guard and tapped his thigh, making him stumble on the ground.

  “Dead.”

  “Damn it,” Jol muttered.

  Raela extended a hand and pulled him upright again.

  “You're improving,” she said. “You’re overthinking less. Let your instincts breathe.”

  Balthazar descended from the platform, footsteps echoing as he strode across the sand with a calm authority. He looked from Raela to Jol, his gaze lingering on the sweat glistening across Jol’s brow.

  “You feel it now, don’t you?” he said. “The way your body finds leverage without thinking. The balance in your stance. The will behind the movement. The forge of your blood is not just metaphor, Jol. It is truth.”

  Jol nodded slowly, panting. He could feel the soreness settling into his limbs, but more than that – he felt alive. The pressure, the failure, the sting of every loss… it was fire. Fire that refined him.

  “I can do better,” he said.

  “You will do better,” Balthazar replied, his voice low but full of certainty. “But not through pride. Through patience. Through pressure. Ashes become stars only after they collapse, only after they fall inward. You are still falling.”

  Raela turned to him. “But you’re catching yourself faster each time.”

  Jol looked at her, a half-smile breaking the edge of his frustration. “Then let’s fall a little more.”

  Raela spun the wooden sword in her hand. “Good. I’m just getting started.”

  Balthazar moved to the edge of the training pit, his back turned to them, cloak rustling in the spring breeze. “Again.”

  And in the shadows of the coliseum, beneath the unmoving gaze of dragon statues and burning sky, the rhythm of ash and stars resumed.

  *****

  Further west, the wind howled over the Betscho Range as two majestic figures soared through the sky. Wings of sapphire and emerald cut through the clouds, leaving trails of glimmering aether. Aluvar and Dionur, in their dragon forms, flew side by side.

  “There,” Aluvar said mentally, pointing with his right hand at a clutter of houses below. “The village. The one where I was stationed two days ago.”

  They descended in spiraling formation, the wind rushing past scale and muscle. Below, the village in the Edolesar Valley was scarred but alive. Smoke curled from chimneys, and voices echoed as villagers and soldiers worked side by side to rebuild what had been taken.

  They landed at the edge of the settlement, their forms shifting gracefully into humanoid shape. Standing among the half-reconstructed ruins was a tal, broad-shouldered dragonkin clad in burnished bronze armor, etched with protective draconic sigils.

  "Knight Exemplar Dionur Hadashah. Knight Adept Aluvar Thridax," the man greeted them with a respectful nod. "Your descent was impressive. Welcome to Himnar."

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  Dionur stepped forward. "Knight Adept Wern Thassil, isn’t it? Part of the regional guardians? We’ve talked on the messaging crystal."

  "Aye. You can call me Wern," the man replied in a friendier manner. "I’m the provisional commander, for now. We killed the remaining corrupted beasts and stabilized the region. But there are... other remnants. Come."

  He led them past scaffolding and supply wagons, toward a tent pitched near the village square. Inside, on a scorched table, lay several singed scraps of cloth, preserved beneath a glass cover, observed quietly by a short man in light armor. A Supernatural by the looks of it.

  “This is Brez Flidax. He’s a lieutenant in the Supernatural Corps.”

  The half-bald man with brown eyes gave a small salute, then started explaining what they were looking at, just as they reached the table.

  "We found these near the site of the summoning. They resisted the flames of the portal."

  Aluvar stepped closer, brow furrowing. "These survived the blaze?"

  "Too sturdy for normal fabric," Wern affirmed. "They looked... wrong."

  “We’ve waited for you to do the mending ritual,” Brez added. “To see them as they are and then…”

  His eyes flashed with light.

  “...as they were.”

  He started manipulating the cloth pieces, and they floated in the air. Then, light flared softly over the scraps, and the threads shimmered, partially restoring themselves. They were nearly back to their original quality, lying on the table again.

  Brez’s eyes narrowed while the three dragonkin’s widened.

  “But that can’t be…” Aluvar looked in disbelief as he grabbed one of the pieces of fabric.

  "Verdant Ember fiber. There's no mistaking it," Brez’s voice was almost a whisper, as the light left his eyes.

  “That’s quite… concerning,” Dionur said in a severe tone.

  A small pause, then the Knight Exemplar turned toward Wern.

  “Knight Adept Thassil, we need these. They are of essential interest for our investigation.”

  “Understood. We will place them under a preservation spell, although I don’t think it’s needed. But just to be safe. Brez, do your magic.”

  The Supernatural nodded, then, as he started manipulating the pieces of clothing again, Aluvar and Dionur took a few steps outside the tent.

  The dragonkin of lightning affinity continued whispering in a serious tone.

  “If they have access to the Dominion’s supply of rare materials, that means…”

  “We have one or more rats in our midst,” Dionur continued just as gravely, yet soflty. “Big ones, by the look of it. Especially if they managed to get their hands on Verdant Ember.”

  The light in the tent dimmed again, and Wern came out with all the pieces of fabric that now glowed faintly and were smoother to the touch. All were kept inside a small pouch.

  “Here,” the Knight Adept said.

  Dionur grabbed it and tied it to his back.

  “Thank you, Adept Thassil. Anything else we could learn that could be of assistance?”

  “Yes. The portal – we’ve discovered it wasn’t summoned like the usual rift gates we’ve seen. It tore through. Forced entry. A deep gash that hummed. Like the air was bleeding.”

  Aluvar and Dionur turned to him in unison, their expressions tightening.

  “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

  “It does,” Aluvar replied gravely. “A clean tear is typical of translocation magic. Nothing to do with the Veil. But a bleed suggests corruption—tampering with the Veil’s structure itself.”

