The next day, Zeron stood near the training hall, sweeping the cold stone floor. His small hands clutched the worn wooden shaft of the broom, its frayed bristles dragging dully across the surface. The rhythmic scrape of straw against stone echoed faintly through the vast chamber—steady, hollow, lonely.

  His thoughts drifted, heavier than the broom he carried. The sting of failure gnawed at him. He replayed the test in his mind—over and over. The void orb. The silence. Malgor’s eyes filled with something colder than disdain.

  “Why did I fail?” Zeron muttered. “Why am I such a disappointment?”

  The whisper barely escaped his lips, but the words struck harder than any blade.

  “No wonder my father sold me,” he added softly. The ache behind the words clung to his throat.

  His mother’s face rose in his mind again—pale, still, her lifeless body cradled in silence. Zeron squeezed his eyes shut, chest tightening. He leaned on the broom to stay upright, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.

  He was just starting to gather himself when laughter echoed from the corridor.

  A group of Sylvalis boys strode in—loud, confident, cruel. Their voices bounced off the stone, too sharp, too amused.

  “Look, look,” one of them said, grinning wide. He was tall and sharp-boned, with silver hair hanging over one eye like a curtain of frost. “It’s the half-breed. Couldn’t even pass the first test.”

  More laughter. Shadows stretched along the walls as they drew near. Zeron’s grip tightened on the broom. He turned his gaze downward and kept sweeping, hoping they’d walk past.

  They didn’t.

  “Imagine being Sylvalis and failing that badly,” another sneered. “Embarrassing.”

  Zeron said nothing. The words stung, but he was used to pain like this. It reminded him of his father—the same tone, the same poison. He buried it deep.

  “Oh, and get this,” the first boy said, his voice rising. “I heard his father sold him. You must be truly worthless for even your own father to throw you away.”

  The laughter turned meaner. Louder. Zeron’s knuckles whitened. He gripped the broom tighter, as if he could disappear into it, swallowed by the stone.

  “Pricks,” he whispered.

  The word was quiet. Almost swallowed.

  But one of them heard it.

  The laughter stopped. Heavy boots scraped against stone as the boy turned.

  “What’d you say?” he growled, stepping forward.

  Zeron froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  The boy shoved him hard.

  Zeron hit the floor with a sharp thud, the cold stone biting into his palms. He tried to push himself up, but the boy stepped in, looming over him.

  “Come on. Say it again. Say it to my face.”

  Zeron looked up, his wide eyes darting between them. Fear pulsed in his veins. His grip on the broom was gone—replaced by the tremble in his limbs.

  Then—

  “Hey!”

  The voice rang out, sharp as steel.

  All heads turned.

  A figure stepped from the shadows of the training area, boots echoing across the stone with unhurried confidence. Lucien strode into view, a wooden training sword slung over one shoulder. His snow-white hair clung damp to his brow, sweat gleaming on his skin. But his eyes—bright, piercing blue—burned with amusement.

  And something colder beneath.

  “Janine,” Lucien said lightly, like he was greeting a stray dog.

  Janine stiffened. “What do you want, Lucien?” he snapped—but his voice faltered on the edges.

  Lucien smirked. The look in his eyes was the look of a predator who knew the kill was already his.

  “Just wondering how someone like you got accepted here. Oh, right… I remember now.”

  He tilted his head in mock thoughtfulness.

  “Your parents were slaughtered when you were, what, four?”

  Janine’s fists clenched. “Shut—”

  “They killed your father first,” Lucien continued, his voice smooth. “And then they… well, you remember what they did to your mother before they finished her off.”

  “Shut up!” Janine roared, his voice cracking.

  Lucien didn’t blink. “And you just stood there an watched.”

  Janine surged forward a step, rage twisting his face.

  Lucien leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to a whisper edged with ice. “My father found you in a slave market, didn’t he? Sold off by strangers who didn’t even know your name.”

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  He let that hang for just a second—then drove the knife deeper.

