Rain fell in sheets over the forest — cold, relentless, beating against cages of woven bone.
Cassiel stirred, coughing up dirt, his wrists bound with glowing vine-ropes that pulsed faintly with Veil energy.
All around him, the others — a thousand broken students — lay in the mud, silent, shivering beneath the storm.
Drums echoed from beyond the treeline, deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat from the earth itself.
Torches flared in the distance, casting red light on faces painted in ash and gold.
The Eastern Veilward tribe stood in ranks — tanned, scarred, eyes bright with something between reverence and rage.
Teramon tried to stand but a guard slammed a spear butt into his back, forcing him down.
He spat blood, glaring at the towering figures above.
One of them — a woman with braids threaded in bone — leaned close and whispered, "Children of the Fallen Sun."
The tanned female guard leaned close to her companion, voice low but urgent.
"They say the Western Veilward tribe caught two intruders… from the outside world," she whispered.
Her fingers traced the rough sketch she had drawn — jagged lines of hair, faint marks where the Veil shimmered.
The other guard's eyes widened as she took the sketch, lips parting slightly.
"They… they're alive?" she murmured, voice tinged with disbelief.
The sketch trembled in her hands, a faint glow seeming to pulse from the page itself.
From the back of the group, whispers spread like wildfire among the cadets.
"They thought… they thought both of them died," one murmured, eyes wide and hollow from fatigue.
Others gasped softly, shuffling closer to see the sketch, the stormlight catching their pale, gaunt faces.
Kael's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as he stared down at the sketch.
The lines of his face were grim, almost carved from stone, as if the very sight of Gareth and Ariela stirred something deep within.
He didn't speak — his silence carried the weight of old fury and unbroken resolve.
Cassiel's expression, by contrast, brightened immediately.
A small, defiant smile broke across his blood-streaked face, lighting the exhaustion etched into his features.
He tilted his head toward Teramon, who wiped the blood from his mouth and managed a faint grin in return.
The chains around their wrists rattled sharply as the guards dragged them to their feet.
All at once, the mass of cadets rose — tired, malnourished, pale, but still breathing, still alive.
The sound of hundreds of shackled bodies scraping stone echoed faintly, a dull, rhythmic drum in the hall.
Janus walked at the front of the line, the faintest glimmer of joy in his eyes.
Even as he smiled, it was somber, restrained — the weight of survival pressing down on every inch of his body.
Around him, the others trudged in formation, each step a testament to the endless hunger, cold, and despair they had endured.
The expanse of cadets stretched far into the hall, a human river of black, gold, and muted steel.
Chains clinked, armor scraped, and faces turned skyward as the torchlight flickered along the length of the corridor.
Every cadet's chest rose with labored breaths, the sheer number of them — over a thousand — filling the hall with silent power and growing tension.
Cassiel walked with his head low, the chains digging into his wrists as mud splashed beneath his boots.
The rain had dulled to a mist, clinging to everything — his clothes, his hair, his lungs.
The forest whispered around them, endless and cruel, its silence heavier than any storm.
"It's been a week since we entered this cursed forest," he thought, eyes dull but burning within.
"For the past three days, we've walked west… into the unknown. No food. No rest. Just the sound of chains and dying breath."
Each step felt like walking through a dream made of ash — too real to escape, too dark to wake from.
"The tribes call this place the Veil's Spine Forest," Cassiel continued, glancing at the shadows moving between the trees.
"They say no sun dares to rise here… that the light itself dies before touching the soil."
He tightened his fists, ignoring the sting of blood. "Maybe they're right."
Around him, hundreds stumbled — hollow-eyed, skin pale beneath grime.
Teramon limped near the front, silent but steady, his shoulders straight despite the whip marks.
Kael moved like a phantom, every glance sharp, dangerous, as if waiting for something to break.
Cassiel exhaled slowly, breath misting in the cold air.
"If Gareth's alive…" his lips curved faintly, almost a smirk.
"…then maybe this cursed march isn't the end after all."
Teramon's gaze drifted upward, scanning the trees as they thinned with every step.
The air grew warmer, brighter — shafts of sunlight piercing through the canopy like spears of gold.
He blinked against the glare, the sudden change burning against eyes long used to shadow.
"Light…?" he muttered under his breath, squinting as the forest began to fall away.
Ahead, the path widened — roots giving way to packed soil, mud hardening beneath their feet.
For the first time in days, he felt the heat of the sun brush his skin.
The others stirred in confusion, raising trembling hands to shield their eyes.
