Charred banners fluttered limply in the smoke-choked hall. The once-proud marble floor of the audience chamber was cracked and scorched, covered with soot and the bootprints of soldiers.
Duke Roderic Evermoon, clad in silver armor dulled by ash, stood before the half-lted throne. His hands were folded behind him, calm despite the destruction of his city’s lower ring.
Across from him stood High Commander Valthir, cloaked in the white and crimson of the Order of Light. His eyes burned with righteous fury.
"You allowed a monster to walk freely within your walls," Valthir said coldly, pacing. "A threat that destroyed a full battalion of your own n, and killed Captain Leoric."
"I allowed nothing," the Duke replied smoothly. "But I see opportunity where others see failure."
Valthir’s gaze narrowed. "Opportunity?"
"Three contenders entered that tournant: a god-touched shadow mage, a fire-wielding prodigy now dead, and a royal brat from the capital. The chaos rely... removed the unpredictable piece."
"You’ll forgive if I don’t bow to your political gas, Duke."
"Oh, but you will." Roderic turned, letting the firelight gleam off his scarred face. "Because now the world knows Adrien is dangerous. And fear, Commander, is leverage."
He gestured toward a desk where bounty papers had already been stamped and sealed with his personal sigil.
> WANTED – ADRIEN OF NO HOUSE
Alias: "Shadowborn" / "The God-Eyed One"
Cris: Treason, assassination, unlawful magic, mass destruction
Reward: 500 gold crowns alive – 250 dead.
Commander Valthir looked down at the parchnt. His lip curled.
"And if the Order finds him first?"
The Duke smiled thinly. "Then pray they don’t learn what he truly is."
Two figures rode under the morning sun, cloaked in dust-colored travel cloaks. One had a heavy axe strapped across his back, the other carried a longsword wrapped in cloth. Both wore nondescript masks: plain brown leather, stitched and cracked from wear.
Adrien adjusted his hood and leaned forward slightly in the saddle. "Do you think I look suspicious?"
Fenrik gave him a deadpan look. "We both look suspicious."
"Well, good," Adrien muttered. "I’d hate to stand out."
They crested a hill, and the vast white walls of Highwall Capital ca into view in the distance — the heart of the Northern Province. Ho to nobles, scholars, bounty hunters, and worse.
"Capital’s got ears in every shadow," Fenrik said. "And probably posters of your face in every tavern."
"Then it’s a good thing I’m ridiculously charming when I’m not wanted for cris against humanity."
Nyxaris padded silently beside the horses, flickering between solid and mist. Its eyes scanned everything. Always watching.
Adrien looked ahead. "We’ll get in, Fenrik. We’ll lay low. Find a way to resurrect Damien. Or at least find out what the hell’s happening to ."
Fenrik nodded once. "And when they find us?"
Adrien’s voice turned low, grim, sharp.
"Then I’ll remind them why they should have let burn."
The gates of Highwall lood tall, sunlit and humming with traffic. Traders, rcenaries, pilgrims — all passed beneath the iron archways. No one questioned two masked travelers on horseback. Not yet.
Adrien tugged his hood lower and grumbled, "Do you think they check faces with magic? I really hate magic that checks faces."
Fenrik rolled his eyes. "Just act poor and unimportant. Nobles don’t look twice at the ones who don’t shine."
Nyxaris, now shrunk slightly into a sleeker form, padded ahead like a large stray hound. Its obsidian fur flickered subtly, enough to pass as a rare desert breed.
They passed the guards.
No one stopped them.
Adrien exhaled. "I could kiss you, Fenrik."
"I’d rather fight a troll."
anwhile... far away in the ruins of Dawnfire
The lower ring was still a smoking graveyard of shattered hos and scorched earth.
At the center of the devastation, Judicator Elroth, wrapped in a coat of white-and-gold scale, stepped off his celestial steed. His face was hidden behind a radiant mask, featureless but for the holy sigil that glowed faintly at its center.
Behind him, Order inquisitors sifted through rubble and charred bones, scanning for residues of forbidden power.
Elroth knelt, placing a hand on the scorched ground. A shimr of light pulsed outward, revealing burnt echoes of shadow magic in spectral blue outlines.
"Shadow magic... but it’s old. Not taught in over a thousand years."
He stood. "He’s not just a rogue mage."
An Inquisitor behind him spoke up. "What should we tell the Citadel, sir?"
Elroth’s voice was calm and terrifying. "That the blood of Ardonis runs again."
Adrien and Fenrik had taken refuge in a quiet tavern tucked in the artisan quarter. The place stank of ad and boiled roots, but no one asked nas.
Night fell.
In the dim candlelight, Fenrik sharpened his axe while Adrien traced a rough map of the capital on the table with his finger.
"We’ll need contacts," Fenrik said. "Information. Maybe soone who can falsify nas."
Adrien sipped from a mug. "And maybe soone who knows about... resurrection. I haven’t given up on Damien."
A barkeep passed by, and Adrien offered a crooked smile. "You know anyone who brings back dead fire-wielding tournant heroes?"
The barkeep blinked, laughed awkwardly, and kept walking.
"Too soon?" Adrien said, sipping again.
Fenrik sighed. "You’re terrible at being subtle."
"That’s what they said right before I blew up a quarter of Dawnfire."
He didn’t laugh at his own joke.
Far away, Judicator Elroth watched a flickering illusion cast from a silver mirror — the last known mont of Adrien entering Highwall.
He turned to his second-in-command.
"Send word to all cloaked agents. Search every tavern, every gate, every corner of the scholar’s row. Find him before the city bleeds again."
The Order’s hunt had begun.
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