The walk back to the encampment was a blur of grey and brown.
The Dimensional Rift was an ugly place. It wasn't a forest; it was a graveyard of one. The trees here didn't sway; they stood like charred skeletons, their branches clawing at the heavy, stagnant air. The ground was scorched, covered in a layer of ash that puffed up with every heavy step Ronan took.
He felt hollowed out.
His right hand was wrapped in bandages infused with Mr. Alaric's golden Aether, but the throbbing hadn't stopped. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat—a dull, sickening ache that shot up to his elbow.
But the physical pain was distant. What troubled him was the memory of the white flame.
"It wasn't rage," Ronan thought, his eyes fixed on the cracked earth beneath his boots. "When people lose control, they scream. They lash out. But I didn't feel angry. I felt… efficient."
He looked at his uninjured left hand, clenching it into a fist. "I wanted to kill her. What was that? If that's not rage, then what is that?"
"Ronan?"
The soft voice pulled him from the abyss. He blinked, looking down to find Elenor peering up at him. She looked small against the backdrop of the towering, dead trees.
"We're here," she said quietly.
They had drifted away from the main camp, instinctively gravitating toward a secluded clearing near the edge of the safe zone. It was a patch of dirt surrounded by fallen logs—the same spot where Ronan and Orin often practised their clone skirmishes away from prying eyes.
Ronan sat heavily on the largest log, letting out a breath that rattled in his chest. Orin and Tavin took the log opposite him, while Elenor hesitated for a moment before sitting on Ronan's right side.
The silence stretched, heavy and thick.
"So," Elenor started, her voice tight. She kicked at the dirt, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a nervous tremor. "Are you going to tell me now? Or are you going to treat me like a kid again?"
Ronan leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "Elenor..."
"No!" She turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading. She gripped the fabric of his sleeve, her knuckles turning white. "You said you would tell me. And I want to hear now."
Ronan opened his eyes. He looked at Orin.
Orin's face was grim. The usually laid-back boy looked older in the dim light of the rift. He gave a slight, resigned nod.
"It wasn't a natural disaster," Ronan said, his voice raspy. "In Willowshade... it was people."
Elenor froze. "People?"
"Mages," Orin corrected, his voice dropping an octave. "Rogue cultivators. They weren't killing for territory or food. They were harvesting."
"Harvesting?" Tavin asked, his brow furrowed. "You mean looting?"
"No," Ronan said. He looked at his bandaged hand. "They were harvesting cores. From living people."
Elenor covered her mouth, the colour draining from her face.
"Orin and I... we tried to heal them," Ronan continued, his gaze a thousand yards away. "Mr. Alden held the barrier, and we ran. But the wounds..." He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "They were precise. Surgical. We would close one wound, and they would die from internal bleeding."
"I held a man," Orin whispered, staring at his own hands. "He was grabbing my shirt so hard his fingernails tore through the fabric. He didn't want to die. I poured every ounce of Aether I had into him. But it was like pouring water into a cracked cup. He just... emptied out."
The wind howled through the dead trees, a mournful sound that seemed to carry the echoes of the story. Elenor was trembling. Tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks without a sound.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
Ronan simply lifted his left hand and gently patted her hair. "It's over, Elenor. We survived."
She snuggled closer, burying her face in his shoulder, oblivious to the pain she was causing him. To her, he was just her big brother—the immovable object that kept the world at bay.
Orin looked out at the horizon, where the sun was beginning to bleed into the jagged treeline. His expression was uncharacteristically solemn.
"I don't get it," Orin murmured, breaking the silence. "Why are they so hungry for power? Even if they had a reason... why hurt innocent people like that?"
The question hung in the heavy air.
"Because power demands fuel," Tavin said softly, staring at the ground. "And usually, that fuel is other people."
Elenor tightened her grip on Ronan's shirt. "I hate this," she mumbled into his chest. "I hate the Academy. I hate Serenwyn."
Ronan's hand paused in her hair. "Since when?"
