The attack came just before the second bell.
Kael had been drifting in that space between waking and sleeping, the bottle warm against his ribs, when the shift in the air snapped him upright.
Not sound.
Not sight.
Pressure.
Like the breath before a killing blow.
He rolled off the mat an instant before the door shattered inward.
Three figures burst through—robes dark, faces hidden, movements precise.
No shouting.
No warning.
Only violence.
The first threw a binding talisman.
Kael ducked.
The paper flared overhead, snapping against the stone wall in a flash of blue fire.
The second lunged with a chain—thin, black, writhing like a living thing.
Kael twisted, grabbed the edge of his cot, and threw it into the attacker's path.
The chain caught the wood, slicing through it like soft clay.
A third figure moved slower.
Hands weaving sigils through the air, preparing a deeper binding.
Kael didn't wait to find out what kind.
He sprinted for the window.
The second attacker was faster.
The chain whipped toward Kael's legs, hissing.
At the last instant, the bottle at Kael's side pulsed—sharp and bright.
The chain shuddered midair.
Not stopped.
Diverted.
It struck the floor inches from his heel.
Kael vaulted through the narrow window.
Glass and stone scraped his arms as he fell.
He hit the courtyard hard, rolling to absorb the impact.
Pain lanced through his shoulder.
Not broken.
Not yet.
He staggered upright.
The night was thick with mist and muffled alarms.
He ran.
Not for safety.
For space.
Behind him, footsteps pounded.
Gray Division operatives.
Trained.
Efficient.
Deadly.
They wouldn't call for help.
They didn't need to.
They intended to end this before anyone else noticed.
Kael ducked through side corridors, past the abandoned brewing chambers, into the lower herb gardens where the night fog coiled between ruined trellises.
Still the bottle pulsed.
Guiding him.
At the second switchback stair, two more figures waited.
Kael didn't stop.
He drew the old notched knife Sariel had given him.
Not a warrior's weapon.
Not a savior's relic.
Just a piece of sharpened defiance.
The first attacker lunged.
Kael sidestepped, slashing low.
The blade bit cloth, maybe flesh.
The figure hissed and stumbled back.
The second raised a hand—
—and the bottle flared.
A ripple of green-gold light burst outward.
Not blinding.
Not loud.
But heavy.
Like a weight dropped onto the soul.
Both attackers froze midmotion.
A single heartbeat of paralysis.
It was enough.
Kael shoved past them, feet skidding on moss-slick stone.
He didn't think.
Didn't plan.
Only moved.
Up.
Over.
Through.
A hand caught his cloak.
He twisted, slipped free, leaving the fabric torn and fluttering behind him.
A chain lashed toward his back.
The bottle pulsed again.
The chain veered off, striking harmlessly against the archway.
His lungs burned.
His vision narrowed.
But the path was there now.
Clear.
A crack between the old storehouses.
A forgotten servant's trail.
He dove into the gap, feeling stone scrape skin, feeling the night swallow him whole.
Footsteps faltered behind him.
The passage was too narrow for pursuit.
Too dark.
Too old.
Even the Hollow had forgotten it.
Kael stumbled forward, deeper into the forgotten veins of the mountain.
Only when he could no longer hear pursuit did he stop.
Collapse against the cold stone.
And breathe.
His shoulder throbbed.
His side burned.
The knife was still clutched in his hand, bloodied.
Not his blood.
Not yet.
The bottle rested warm against his chest.
Silent now.
Not asleep.
Not indifferent.
Present.
Waiting.
Kael closed his eyes.
Let the pain center him.
Let the fear sharpen him.
Let the certainty settle in his bones.
He was no longer a disciple of Verdant Hollow.
He was no longer a lost boy.
No longer a vessel waiting to be filled.
He was carrying something that changed the rules.
And now, the game had truly begun.