  “At least Zeron had a father.”

  Janine froze. His breathing turned jagged. His friends shifted behind him, suddenly less sure.

  Lucien straightened again, eyes gleaming.

  “And now you’re here,” he said, loud enough for all of them to hear. “Trying to act tough. No family. No legacy. Just a scared little boy in a borrowed name.”

  “You better watch your mouth,” Janine growled, his voice shaking.

  Lucien grinned wider. “Or what?”

  He stepped closer, effortless. Dangerous.

  “What’re you going to do, Janine?” he asked, voice low and laced with challenge. “Fight me? Try and win? You’d lose before you blinked.”

  Janine’s eyes flicked to his friends—searching for support.

  One of them backed away, raising his hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m not fighting him.”

  The rest followed without a word, drifting back down the corridor like smoke in the wind.

  Janine was alone.

  His rage flickered—then collapsed under the weight of humiliation.

  “Fine,” he muttered. He turned, barking over his shoulder at no one in particular. “Let’s go.”

  His voice cracked on the last word.

  Lucien chuckled softly as Janine and his crew vanished down the corridor. Then he turned to Zeron, offering a hand.

  “They just needed a reality check,” he said, smirking.

  Zeron hesitated, then took it. Lucien pulled him to his feet with a practiced ease.

  “So,” Lucien said, sizing him up with sharp blue eyes, “you’re the one Malgor’s so scared of.”

  Zeron blinked. “He said that?”

  Lucien shrugged. “Not exactly. But he looked at you like a storm he couldn’t stop. Bad omen type.”

  Zeron’s gaze dropped. The memory of the test—the void orb, the visions, the shame—clung to him like wet cloth.

  “I don’t know why I failed,” he muttered.

  Lucien tilted his head, more thoughtful now. “The void orb doesn’t show failure. It shows… possibility. When I took it, it showed me becoming the next leader of the Shadow Blades.”

  Zeron looked up, surprised.

  “Malgor didn’t like that much,” Lucien added. “Probably because it meant I’d take the spot he wants his son to have.”

  “His son?” Zeron asked.

  Lucien nodded toward the corridor where Janine had vanished. “The one in the back. Scrawny. All bark.”

  Zeron frowned. “He’s going to be a Shadow Blade?”

  Lucien laughed. “Barely. Only thing he’s mastered is falling on his own blade. His shadow magic’s got all the strength of a wet candle.”

  Zeron chuckled—soft and involuntary.

  Lucien’s grin softened too. “So, you want to learn?”

  Zeron blinked. “Learn what?”

  “Shadowcraft. Genesis. How to move. How to fight. How to be one of us.”

  Zeron hesitated. “I’m not allowed.”

  Lucien leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Yeah. I know.”

  He winked.

  “That’s what makes it fun.”

  Before Zeron could argue, Lucien grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the training hall.

  “Come on. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  Alethar sat before the hearth, firelight flickering across his face—but the warmth didn’t reach him. Shadows danced along the walls, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the vision, on Malgor, on the storm that seemed to be gathering just beyond the edge of understanding.

  He stabbed the poker into the coals like a blade. Sparks shot upward like startled fireflies, but the tension coiled in his chest refused to break. With a low growl, he tossed the poker aside, snatched his cloak from the hook, and swung it over his shoulders in one sharp motion.

  "I need answers," he muttered.

  He stormed out, boots striking the stone with purpose, cloak billowing like a banner behind him. The halls were quiet at this hour—mercifully empty. Nothing but cold walls and torchlight to bear witness.

  He didn’t knock.

  The door to Malgor’s office creaked open beneath his palm, hinges groaning. He stepped through and let it slam shut behind him.

  Malgor didn’t look up at first. He was seated at his desk, glasses low on his nose, quill moving across parchment with mechanical precision.

  Alethar crossed the room in three long strides. His palms slammed down on the desk with a thunderous crack.

  "I need to know exactly what you saw."