"Since we left Sylvara," she whispered. "Back home... I was just Elenor. But here? In the main family?" Her voice turned bitter. "I'm not Elenor. I'm 'The Asset.' Every dinner, every meeting, it's the same. 'Do not disappoint the Flamecrest name.'"
Tavin let out a long, heavy sigh. He picked up a twig and snapped it in half.
"I get it," Tavin said. "The Aldercrest main branch... It's a shark tank."
Ronan looked at the noble. "Even for you? You have God's Blessing."
"That makes it worse," Tavin said, tossing the broken twig into the darkness. "My parents in Sylvara... they raised me to be a good man. To protect people. But the elders in the capital? They don't see a person. They see a weapon of mass destruction with the 'Aldercrest' label on it. If I make friends, they investigate their lineage. If I fail a test, the stock of the entire family drops."
He looked at Ronan and Orin. "Why do you think I hang out with you guys? You're the only ones who don't look at me like a walking political treaty."
"Must be nice to be noticed," Orin muttered, a dry, cynical smirk touching his lips.
"The Viridions?" Ronan asked.
"The Viridions don't care about the average," Orin said, leaning back on the log. "Wind and Thunder. It's a strong combination, sure. But in a Great Family? It's common. I'm the third son of a branch family. I'm invisible. They sent me here hoping I'd either get strong enough to be a foot soldier or die quietly so they don't have to pay my tuition."
Orin looked at Elenor. "Consider yourself lucky, Elenor. Or unlucky. But at least they see you. The world is getting colder. If you aren't strong enough, you're just fuel for someone else's fire."
Elenor shivered. "Don't say that. You sound like the instructors."
"He's right, though," Ronan said.
The group went silent. Ronan looked at the three of them.
Tavin, the noble burdened by expectation. Orin, the cynic ignored by his blood. And Elenor, the child forced to grow up too fast because her talent was too dangerous.
And then there was him. Ronan. No family name. No status. Just an orphan from Sylvara with a dangerous secret.
"The main families... the politics... it's all just noise," Ronan said firmly.
Elenor looked up at him. "How can you say that? They control everything."
Ronan shifted, finally gently moving his injured arm to a more comfortable position as the pain became blinding. He looked Elenor in the eye, his expression softening.
"They control the world out there," Ronan said. "But they don't control us. Not here."
He looked at Tavin and Orin.
"We came from Sylvara. We survived Willowshade. We survived the Rift." Ronan's voice grew harder, carrying a trace of the steel he had shown in the trial. "Let them play their games. Let them compare us. It doesn't matter."
He rested his hand on Elenor's head again, ruffling her hair messily until she cracked a small, watery smile.
"Don't let them scare you. Elenor. You have Tavin. You have Orin."
"And you?" she asked.
Ronan looked at the scorched horizon, where the sun was finally dipping below the jagged treeline, plunging the rift into true darkness.
"I'm not going anywhere," Ronan said. "You focus on getting strong. I'll handle the rest. Anyone who tries to use you... or hurt you..."
His eyes darkened for a split second, the memory of the white flame flickering in his mind.
"...will have to go through me."
As the sun dipped lower, casting long, distorted shadows across the scorched earth, they finally stood up to leave. Tavin took the lead, with Elenor walking beside him, their voices low as they headed back toward the camp lights.
Ronan and Orin trailed a few paces behind.
"Ronan," Orin asked, his voice low. "Do you know what you just said?"
Ronan glanced at him. "What?"
"If Elenor is used by the Flamecrest family... if they try to force her into something without her consent... will you really intervene?" Orin's eyes were sharp, searching.
"I would try my best to help her," Ronan answered without hesitation.
"Even going against those powerful families? The Main Branches?"
Ronan nodded. "Yes."
Orin stared at him for a second, then suddenly slapped Ronan hard on the back.
Wham.
The impact jarred Ronan's entire body. The vibration travelled straight down his arm to his injured hand. He almost forgot to breathe for a few seconds, his vision swimming with white spots of pain.
"I am envious of your courage," Orin said with a wry smile, walking past him to catch up with the others.