"I have reforged you in my light as one forges a broken blade. You will say that my heat burns too fiercely and I cannot fault you for it. But the metal that complains of the fire will remain soft and will break at the first blow."

  — Words of Solar?s, VII

  Revealed to Thérion the Veiled, Year 1 of the Endless Day

  It was a day like thousands of others: burning, suffocating, laden with grains of sand that the arid wind projected like so many tiny blades against the skin. Siegfried remained motionless on his stone bench, eyes riveted to the cracked ground, lulled by the sweet melodious voice of an old High-Fire cleric who chanted the Canticles of the Sun. The sacred verses reverberated in echo against the circular walls of the small courtyard.

  The knight's gaze slowly drifted toward Juuh'ma, whose massive silhouette stood to his right. True to himself, the colossus sat perfectly upright, hands wisely placed on his knees, absorbed by the old man's words. It was then that a furtive caress brushed his hand—a fragile and warm palm that came to rest against his, while silky curls tickled his shoulder. A light breath carried to his ears a barely audible murmur.

  "Tell me, Sieg... Do you think one day we'll have the chance to see the stars? Like in the blessed times of the Age of Harmony?"

  He pivoted to the left and his heart warmed instantly. Er? was there, radiant despite the harshness of their existence. Her golden hair danced in the torrid breeze, framing a face where shone that unalterable joy that characterized her. Her smile illuminated the young man's wounded soul like a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds. She continued, in an even lower voice to escape the cleric's vigilance.

  "So, bro? Do you think we'll see them or not? Will the stars shine again for us?"

  The answer died on Siegfried's lips. The temple bells began to chime, signaling the end of the teaching and the advent of the Cycle of Rest. The cleric interrupted his sacred incantations and raised his emaciated arms toward the solar star that reigned at the zenith.

  "My dear children, do not forget what I am about to tell you: tomorrow the Choice of Fire will be accomplished."

  He then crossed them behind his back, his voice taking on solemn accents.

  "The chosen ones who receive divine favor will finally be able to rise above their condition and abandon the Outskirts for a new existence. Let distracted minds be warned: present yourselves tomorrow, before the fourth clarity sounds, at the gates of the Colosseum."

  He paused, sweeping his gaze over his young disciples.

  "We will meet again tomorrow, my children. May your steps carry you safely to your homes. May the Lord watch over you."

  Juuh'ma, Siegfried and his sister left the Temple of the Northern Light—the immense edifice where the youth of the Outskirts from the four northern zones came to study—to return home hastily. Within one clarity, no one should be found outside anymore. Curfew was approaching.

  At the crossroads of the main arteries, where the clan territories met, the colossus saluted his two friends with a nod and turned west. Siegfried and his sister headed east, toward the Northeast II zone, territory of the Vaan Hart. Juuh'ma would have to cross the zones of the Di Fiorenze and the Valcroix before reaching the Stoneskin quarter in Northwest I.

  The two Vaan Harts returned home, where no one awaited them. Their parents had been found dead a few months earlier, at the bottom of a dark and stinking alley, their bodies stripped of the little they had. Siegfried placed his hand on the handle of the family door—the only thing their parents had been able to leave them in death—and opened it.

  The light changed.

  Instead of the familiar darkness of their home, a blinding clarity enveloped him. The cracked wood of the threshold transformed into polished marble. The confined air of the house gave way to the immensity of the open sky. And when his eyes adjusted, he realized he no longer stood before his door.

  He was at the center of the Colosseum.

  Around him pressed all the fifteen-year-old children from the Outskirts. Juuh'ma and his sister stood at his sides, as if they had always been there. Far before them, in an open box located in the stands, stood the twelve Watchers of the Zenith, aligned. Their robe of immaculate white covered their armor, and a helmet adorned with a sun forged on the front face hid their faces. No one knew the faces concealed under these helmets, but all knew they constituted the highest authority of the kingdom after King Hagen III.

  According to the Scriptures, Solar?s, the God of Suns, chose twelve of his most valiant knights before joining the firmament. To each, He entrusted a sacred mission: watch over the lands of Istalith until their last breath, and train a disciple capable of continuing this eternal guard awaiting his return—and that of Nihibell, Goddess of Night, who would inevitably come. Among the ten thousand warriors, He designated Rhagel, Vega, Aldeba?ran, Antares, Shaüla, ?lnath, Hamal, Weze?n, Sargas, Capella, Baltegha and Regulus. For a millennium, these Twelve maintained peace. And today, new disciples would be chosen.

  Among the hundreds of children present, twelve would be chosen by the Watchers and two hundred others would have the chance to leave the Outskirts to become apprentices in a whole variety of trades useful to the Index or other places in the kingdom of Solheim: healers, fishermen, blacksmiths, herbalists, cooks... Those who by misfortune would not be selected would then have only two choices: die in the Outskirts or become knights.

