The wind was sharp the morning they prepared to leave the village. Marcel stood by the broken fence near the eastern path, his hand pressed over the mark on his palm. It pulsed—not painfully, but insistently, like a heartbeat not his own. The shard whispered to him sometimes now. Not words, exactly. Just pulls. Urges. Echoes of forgotten will.
Tarin approached with their travel packs slung over his shoulder, eyes drifting toward Marcel's hand. "Still burning?"
Marcel nodded. "It doesn't hurt. But it won't stop."
Tarin's voice dropped. "You sure it's safe to wait before ranking?"
"No," Marcel said. "But we need to be ready for what happens after."
Their plan was clear. Head to Mireholt, the fortified county seat governed by Elder Vess, and confirm their ranks at the Guild's artifact hall. There, the shard would be evaluated, along with whatever resided in Lira and Tarin.
Inside the house, Lira tightened her cloak, eyes drifting to Veyla and Emberjaw resting outside. The stone beast's tail flicked slowly as if sensing the tension.
"I hate this," she whispered. "Not knowing what comes next."
"You're not alone," Veyla said. "But we go together. That's something."
Marcel caught that as he reentered. "That's everything."
He'd once thought rising meant rising alone. But solitude invited madness. And now, more than ever, he understood the importance of those beside him. Tarin, bold and loyal. Lira, quiet but iron-willed. Veyla, strange and scarred by fire. Emberjaw, their silent sentinel. This was his team—even if the path led through fire.
He remembered the story Elder Varn had told in whispers last night, it was like a dream perhaps a vision.
"Calen Dros," the elder had said, voice brittle. "He was a chosen like you, from the fifth domain. Blessed by a shard that burned with midnight flame. He rose fast. Too fast. Broke every limit, skipped trials. They called him a prodigy."
"What happened?" Marcel had asked.
The old man's eyes had gone distant. "The shard devoured him. Or maybe... he let it. Power that comes too easily takes more than it gives. Last I heard, he walks the wastes now. Laughing at ghosts."
Marcel never met Calen Dros. But the name lodged in his chest like a warning.
The system might offer strength, but he would not let it rewrite him. Not like that.
He'd find a way to grow—without losing himself.
Beyond that, finances weighed on them. Their family's modest farm hadn't sold crops in months. Their parents had left behind no vaults or guild shares. Just whispers, half-maps, and fractured memories. In Nareth's economic structure—where empires ruled through gold, land, and power—they were considered below peasant class. Not even registered citizens of the greater state.
The coin they carried now was barely enough for one evaluation. Tarin had bartered repairs for the wagon in exchange for manual labor. Veyla had sold one of her relic fragments in a quiet trade at the edge of the village. They scraped together what they could.
They traveled in silence that day. Through wooded paths and cracked stone roads until the silhouette of Mireholt rose through the mists. Walls shaped like jagged teeth. Towers pulsing with wards.
Before they entered, Marcel paused at the ridge.
"I don't want to be ruled by the system," he said. "Not completely."
Veyla tilted her head. "It's already inside you."
"I know," he said. "But I'll learn to grow without it, too. Or I'll end like Calen."
Her eyes flickered. Respect, maybe. Or surprise. But she didn't ask.
That night, as the city lights glowed below them, Elder Thorne stood in a glade far away. He watched the children, silently.
"They're moving," he murmured. "Good."
He spoke for the first time since coming to the ninth domain.
Like a whisper drifting from a water. "Will they find him?" he thought.
"They're already restless."
The forest bent slightly as if listening. The Elder turned and vanished, robes sweeping mist in his wake. Silently.
In Mireholt, as Marcel looked to the darkened skyline, a pressure curled inside his chest. A whisper not from the shard. A sense. Foreboding. Like something buried was about to rise.
He didn't know what. But he knew this: the days ahead would be darker. The choices harder. And some victories would taste like ash.
But he isn't alone.
Not this time, not never.
At least that's what he'd love to believe.
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A/N:
Hey my lovely readers,
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