The Vallis safehouse hummed with uneasy warmth, its ancient stone walls absorbing the tension that crackled through the air. The scent of charred wood from the hearth mixed with the lingering aroma of steeped herbs, a feeble attempt to mask the undercurrent of fear. Shadows flickered against the worn tapestries, thrown askew by the firelight, making the sigils woven into their fabric seem to twist and shift.

  Adrian’s presence—a storm cloaked in silk—dominated the gathering, his every movement carrying the weight of expectation. His dark robes, embroidered with silver-threaded runes, barely whispered as he moved, yet his very breath seemed to press against the room like an impending tempest. His fingers, long and deliberate, swirled duskwine in a crystal goblet, the deep violet liquid catching the fire’s glow like molten amethyst.

  Amara slept fitfully in Mara’s arms, her small frame curled into the folds of her mother’s cloak. Her silk-wrapped palm twitched, and every so often, a faint shimmer of light pulsed through the cloth, betraying the unrest within her Mark. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her brow, her dark lashes fluttering as though caught in a nightmare she could not escape.

  Adrian’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade unsheathed. “Your progress is… adequate.”

  The casual condescension in his tone made Liam’s stomach twist. The boy sat stiffly, his small hands clenched in his lap, trying not to fidget under his grandfather’s scrutiny. The safehouse had always felt like a haven, but tonight, under Adrian’s gaze, the familiar walls seemed to close in, suffocating rather than sheltering.

  Adrian’s sharp gaze settled on Elric, as if peeling back layers of flesh to examine the marrow beneath. “But you coddle him, Elric. Potential untested is potential wasted.”

  Lilia’s dagger hand twitched, her calloused fingers curling around the hilt at her hip. “He’s twelve.”

  “And already a liability.” Adrian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. The firelight caught the edges of his face, turning the fine lines of his age into something almost sculpted—worn by time but unyielding. “The Inquisition’s seers track power, not age. That little display last week—”

  “An accident,” Mara cut in, her voice smooth but brittle, her healing bracelet glowing faintly at her wrist. The pulsing light bathed her hands in an ethereal glow, a soft contrast to the hard set of her jaw. “He misjudged a ward’s resonance.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Adrian scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Misjudged?” He leaned forward slightly, and for a moment, Liam swore the air grew heavier. “He nearly unstitched the forest’s ley matrix. Amara’s Mark flared for hours.”

  Liam flinched. He hadn’t known.

  Elric’s chair creaked as he shifted, his knuckles white against the arms of his seat. The worn leather of his coat groaned with the movement, a quiet protest against the tension coiling in his muscles. “What do you want, Father?”

  Adrian set down his goblet with deliberate care. The crystal rang softly as it met the polished wood of the table, the sound impossibly loud in the hush that followed. “The Obsidian Spire. A month’s training under my direct supervision.”

  The silence that followed felt vast, a void stretching between them, filled only with the crackle of the fire and the distant howling of the wind outside.

  Mara’s composure cracked, her grip tightening around Amara as though to shield her from the mere mention of that place. “That place warps minds. Even veterans—”

  “—emerge stronger,” Adrian interrupted, his voice like iron wrapped in silk. He leaned back, the fire painting sharp relief across his features. “The Spire’s trials forged me. They’ll temper Liam’s chaos into a weapon.”

  Liam’s heart pounded against his ribs, a caged bird in a storm. He had heard whispers of the Spire, of the things it did to those who entered. The tests. The pain. The breaking and remaking.

  Amara whimpered, her Mark pulsing through the silk in a rhythmic throb, like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen. Liam reached for her instinctively, but Adrian’s cane struck the space between them, its polished ebony surface catching the light.

  “Choose, grandson.” Adrian’s voice held neither warmth nor cruelty—only expectation. “Hide here until the Inquisition burns your sister alive… or claim the power to protect her.”

  The fire spat embers like accusing eyes, each spark a fleeting reminder of what was at stake.

  Lilia’s breath hitched, a barely audible sound, but it carried weight. Her hand was still on her dagger, the knuckles ghostly white. “He’s a child.”

  Adrian’s gaze flicked to her, something like amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “He won’t be for long.”

  Liam’s throat felt tight, his body frozen in place. He thought of the Spire’s cold walls, the stories of screams swallowed by stone, the warriors who returned—not whole, but sharpened like honed steel. He thought of Amara, her small fingers curling unconsciously in sleep, her breath shallow but steady.

  Elric exhaled slowly, the weight of decades pressing into the lines of his face. “Liam, look at me.”

  Liam did, meeting his father’s eyes—tired, worn, but steady. “This isn’t a choice to make lightly.”

  “No,” Adrian agreed, “but it is one that must be made.”

  Liam’s hands trembled. He balled them into fists to hide it, his nails pressing crescents into his palms. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with expectation. He wished, more than anything, that someone would tell him what to do.

  But no one did.

  The fire crackled, the wind howled, and the weight of legacy settled upon his shoulders.