  Thus, so that the identity of the twelve future Watchers would remain unknown, Rhagel advanced to the edge of the box and began to call the first of the two hundred twelve children, according to the advice of the High-Fire clerics. Then, the disciples would be chosen among them in the greatest secrecy.

  "...Moh'am N'zonki! Mina Gragat! Loh?k Na?gaz! Ph?li Bradd! Er? Vaan Hart! Benuit de Millen! Kaarl Shneüder..." he proclaimed in a voice that carried to the last ranks.

  The name resonated like a sentence.

  Siegfried slowly turned his head toward his sister. Their gazes met—and in this suspended instant, everything was said without a word being spoken. They knew.

  In Er?'s eyes, he saw neither surprise nor resignation. Just that fierce gleam he knew by heart, the one that said I will not leave without a fight. And in his, she must have read the same silent promise: not without me.

  The Vaan Hart didn't move. Names continued to be called around her, but she remained planted there, arms crossed.

  "Er? Vaan Hart, present yourself," Rhagel repeated, this time with a hint of impatience in his mechanical voice.

  She raised her chin, her clear voice resonating in the arena despite her frail stature.

  "No."

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Never had anyone refused the Choice of Fire.

  Without thinking, Siegfried took a step forward and planted himself before his sister, shoulders squared, chin raised in the same gesture of obstinate defiance.

  "I won't leave you," he said in a low but firm voice.

  His eyes lit up—that brilliant green, almost luminescent, characteristic of the Vaan Hart in their moments of intense emotion. A green that betrayed the storm that rumbled within him.

  Sounds of heavy footsteps were heard. Not the clinking of armor—something duller, more rhythmic. The pounding of high boots striking the sand.

  Six N'zonki knights approached, bare-chested, their massive bodies covered with ritual scars. Their leather boots rose to the knees, and each wore the white sacred cloth of Solheim's knights in his own way: one had tied it as a turban around his head, another had wrapped it around his waist like a ceremonial belt, a third wore it as a shoulder sash. Gold jewelry adorned their arms, their necks, their ears—thick bracelets, braided necklaces, rings that glittered under the implacable sun. No visible weapons. No armor. Just mountains of muscle and flesh, and in their gazes, something cold, calculated.

  The first colossus extended his hand toward Er? but her twin pushed it back violently, his eyes blazing with that incandescent green. Juuh'ma moved immediately, coming to position himself on the other side of Er?, forming with him a rampart of flesh and bone. He said nothing—he had never needed words—but his massive stature and clenched fists spoke for him.

  This was their last resistance.

  Three soldiers charged Siegfried simultaneously. The first blow in the stomach doubled him over. The second, a brutal strike behind the neck, sent him crashing face-first into the ground. Before he could even catch his breath, a foot sank violently between his shoulder blades, cutting off his breathing. Another N'zonki twisted his arm behind his back with excessive, almost cruel force.

  The burning sand scraped his cheek. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

  A few steps away, an imposing N'zonki approached Juuh'ma, arms crossed.

  "Flat on your stomach, young brother," he asked him with firmness but without hostility. Almost respectfully.

  Juuh'ma didn't move.

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  The ebony-skinned knight sighed. With a gesture, two other colossi approached. They didn't need to strike—they simply placed their massive hands on his shoulders and pushed. The combined weight of the two giants forced even the colossus to bend. He resisted another moment, trembling under the effort, then finally collapsed to his knees before being pinned to the ground, face-first.

  Siegfried felt the boot sink even harder between his shoulder blades. A searing pain tore a cry from him. He tried to get up, the stubbornness of the Vaan Hart flowing through his veins like fire, but a massive hand grabbed his hair to brutally lift his head. Just enough for a cold blade to rest against his throat.

  "Stop, Vaan Hart," he spat, the name of his clan pronounced like an insult.

  His voice was charged with cold hatred.

  "Stop or they'll give us the order to kill you. And you'll never see her again."

  The words sank in like a dagger while another soldier grabbed Er? by the arm and lifted her like a common sack. She struggled, scratched, screamed.

  "SIIIIIIIEG!"

  Her cry tore through the air, raw, desperate, visceral. It was no longer the melodious tone she had at the temple—it was the howl of a wounded animal, of a sister torn from her twin.

  Siegfried, his face crushed against the burning sand, couldn't see her. He could only hear her. The sound of her footsteps moving away. The pounding of boots. And her voice, again and again.

  "SIIIIIIIEG!"

  He tried one last time to get up despite the blade against his throat, despite the weight on his back. Because he was a Vaan Hart. Because yielding was not in his blood. Because it was his sister.

  "SIIIIIIIEG!"