After endless nights beneath storms and mist, the light felt almost blinding, almost cruel.
Then, as the trees opened fully, the world unfolded before them.
A vast expanse stretched across the horizon — a city rising from the wilds like a memory of a forgotten age.
Wooden houses leaned against cliffs, ropes and bridges connecting towers carved from sun-stone.
Smoke curled from forges and hearths, mingling with the golden haze that blanketed the valley.
Teramon froze, breath caught in his throat as he took it all in — the movement, the noise, the impossible scale.
Children ran between the narrow streets; traders shouted from balconies of hanging wood and woven hide.
Every structure looked alive — built not for comfort, but for survival.
From the line ahead, a tanned guard turned back with a crooked smile, voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Welcome," he said, tone sharp and mocking, "to the City of the East."
The students said nothing — only the wind answered, carrying dust, heat, and the weight of what awaited them next.
The streets narrowed as they were herded deeper into the city, spears at their backs and chains biting skin.
Everywhere Teramon looked, faces turned — all tanned like sun-scorched bronze, eyes sharp as glass.
Children peeked from balconies of rope and timber, their gazes cutting through the air like quiet judgment.
Some looked at the cadets with disgust, lips curling as if the outsiders carried disease.
Others stared with faint pity — a flicker of sympathy buried beneath fear and pride.
Most didn't care at all, turning away, going about their lives as if a thousand chained strangers were nothing.
Cassiel caught a child's gaze — a boy no older than ten — before the boy spat in the dirt and vanished into an alley.
He said nothing, only clenched his jaw as the guards barked orders, driving them onward through the crowded plaza.
Above, banners of gold and crimson swayed in the wind, their symbols strange, ancient, alive.
Then the city parted, revealing a structure so vast it seemed carved from the mountain itself.
Black stone walls rose like a fortress, towers wound with glowing chains that pulsed faintly in the sun.
The gates loomed open — wide enough to swallow armies.
"The Eastern Bastion," one guard muttered with grim pride.
The others shoved the cadets forward, the sound of chains and armor echoing through the valley.
Even the sunlight dimmed near the entrance, swallowed by the shadow of the colossal prison.
Inside, the air was cold, damp — thick with iron and breath.
Cells lined the walls like honeycomb, built high enough to hold hundreds, maybe thousands.
For every scream that echoed in the dark, another voice fell silent.
Cassiel stumbled as they reached the main chamber, the guards tearing open the gates.
With a cruel shove, they threw the cadets inside — one by one, crashing against the stone floor.
Chains rattled, dust rose, and the massive doors slammed shut with a sound that swallowed all hope.
The silence didn't last long.
It broke slowly — first a whisper, then another, spreading through the cramped cell like ripples in still water.
Dozens of voices rose, uneven, trembling, too tired to shout but too restless to stay quiet.
Some murmured in fear, clutching their chains, eyes darting to the guards outside the bars.
Others just stared at the floor, their whispers fading into heavy, hopeless breathing.
A few — the ones still clinging to pride — spoke softly but with steel in their tone.
"This can't be it," one muttered. "We've survived worse."
"Shut up," another hissed. "You'll get us all killed."
But their words only stirred more tension, a low thrum of defiance and despair mixing in the damp air.
Cassiel leaned against the wall, listening — the murmurs weaving like a storm of ghosts.
He could hear courage, doubt, anger, faith — every emotion bleeding into the same uncertain rhythm.
Somewhere in the noise, someone began to pray.
Kael said nothing, his eyes fixed on the door, cold and calculating.
Teramon's jaw flexed as he studied the cell — counting guards, measuring the walls, thinking.
And Janus… he just smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
A tanned guard pushed the heavy cell door open, shadow cutting across the damp floor.
He barked, voice flat and tired, "Bring me your representative — one who will speak for the lot."
Silence folded over the cadets like a blanket, heavier than the chains at their wrists.
Fear moved through them quick as fever; no one wanted to step forward.
Heads ducked, eyes dropped — a thousand small refusals in one room.
A single finger trembled in the back and then pointed, clumsy and loud.
"Janus," someone spat, voice thin with spite and relief.
Others echoed it, quick as a contagion: "Let him. He can't even use the Veil — he should die first."
A chorus rose, bitter and raw: "No. He can't be trusted."
Conflict snapped like a struck wire; two boys shoved, curses spat, hands clenched at collars.
"You traitors," another hissed, voice shaking, "you'd hand us over to save your skin."
The guard watched, arms folded, eyes like flint, not moving to stop the heat of it.
Janus froze, breath shallow, cheeks pale beneath the soot and grime.
