Morning reached Ignis softly.
Not as it did in the Lawless Lands, where dawn came like a blade—sharp, merciless, slicing through frost and bone—but as something gentler. A warmth that did not demand wakefulness, only invited it.
A thin ribbon of gold slipped through the narrow window of Krueger's home, brushing the stone walls and turning the dust in the air into drifting sparks. Somewhere nearby, metal clinked against ceramic. Oil hissed faintly. Spices bloomed into the room, rich and unfamiliar, carrying with them the promise of something rare.
Peace.
Krueger stood at the small kitchen hearth, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, humming a tune he barely remembered learning. He turned an egg with the edge of a wooden spatula, reached for a loaf of bread warming near the coals, and smiled to himself.
He expected footsteps.
A cautious shuffle. Reikika's polite knock on the table before sitting. Midarion's silent presence—already awake, already observing.
Instead, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Krueger paused. The pan sizzled unattended. He frowned, listening more carefully.
Nothing.
He wiped his hands on a cloth and crossed the short hall toward the sleeping area.
The room was empty.
The blankets were folded neatly. Cushions stacked. The space where two exhausted children should have been curled into sleep was cold, untouched.
Krueger's chest tightened.
"…No," he murmured.
He checked the guest room. The small bathing chamber. Even the storage alcove and the narrow roof stair, as if logic had momentarily abandoned him.
Nothing.
A familiar, unwelcome weight pressed into his ribs—old instincts, old fear.
They ran.
Or worse.
He grabbed his cloak and was halfway out the door before his mind could catch up with his feet.
The street beyond the threshold was washed in pale morning light, empty save for drifting steam from the canals and the distant call of a bell marking the hour.
Krueger scanned left.
Right.
Then—
At the far end of the lane, two figures emerged through the haze.
They moved slowly. Purposefully.
Sweat darkened their clothes. Dust clung to their boots. Their hair was damp, faces flushed, bodies carrying the unmistakable tension of exertion.
Midarion walked with his usual steady economy, breath heavy but controlled. Reikika followed half a step behind, cheeks red, shoulders rising and falling as she fought to keep pace.
They looked like they'd fought something.
Krueger stopped short.
Midarion noticed him first and raised a hand slightly, almost sheepish.
"Morning."
Reikika bowed reflexively, still catching her breath. "We… apologize for leaving without notice."
Krueger stared.
"…Where," he managed at last, "did you go?"
"Outside the walls," Midarion replied. "There's open ground past the eastern ridge. Quiet."
"We didn't want to wake you," Reikika added quickly. "Or your neighbors."
Krueger's mouth opened.
Closed.
"You left before dawn," he said slowly.
"Yes," they answered together.
"You trained?"
Reikika nodded. "We always do."
Midarion lifted his hand. For a brief second, faint threads of Cosmo shimmered between his fingers—almost invisible, like starlight caught in spider silk.
"I left a trail," he said calmly. "So we wouldn't get lost."
Krueger looked at them again.
Really looked.
Two children from Arechi. Bodies marked by survival, eyes shaped by vigilance. Rejected by the city the day before. Turned away, insulted, reduced to their origin.
And yet—waking before the sun to train as if failure were not an option.
As if rest were a luxury they could not afford.
Something in Krueger's chest tightened, sharp and unexpected.
"You two…" His voice broke before he could stop it. He exhaled and shook his head. "You're unbelievable."
Reikika blinked, uncertain. "Is… is that good?"
Krueger laughed suddenly—a real laugh, short and breathless. "It's very good. Stars above, get inside before you collapse."
Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a blanket.
They washed quickly, the water steaming against chilled skin, then followed Krueger into the kitchen. Sunlight pooled across the small round table. The walls were lined with practical things—pots polished by years of use, knives sharpened with care, shelves holding more memories than wealth.
Breakfast waited.
Eggs seasoned with herbs they didn't recognize. Roasted vegetables caramelized at the edges. Thick slices of bread still warm. Tea steaming gently. A small plate of fruit dusted lightly with sugar.
Midarion hesitated, standing as if unsure he was allowed to approach.
Reikika's eyes shone.
"Eat," Krueger said softly. "You've earned it."
They didn't need to be told twice.
Hunger—real hunger, sharpened by weeks of cold roads and empty nights—took over. They ate quickly at first, then more slowly, savoring each bite as if afraid it might vanish.
When the table was finally cleared, Krueger leaned back, stretching his shoulders.
"Well," he said, cracking his neck, "since I'm off duty today… and since you'll injure yourselves if you try training again…"
He crossed his arms, expression thoughtful.
"…I've decided to show you Ignis."
Reikika froze mid-sip. "…The real one?"
Midarion's brow furrowed. "We saw a lot yesterday."
Krueger smiled faintly. "You saw its walls. Today, you see its heart."
Ignis by day was something else entirely.
Children chased one another through floating fountains shaped like miniature suns, laughter echoing against stone. Market stalls shimmered beneath veils of heatlight, selling flame-crystals, dyed silks, spiced pastries glazed with molten sugar.
Performers danced atop platforms of heated air, sculpting firebirds that burst into sparks only to reform mid-flight.
Reikika gasped at everything.
Midarion watched in silence—analyzing, cautious, but undeniably drawn in.
Krueger bought them flame-sugar candies that melted warm on the tongue. Reikika adored them openly. Midarion pretended not to, then quietly accepted another when Krueger offered.
They wandered through a Kosmo art gallery where living light painted the walls, past a forge where blue flame shaped steel without touch, through a market of floating lanterns whispering star-lore in forgotten dialects.
At last, Krueger led them upward.
The Sky Garden opened before them—a suspended terrace supported by marble columns, overflowing with flowers from every region of Astraelis. Star-orchids glowed softly. Silver-leafed ferns chimed in the breeze.
Reikika inhaled sharply. "It feels like… like we're standing on clouds."
"That's the idea," Krueger said.
She moved from patch to patch, never touching, only marveling. Midarion lingered near the edge, eyes half-lidded, letting the quiet settle into him.
Krueger joined him.
"Peaceful," he said.
Midarion nodded. "It is."
They stood there until the city called them back.
Later, they reached the boulevard.
At its end rose a fortress so immense it seemed carved from the bones of a star.
"The Citadel of Fire," Krueger said quietly. "One of Astraelis's four Bastions."
Red and gold towers spiraled skyward. Warriors trained in perfect formation.
Midarion's gaze never wavered.
"If we pass the Trials," he said slowly, "this could be… our beginning?"
Krueger nodded. "If you're chosen."
Hope flickered—small, fierce.
That night, back at Krueger's home, the mood shifted.
He spoke of Arechi's history. Of fear. Of loss.
"My brother," he said quietly. "He was killed by someone from there."
Silence followed.
"So when they look at you," Krueger finished, "they don't see children. They see history."
"I know who you are," he said firmly. "And tomorrow, you walk as Ashborns."
Later, as the house slept, Midarion stood by the window.
Filandra's voice whispered gently.
"You are safe, for now."
He breathed out.
Tonight, he was warm.
Tonight, he was fed.
Tonight, he was Ashborn.
And for a child of Arechi—
That was a miracle.