The wind over Isola Krein carried no warmth that morning.
It moved low across the stone flats, slipping through cracks in the land like a whisper that had forgotten who first spoke it. The sky was pale—neither bright nor dim—caught in that uncomfortable stillness before something decides to happen.
Christine stood at the edge of the plateau, arms folded, eyes distant.
Nyk sat on a broken slab of rock behind her, rolling a cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. He hadn't smoked in days. Not because he didn't want to—but because Azelar had asked him, once, quietly:
"If you need something to calm your mind, is it still your mind?"
So the cigarette stayed unlit.
Azelar watched them both.
Not like a master watching students.
Like a man watching the only people left who mattered to him.
"Today," he said at last, breaking the silence, "we stop talking about power."
Christine glanced back. "That's new."
Azelar gave a faint smile. "Power is loud. What wins battles is what happens before you use it."
He stepped forward, bare feet crunching against the stone, and with a slow gesture, the world shifted.
The plateau changed.
The land folded inward, terrain reshaping into a fractured settlement—half-ruined structures, broken walls, narrow paths. And scattered throughout it—
People.
Illusions at first glance. But not empty ones.
They breathed. They cried. They moved with the weight of something that could be lost.
Christine felt it immediately.
Her spine stiffened. "These aren't just constructs."
"No," Azelar said. "They are projections built from consequence."
Nyk frowned. "Meaning?"
"Every decision you make," Azelar said, "creates ripples. These are what stand inside them."
A horn sounded.
From the far end of the settlement, enemies emerged—monsters, but different from the ones they'd faced before. Leaner. Smarter. Moving with coordination.
Christine's instincts screamed engage.
She raised her hand—
—and Azelar's voice cut through her like ice.
"Stop."
She froze.
One of the creatures lunged toward a group of civilians.
Christine's heart slammed. "They're going to die!"
"Yes," Azelar said calmly. "Unless you choose."
Nyk moved without thinking, stepping forward—
—and the ground beneath him collapsed.
He dropped hard into a pit, slamming into stone, breath knocked from his lungs.
Azelar didn't look at him.
"Nyk," he said, "you reacted. Why?"
Nyk coughed, pushing himself up. "Because they were in danger."
"And now?" Azelar asked.
Nyk looked around.
The pit walls were closing slowly. Not crushing—but limiting. A cage of pressure and time.
"I'm stuck," he muttered.
Christine clenched her fists. "This is unfair."
Azelar finally turned to her.
"War is unfair," he said. "Power doesn't change that. It only gives you more ways to be wrong."
Another scream echoed from the settlement.
Christine's breathing grew shallow.
"If I judge the monsters," she said, "some civilians will still die."
"Yes."
"If I try to save everyone—"
"You will save no one," Azelar finished.
The creatures adapted again, splitting paths, forcing the choice wider.
Christine closed her eyes.
Think.
She remembered Azelar's first rule.
Power without restraint is just another form of fear.
She opened her eyes.
And didn't fire.
Instead, she spoke.
Her voice carried—not loud, but absolute.
"Move."
The civilians ran.
Not chaotically. Not blindly.
Their paths bent—subtle shifts in terrain, doors that hadn't been there opening just enough. Not salvation.
But chance.
Christine turned then—judgment sharp, precise.
Two monsters fell.
Not erased.
Redirected.
Their aggression folded inward, instincts collapsing into confusion.
Still—three civilians didn't make it.
Christine felt it like a blade sliding between her ribs.
She staggered back.
Nyk finally broke free of the pit, climbing out just as the last illusion faded.
The plateau returned to stone.
Silence fell heavy.
Christine's hands shook.
"I could've done more," she whispered.
"Yes," Azelar said.
She looked at him sharply. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"
Azelar met her gaze, eyes older than mountains.
"And if you had," he continued, "you would've paid somewhere else."
They sat later, away from the training ground, near a cliff overlooking endless stone and sky.
Christine hadn't spoken.
Nyk watched her, jaw tight.
Azelar poured tea from a simple kettle, steam curling upward.
"Do you know," he said quietly, "why most beings who reach your level go mad?"
Christine didn't answer.
"They believe power absolves them," Azelar continued. "That if they can save everyone, they must. And when they fail—even once—they shatter."
Nyk frowned. "But if you don't try—"
"You still pay," Azelar said. "Just differently."
He stared out over the land.
"My family," he said, voice steady but distant, "died because I chose the battlefield over the home."
Christine looked up sharply.
"I told myself it was necessary. That stopping the first awakeners mattered more."
His hands tightened around the cup.
"And it did," he admitted. "To the world."
He exhaled slowly.
"But not to the children who waited for me to come back."
Silence.
Nyk swallowed. "You never told us that."
Azelar gave a small, humorless smile. "Teachers don't like to admit they're still paying for old choices."
Christine's voice was barely audible. "So what's the right answer?"
Azelar looked at her then—really looked.
"There isn't one."
She flinched.
"There is only cause," he said gently, "and consequence. And your willingness to bear both."
The final trial came without warning.
Azelar didn't reshape the land.
Didn't summon enemies.
He simply said, "Protect me."
Christine blinked. "What?"
Azelar sat down, cross-legged, closed his eyes.
"I will not defend myself," he said. "Whatever comes—handle it."
The pressure hit instantly.
Not physical.
Mental.
The world bent—not against them, but toward Azelar.
Christine felt it.
If he died here—if anything happened to him—
Something in her chest twisted painfully.
Nyk felt it too.
"Damn it," he muttered. "That's dirty."
Azelar smiled faintly. "Attachment sharpens the blade."
From the horizon, threats emerged—not monsters this time, but possibilities.
Collapsing terrain. Spatial fractures. A storm of ruinous probability.
Christine raised her hand—
—and stopped.
If she judged too hard, the backlash would tear the land apart.
If Nyk erased too much, the aftershock would erase her.
They looked at each other.
No words.
Just trust.
Christine acted first—light judgment, precise, guiding destruction away rather than ending it.
Nyk followed—not erasing outcomes, but narrowing them, funneling chaos into survivable paths.
They moved around Azelar like orbiting bodies, choices stacking, consequences compounding.
It hurt.
Mentally. Emotionally.
Christine felt the strain of every decision.
Nyk tasted blood where he'd bitten through his lip.
But Azelar sat there—still, calm.
Protected.
When it ended, both of them collapsed to their knees.
Breathing hard.
Azelar opened his eyes.
And for the first time—
He bowed his head to them.
"You protected," he said, voice thick with something unspoken, "not because you were told to… but because you chose to."
Christine laughed weakly. "You're… insane, you know that?"
He chuckled softly. "Erethon used to say the same."
Nyk wiped his mouth. "So… are we done for today?"
Azelar stood, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
"No," he said quietly.
"Today, you became my family."
The wind rose again over Isola Krein.
And far away—deep in the Endless Abyss—
Darkness listened.