  Further. Weaker. Er?'s cry moved away, increasingly faint, until a dull sound—that of the massive doors of the Colosseum closing—came to stifle it definitively.

  Then there was silence.

  A silence heavier than all the stones in the world.

  Siegfried remained there, nailed to the ground, face in the dust, with in his eyes still that incandescent green that refused to die—because a Vaan Hart didn't cry. A Vaan Hart didn't yield. Even when half his soul was torn away.

  "ER?!" he shouted, waking with a start, his body drenched in sweat, his heart still beating from the scene he had just relived.

  But all this was nothing more than a dream—the same nightmare that had haunted him for ten years, a memory that refused to let itself be forgotten. For since that sad day, never again did he see his sister—the one he had sworn to protect.

  The bells of the Silent Clarity thundered twice in the frozen sky in a dull rumble that seemed to spring from the very foundations of Solheim, rolling through the ochre ramparts like a contained storm. Their echo vibrated in the burning air, an implacable call that tore the knights from their rest under the Sun. The light, hard and pitiless, infiltrated through the cracks in the iron shutters, tracing lines of pale gold on the worn stone floor. He sat up on his straw mattress, the rough sheet sliding over his bare torso, his muscles still tense from a night without respite. The sticky heat of the room clung to his skin, a constant presence under the luminous dome.

  His bare feet struck the cold floor as he crossed the cramped space in a few determined steps. He stopped before the shutters, his calloused fingers brushing the rusted metal, then opened them with a brusque gesture. The hinges creaked, a shrill cry tearing through the still air. Outside, the Outskirts extended like a gaping wound: a chaos of collapsed roofs and tortuous alleys, drowned in a mist of acrid smoke that rose lazily toward the white sky, surrounded by a desert or rather a dead land as far as the eye could see, as dangerous as it was hot.

  Looking at the horizon he had never been able to tread for a brief moment, Siegfried joined his hands, his fingers interlacing forcefully, and bowed his head, his brown locks falling on his forehead, and prayed.

  "Solar?s, eternal light, guardian of Solheim and its children, guide me on this endless day. Lend me the strength to wield the sword, the clarity to follow your path, and the will to embody your justice. Protect those who walk under your brilliance, chase away the shadow that gnaws at my heart, and make me the instrument of your glory, for now and forever."

  He stopped, his breath suspended in the heavy air, then added.

  "May your radiance burn without failing, and may my steps never stray. May you see me and guide the path you have traced for me."

  His eyes scrutinized the white sky for a moment, seeking a sign in this immutable brilliance, before he turned away, jaw clenched. This prayer was his rock, a ritual anchored in him since he had taken his oath to the Order, a bond with Solar?s that tolerated no deviation. He put on his training outfit—a worn gray tunic, stained with old sweat, and pants reinforced at the knees, stiffened by ochre dust—then grabbed his knight's equipment. He then slipped his sword under his arm, the cold metal brushing his skin like an old promise.

  He went out into the corridor of his quarters, a wide gallery of raw stone lit by immense stained glass windows depicting one of the battles of the Ten Thousand. His brother waited there, leaning against a wall, his massive silhouette filling the space like a sentinel carved from the hardest wood. His gold jewelry and chains wrapped around his forearms gleamed softly, catching the colored light from the stained glass. He raised his head at his approach and saw in the Vaan Hart's eyes that same flame he had on that day when his sister was taken from him. That same determination he had in his gaze when they promised each other to become strong enough to be promoted to knights, not only to protect the city and its Outskirts but to find her, no matter where she might be. Understanding that he must have dreamed of the day of the Choice of Fire, as he so often dreamed of it himself, he decided to say nothing, knowing the pain that gnawed at his brother. He too had that same pain within him. Both loved her, but not with the same love.

  Arriving in the Index's basement, Siegfried and Juuh'ma emerged in the training room, a vast rectangle carved into the bowels of Solheim, a sanctuary of sand and steel. An odor of wet earth rose around them, contrasting with the dry heat of the surface. The floor extended in a sea of ochre sand, trodden by generations of warriors, crunching under their steps like an echo of past battles.

  Massive pillars, sculpted from black stone veined with gray, rose to a high ceiling, striped with cracks where drops of water sometimes fell with a dull plop. On each pillar, polished mirrors were embedded in the stone. The rays ricocheted from surface to surface, multiplying into golden beams that bathed the room in a warm and moving clarity.

  Along the walls, racks aligned—dulled swords marked with blows, worn wooden maces, lances with chipped points—their dark silhouettes gleaming under the coppery reflections of the reflected light. On the ceiling, targets hung from oxidized chains, swaying slightly, their surfaces riddled with notches casting dancing shadows on the walls. An odor of heated metal and perspiration saturated the space, welcoming Siegfried each morning since his oath to the Solar Guard.