For a heartbeat he looked every way but at the door, as if the world might swallow him whole.
Then his gaze found Teramon and Cassiel — tired, steady, waiting.
Teramon's hand tightened into a fist and Cassiel's mouth quirked, small and fierce.
They stepped close as chain-rattled murmurs circled them, neither loud nor showy, just two anchors.
Janus swallowed, the trembling in his fingers steadying into something like resolve.
He reached out, clumsy and sure, and bumped his fist against Teramon's.
Then the same with Cassiel — three clinks of knuckles that sounded almost like a promise.
Faces in the cell watched, some softening, others sneering, but Janus breathed deeper.
He straightened, shoulders set despite the weight of the eyes on him, and walked forward.
Each step echoed, small and certain, across the stone to where the guard waited.
The hall seemed to hold its breath as the mock-inventor took the role no one else dared.
The storm came without warning.
Thunder rolled through the Eastern city like a beast waking from sleep — windows rattled, banners tore loose from their poles.
Rain came down in sheets, flooding the stone streets and turning every torch into a hiss of smoke.
Janus stood in the guard's hall, wrists bound, drenched from head to toe.
The air was thick with wet iron and smoke from dying fires; the wooden beams above groaned under the weight of water.
Guards moved like shadows — tanned, armored, faces streaked with rain and mud.
Lightning cracked, flashing across the carved walls.
Every pillar was marked with sigils — faded, old, etched deep into the stone like scars from another age.
Through the gaps in the roof, water dripped down in steady rhythm, striking the floor beside him.
"Move," a voice barked.
Rough hands grabbed Janus by the shoulder, dragging him from the hall and into the downpour.
The rain was so heavy it blurred the city — roofs slanted with wood and hide, fires guttering in clay pits.
He was marched through narrow streets, past staring faces lit by flashes of lightning.
Children watched from doorways, their tanned faces unreadable — some pitying, some cold, some simply curious.
The storm swallowed every sound except the slap of boots and the endless hiss of rain.
Up ahead, a massive shape rose through the mist — a fortress carved into black stone, its walls gleaming with runoff.
Lightning illuminated spires shaped like spears and a massive sigil burned faintly on its gates — a serpent coiled around a rising sun.
"Welcome," one guard muttered darkly, "to the Hall of the East."
Inside, the hall was vast — an ocean of stone and firelight.
Dripping guards lined the walls, their shadows stretching long beneath hanging braziers that burned blue and gold.
The air smelled of ash, rain, and old incense.
At the far end sat a man on a raised throne carved from volcanic rock.
His skin was darkened by sun and battle, his eyes pale and sharp like cracked glass.
Across his chest hung a necklace of stormglass shards, glowing faintly with the pulse of Veil energy.
He leaned forward as Janus was thrown to his knees before him.
The air itself seemed to hum around him, the storm outside bending to his rhythm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was deep — like thunder that chose to speak in words.
"I am Elder Thalos Veynar," he said, each syllable slow, resonant, commanding.
"Warden of the Eastern Storm and Keeper of the Old Flame."
His gaze dropped to Janus, unflinching.
"The Western Elder found his storm," Thalos murmured. "Now the East brings its spark."
He rose from the throne, the storm flashing behind him through the high windows.
"And perhaps…" he said softly, "the world begins to shift again."
Thalos descended the stone steps — slow, deliberate — the sound of his boots echoing through the storm-drowned hall.
Rain drummed faintly against the high glass, every flash of lightning painting his form in gold and shadow.
Janus didn't move, his knees pressing into the slick stone floor, his breath shallow and uneven.
The Elder stopped before him, close enough that Janus could see the faint cracks in the stormglass pendant on his chest — like veins of lightning frozen in time.
Without a word, Thalos drew his blade.
It wasn't ornate — it was raw, weathered steel, forged for purpose, not beauty.
The sword's edge gleamed as he raised it, droplets running down its surface like veins of light.
He tilted it slightly, letting the thunder outside answer the motion — a flash, a roar, then silence.
Janus felt the cold touch of metal against his neck.
The blade pressed down — not enough to cut, but enough to make his pulse thrum like a drum beneath it.
Thalos' voice dropped to a near whisper, heavy with storm and judgment.
"Tell me," he said, eyes burning like distant lightning.
"Are you worthy of the East… or will the storm wash you away?"
The thunder rolled once more — deep, distant, like the world itself waiting for his answer.
And beneath it all, Janus raised his head — trembling, soaked, defiant — as the chapter ended in silence.