Toradol did not feel the same.

  Sei noticed it the moment he stepped into the courtyard.

  The city was still standing. The walls still intact. People still moved through the stone paths and half-repaired arches like they always had—but something in the air had shifted. Not fear exactly.

  Expectation.

  Conversation thinned as he passed. Not stopped. Softened. Like voices didn’t want to be caught saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  He felt Eva at his side, close enough that her presence grounded him. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

  They weren’t alone.

  Civilians lingered near the edges of the square. Soldiers rested hands on spear hafts without realizing they were doing it. A few guild members stood together, arms crossed, eyes sharp and measuring.

  Rumors had outrun truth.

  “He’s the one from Greymark.”“They said he brought someone back.”“That’s not healing.”

  Sei’s jaw tightened.

  Before the weight of it could crush him, a familiar voice cut through the murmur.

  “Let him breathe.”

  Councilor Brannic Vale stepped forward.

  No cloak. No hood. No distance.

  Just a man in plain civic robes, weathered face calm but intent, placing himself—not between Sei and the crowd—but beside him.

  Sei recognized the voice instantly.

  The one that had spoken to him before departure. The one that hadn’t sounded afraid.

  Brannic didn’t look at the crowd when he spoke next. He looked at Sei.

  “You don’t owe anyone explanations you’re not ready to give,” he said quietly. “But they’re listening now. That should count for something.”

  Sei exhaled slowly.

  Then he stepped forward.

  The movement was small—but it stilled the square.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Sei said.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  His voice didn’t shake. That surprised him.

  “I know people are scared. I know words are spreading faster than facts.”

  A murmur rippled through the onlookers.

  Sei lifted his gaze, meeting faces instead of avoiding them.

  “At Greymark, people were dying,” he continued. “Some already had. Whatever you want to call what I did—healing, magic, mistake—I acted because not acting meant more bodies on the ground.”

  He paused.

  “No one should be blamed for being afraid,” he said. “But fear doesn’t get to decide who lives and who doesn’t.”

  Silence followed.

  Not approval. Not condemnation.

  Consideration.

  Brannic inclined his head once—just enough to acknowledge the moment—and then turned.

  “This way,” he said.

  The council chamber doors were open.

  And this time, the council was not hidden.

  Marshal Durn Halbrecht stood tall at the far end of the chamber, broad shoulders squared, dragonborn scales catching the light like burnished steel. His presence alone carried the weight of military authority.

  Inquisitor Kaelen Rhyse stood to one side, long ears angled slightly back, eyes sharp and calculating. She watched Sei the way one watched a volatile variable—neither hostile nor trusting.

  Archivist Liora Venn hovered near the record tables, hands clasped tight around a stack of parchment, eyes flicking between Sei and the elders as if already tracking consequences she didn’t want to write down.

  Elder Maerwyn Aelthiryn stood apart.

  Still. Silent. Watching.

  The doors closed.

  Marshal Durn spoke first.

  “Greymark is now a precedent,” he said. “Whatever happened there will be repeated—by imitators, by enemies, by those who believe power invites power.”

  Inquisitor Rhyse followed smoothly.

  “There is overlap,” she said. “Between restorative magic and necromantic domains. That overlap cannot be ignored. Observation is no longer optional.”

  Brannic did not wait his turn.

  “What can’t be ignored,” he said sharply, “is that people lived who would not have otherwise.”

  Liora swallowed, then spoke softly.

  “The last summoning fractured the world because fear dictated response,” she said. “History does not look kindly on hesitation born from secrecy.”

  All eyes turned to Sei.

  This time, he didn’t look away.

  “If hiding what I can do causes another Greymark,” he said, voice steady, “then restraint is no longer restraint. It’s negligence.”

  The words landed hard.

  Eva felt it—he knew she did—even without looking at her.

  Marshal Durn’s jaw tightened. Rhyse’s ears twitched. Liora’s pen stilled mid-scratch.

  Elder Maerwyn finally spoke.

  “Fear made the last summoning a weapon,” she said calmly. “Choice will decide whether this one becomes a man.”

  Her gaze rested on Sei—not assessing, not judging.

  Acknowledging.

  The chamber fell silent.

  No verdict was delivered.

  None was needed.

  Later, as Sei stood at a high window overlooking the city, he watched people move through the streets below. Heard voices rise and fall. Felt the warmth stir faintly in his hands.

  He didn’t suppress it.

  Didn’t summon it either.

  He simply let it exist.

  If I’m going to be feared, he thought, it won’t be for what I hide.

  The city watched him now.

  And for the first time—

  He didn’t look away.