  Wern nodded slowly, grateful that they understood. “When it opened, the land around it started withering. Grass turned to ash, trees bent away from it unnaturally. Animals… they fled long before it even formed.”

  Dionur’s voice dropped to a hush. "Where is it now? The site?"

  Wern turned and pointed beyond the trees. "In the Forest of the Soft Whispers. About five clicks southeast of here.”

  Aluvar’s expression darkened as memory struck him. “We were slightly in the forest, me and Knight Independent Raela Zahd, when we were attacked by a demon commander. So it makes sense.”

  “Aye. And we’ve checked the location. There was an old dais there, with drops of blood on it,” Wern said, glancing back at Brez. “Clearly a sacrifice.”

  “Was it…”

  Dionur’s words trailed off.

  “Aye. Human blood. The only type of sacrifice that can open a portal to… Infernum. Or at least that’s the only way we know of.”

  Aluvar looked confused but tried to make sense of the situation regardless.

  “We only know of a few dark, outlawed cults that did human sacrifices throughout history across Xael. But now they should be dead. The last recording was that of the Black Thorns, more than a century ago,” he added.

  “Well, here comes the interesting part,” Wern continued, his voice lower. “We found something else. Traces of blood, yes – but the magical residue... it matched that of a dragonkin. The one who summoned the portal used draconic magic.”

  “That’s…”

  “Impossible?” Wern cut Dionur off. “We thought so too. But Brez did the identification spell three times. Even if the energy became fainter after the first time, the signature remains. He rarely double-checks but never triple-checks. This time, we did it anyway because we could not believe it either.”

  Wern continued in a calculated tone.

  “It’s unmistakably dragonkin.”

  The two investigators stared at their dragonkin brother and then at each other, silence enveloping the air between them for a moment.

  “A rogue dragonkin? One that worships the demons?” Aluvar asked rhetorically.

  “Damned Dark Ones!” Dionur’s words cut through the air like steel.

  Aluvar turned toward Wern, realizing that what information he had to offer was already delivered to them.

  “We will report everything you’ve told us back to Fraviax. We need to hurry. Who knows how deep the corruption spreads?”

  A pause. Then he continued.

  “Thank you for your time, Wern. You did good.”

  “Thank you, Aluvar. May the Archlight watch over you two.”

  “And you.”

  And he extended a hand, which Wern shook sternly. Then the Knight Adept grabbed Dionur’s hand in a sturdy shake as well.

  Immediately after, Aluvar activated the messaging crystal and recorded a message for Balthazar, who was not responding at the moment. He explained the situation with plentiful details, trying to be as thorough as possible. In the end, he let him know they were going toward the southwestern border, the only place where the Verdant Ember was cultivated in Zyvereth.

  They rapidly transformed back into their dragon forms, taking flight away from the plaza of Himnar.

  “It seems Balthazar was right,” Aluvar could not help but mention as they ascended toward the sky. “The threat looming over us is larger than we hoped it would be.”

  “We need to find this person. And his or her cult,” Dionur said with a determined look on his face. “We can’t let it spread through unspoiled souls and minds like the plague. To corrupt our world.”

  “We’ll do it. We’ll do our best… Archlight guide us.”

  *****

  Jol sat on the terrace of Balthazar’s villa, his usual blacksmithing attire being replaced by soft clothes. Stars glimmered above like scattered diamonds on velvet. He could hear the distant hum of the capital city, muted and peaceful for once.

  He leaned forward, arms on the stone railing, breath fogging in the cold air. His muscles ached, and his hands were bruised, but he welcomed the pain. It grounded him. Made him feel real.

  Raela approached, her boots silent against the polished stone. "Mind if I join you?"

  He shook his head. She stood beside him in silence for a while.

  "You did well today," she said eventually.

  "I lost."

  "True, you bravely died many times,” she said jokingly, pulling a short smile from his lips. “But losing is part of learning. You’ll beat me eventually."

  He smiled faintly. "Don’t be so sure."

  They shared a quiet laugh.

  Then, she asked another question after a while.

  “How are you accommodating?”

  “Got to admit, pretty well. I’m gaining tons of experience. It’s been just a few days, and I feel the bruises of a thousand lifetimes,” and then he laughed slightly, followed by her. “But in all seriousness, it’s been surprisingly easy, in a sense. I’m getting used to this much faster than expected. So I can’t complain.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” she smiled sincerely. “I’ll tell Balthazar to crank up the training.”

  Jol put his hands on his head in an overdramatic fashion.

  “Oh no! What have I done? Now I’ll have to sneak back to Himnar. Only a million guards between here and there. I’m sure I’ll be able to do it…”

  And they laughed again.

  "Do you miss it? Your old life?" she asked softly.

  Jol didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the stars, searching them as if they held answers. "I… Yes. In a sense.”

  Then he looked down.

  “I miss my mother.”

  Jol did not have to say anything, but Raela understood. The fact that she could not help but say it out loud, well… Nobody’s perfect.

  “She died in the attack, didn’t she?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught. A sudden wave of emotion overwhelmed him – the scarred body, the menacing creatures, the lack of time, the helplessness. The dreaded helplessness…

  His throat tightened. Eyes burned.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  And then, like a furious storm, he retreated into the mansion.

  “And here it is. The ‘Raela Special.’”

  She thought to herself, banging a fist on her forehead a few times.

  “ ‘Course you had to say something retarded and hurtful…”

  She placed her head on her knees.

  “Sometimes you can be as subtle as a brick. You absolute dumbass.”

  And she remained there, not knowing what to do.