  Malgor calmly set down the quill, removed his glasses, and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze was calm. Too calm.

  "Death," he said flatly. "I told you."

  Alethar’s jaw clenched. "Death and destruction. What exactly did you see?"

  Malgor rose, slowly, deliberately. He stood a full head taller than Alethar, and he made the height count. "Watch your tone, Alethar," he said, voice like cold iron. "Don’t forget who the leader is."

  Alethar didn’t back down. He pointed a finger inches from Malgor’s chin. "And don’t you forget who gave it up."

  They stared each other down, silence thick as frost. Then Malgor broke away, stepping to a cabinet lined with bottles. He poured amber liquid into two glasses.

  “I saw Sylvaliss,” Malgor said at last, his voice heavy. “Dying. Burning. Cleaved and torn apart like they were nothing.”

  Alethar’s expression hardened, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “And?”

  Malgor met his gaze, his voice a whisper. “And Malekith.”

  The name hung in the air like a curse. Alethar’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he forgot the glass in his hand.

  “You think Zeron has a connection to Malekith?” he asked, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

  “I don’t know,” Malgor admitted, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the swirling liquid in his glass. “But keeping that boy here… eventually, he will catch Malekith’s attention. And we both know how Malekith is.”

  Alethar’s hand drifted to his side instinctively, brushing against a faint scar beneath his tunic. A battle long ago, a memory that still haunted him.

  “So what if…” Alethar began hesitantly, “what if Zeron is the only one who can stop him? What if he’s meant to fight Malekith?”

  Malgor’s gaze sharpened. “You mean like Caelum?”

  Alethar’s jaw clenched. He didn’t speak—but the flicker in his eyes was answer enough.

  Malgor scoffed, setting his glass down with a sharp clink. “Don’t be foolish,” he said, his voice cold. He stepped around the desk, standing just inches from Alethar. “The void orb doesn’t create vague visions. It shows the truth. If we train Zeron, if we let him grow stronger, he’ll lead Malekith right to us. And when that happens…” He paused, his gaze darkening. “Malekith will finish what he started—he’ll wipe us out. Every last Sylvalis.”

  Alethar’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to believe that.”

  Malgor chuckled, a bitter sound. “Just like I didn’t want to believe the truth about your son?”

  Alethar gave a dry laugh, folding his arms. “Yeah. I just wonder when that’ll be.”

  “Well, it’ll be after my death—and only then,” Malgor said with a wry smile, swirling the drink in his hand.

  Alethar let out a small chuckle, but his tone shifted. “When he’s ready. He still has much to learn. Mastering Genesis without any cost to his soul makes him untouchable… and dangerous.”

  Malgor raised an eyebrow. “Untouchable, yes. But dangerous? That’s where you’ve lost me.”

  “You don’t see it?” Alethar asked, voice low and measured. “Because he feels no consequences from Genesis, he doesn’t understand restraint. The toll the rest of us feel forces caution. Lucien? He wields it like a toy. That kind of unchecked power breeds overconfidence.”

  Malgor leaned against the desk, setting his glass down. “You’re saying the Divine One’s greatest strength could become his weakness?”

  “I’m saying,” Alethar replied, stepping closer, “Lucien’s arrogance blinds him. Power isn’t invincibility. Even divinity has limits.”

  Malgor crossed his arms, gaze thoughtful. “You sound worried. You’ve always praised your son—called him the future of our people. What’s changed?”

  “Nothing,” Alethar said quietly. “Lucien’s extraordinary—and I’m proud. But he’s reckless. He charges forward without seeing the cliff. Genesis comes to him like breath, but he doesn’t feel the burn. Without pain, how does he learn humility? Caution?”

  The room held its breath.

  “You’re not wrong,” Malgor admitted after a long pause. “But you can’t leash him forever. Sooner or later, he’ll have to learn the line between confidence and recklessness himself.”

  Alethar’s eyes dropped to the fire. His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “And that’s what keeps me up at night.”