  Stopping at the threshold, the knight placed his equipment near one of the racks, the metal clanging against the worn wood. He advanced into the ochre sand, Juuh'ma at his side, his chains tinkling like a murmur in the wind. The young archer, already present, was suspended from a raised post, his child's body defying gravity. Near a pillar, the Noohrikane made her daggers dance in silence. Siegfried nodded in their direction, and the Stoneskin raised a heavy hand.

  "R?chard, Mei," he greeted them. "May Solar?s guide your blades and your arrows."

  Jumping to the ground without the slightest sound, the boy sketched him a fleeting smile while Mei inclined her head without even stopping.

  Siegfried drew his training sword, a long two-handed blade dulled but heavy, its worn handle fitting his palms. He walked toward a fixed target, his boots sinking into the sand, and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. The breath entered his lungs, cold and controlled, then escaped in a fine line. When he reopened them, he struck. The blade whistled, struck the wood with glacial precision, each blow provoking a dull rumble in the room. He pivoted, dodged a phantom enemy, his movements fluid but brutal, a dance of iron where each step betrayed a contained savagery. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into the sand, and his muscles rolled under his tunic, taut like the strings of a bow ready to break.

  The N'zonki moved away toward a corner where stone blocks waited. He adjusted his chains, then crouched before a massive block. His large hands wrapped around the stone, and he pulled. The muscles of his arms and back swelled, and the block left the ground with a dull crack. He held it for a moment, motionless, then gently set it down, the sand trembling under the impact. Several times, he repeated.

  On his side, the young archer leaped onto a series of raised posts, his feet finding each grip with feline agility. Reaching the top, he notched an arrow, the bow vibrating between his fine hands. The string snapped, the arrow split the air and struck a moving target with a sharp crack.

  As for her, the specter chained combinations with her twin daggers near her pillar. She struck a wooden dummy, her blades tracing precise arcs, then retreated and executed a backward roll while throwing a dagger, the blade embedding itself in the center.

  Still on his target, the Vaan Hart adjusted his grip on the sword. The blade struck down, faster, harder, the wood screaming under the assault. He dodged, pivoted, struck again and again, his body in movement like a beast tracking its prey, his gestures calm but charged with cold savagery.

  After finishing his strengthening exercise until his muscles trembled, Juuh'ma moved aside and settled at the back of the room. There, he took an enormous round stone and pressed it against his chest to execute his series of squats. Once finished, he threw the stone ball aside and spread his legs even wider, bending his knees in a wide and stable pose—the horseman's pose. Dripping with sweat, he removed his enormous chains from his forearms to place them on his thighs and he shouted.

  "Sieg! When you're done, take the wooden mace and come here."

  Without further ado, the knight sheathed his sword while heading toward one of the racks to seize a heavy mace. A wide smile appeared on his face because striking a wooden dummy was certainly good, but what could be better than training with a Stoneskin whose resistance defied understanding itself? He then planted himself facing his brother, raised the weapon, and struck his shoulder with force. The wood clapped against the skin, but Juuh'ma didn't waver.

  "Is that really all you have, my brother?" he asked, a mocking smile on his lips.

  The gleam in the knight's eyes changed abruptly, as if nothing human could emerge from this body anymore. This sensation, he knew it all too well. So he gritted his teeth and contracted his muscles as hard as he could to be ready to withstand the deluge of blows that was about to rain down on him.

  Facing him, it was no longer the Vaan Hart's usual aura, but that of a fierce and cold beast hunting its prey, ready to kill at any moment, a beast that no other would want to cross. This is what characterized Siegfried when his concentration reached its peak, an aura so frightening and menacing that the colossus's hairs stood up on his arms. Lady Hülda, their mentor, had seen in him an ashwolf and this is exactly what stood facing the Stoneskin. A beast with sharp fangs that would take advantage of the slightest flaw to kill its prey.

  After a deep breath, the knight brought down the mace while releasing his breath. The attack was launched with such violence that the impact raised the sand around the two brothers. Juuh'ma took it, motionless. For a time that seemed far too long for the titan, his brother struck. Blows so precise and fierce that the knotty wood, however solid, ended up breaking.

  Siegfried placed the broken mace near the rack then walked toward the central arena where there was a circle of sand surrounded by worn stands.

  "Ready, my brother?" he asked.

  "Always," he replied, facing him at the edge of the circle.

  As he entered the arena, the Vaan Hart pointed his longsword in Juuh'ma's direction.

  "Just know one thing, my brother. Today, I win," he announced with confidence.

  A dull rumble escaped from the N'zonki's throat.

  "Hmphhh."

  Like a taütaurus ready to charge, Juuh'ma blew violently through his nostrils, then dug his boots into the packed earth, anchoring all his weight there. With a slow and provocative gesture, he signaled him to approach.

  "Talking serves no purpose. So save your energy and approach!"