The last of the laughter from Darius's joke faded, leaving the shop filled with silence instead of chaos.
Elena smiled knowingly and waved them toward the door.
"Go walk a bit," she said. "Let Lucien's heartbeat return to normal."
Lucien groaned. "It is normal."
Seris patted his shoulder sympathetically.
"Sure. And Rogan is a ballerina."
Rogan blinked."…I don't dance."
Elaira tilted her head, genuine curiosity in her expression."I would like to see that."
Rogan stared at her in horror.
Seris burst out laughing.
They stepped into the merchant district, where the morning had fully awakened.
The streets felt as they were alive.
Even though they were chaotic, they felt peaceful.
Sword Spirits moved openly here, not as weapons of war but as extensions of daily life. Magic mixed subtly in the air, woven into routine so naturally that most people no longer noticed it.
A baker guided a tiny flame-fox spirit that padded beside him, its tail flicking small bursts of heat that toasted pastries evenly as they passed.
A tailor worked with a thread-blade spirit hovering beside her scissors, slicing fabric so cleanly that customers leaned in to watch.
Children chased puff-sprite spirits that bobbed like glowing bubbles, shifting colors with every burst of laughter.
Lucien slowed his steps.
He watched—not with envy, but with quiet fascination.
Sword Spirits were deeply personal things.
Some were flamboyant, demanding attention.Some subtle, barely noticeable.Some loud, aggressive.Some silent, patient.
His own remained…
Quiet.
Not absent. Not weak.
Just reserved—like something waiting.
Elaira noticed the way his gaze lingered.
"You always observe others' spirits," she said softly. "It suits you."
Lucien startled. "Huh?"
"You don't compare," she continued. "You study."
Rogan nodded."He's been like that since we were kids. Notices things others miss."
Seris smirked."He also notices door frames with his forehead."
"ONE TIME," Lucien reacted.
Their laughter followed them as they walked.
They reached Lucien's usual practice clearing—a quiet patch beneath tall trees, sunlight filtering through the leaves like strands of gold. The moment they entered, they fell into an unspoken rhythm.
Lucien took his stance.
Rogan stretched his shoulders, movements slow and deliberate.
Elaira stood nearby, hands folded, eyes attentive.
Seris claimed her "spectator rock," her usual sitting place with a drink in hand, legs swinging idly.
Lucien swung his wooden sword.
The air responded with a faint chill.
So subtle that most wouldn't notice.
But Elaira's eyes sharpened slightly. Rogan felt it too—an instinctive awareness.
Elaira stepped closer, adjusting Lucien's posture with feather-light touches.
"Relax here," she said. "Good. Let your body move naturally."
Rogan tapped Lucien's foot lightly with his boot. "You're thinking again. Less head. More instinct."
Seris grinned."Look at him—trained by elegance and a brick wall."
Lucien flushed but didn't stop.
His movements grew smoother.
More natural.
And somewhere deep within him, something shifted—quiet, unreadable.
After a while, they rested beneath the trees.
Rogan leaned back against a trunk, arms crossed.
"So," he said, staring up through the leaves, "three months, huh?"
Lucien's heart jumped."…Yeah."
Elaira sat gracefully nearby."It feels close now that it's been said out loud."
Seris hummed thoughtfully."Funny thing about the Tower. Everyone talks about it like it's destiny."
Rogan snorted softly."Outsiders talk about it like a monster."
Lucien turned toward him."What do you mean?"
Rogan looked at him seriously.
"To people who aren't climbing," he said, "the Tower isn't a dream. It's a graveyard with good publicity."
The words settled heavily.
"Merchants fear it," Rogan continued. "Parents curse it. Kingdoms watch it like a loaded weapon. Every generation sends its brightest—and gets back names carved on stone."
Elaira nodded slowly."They don't see challengers. They see losses."
Lucien swallowed.
"But…" he said quietly, "…people still go."
Rogan smiled faintly.
"Yeah. Because to those who stand outside… it's terrifying."
His gaze shifted to Lucien.
"But to those who stand at its gates?"
Lucien's hands clenched unconsciously.
"It's a chance," he said.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But with certainty.
"A chance to test myself," he continued. "To see how far I can go. To step into something bigger than… this."
He gestured vaguely at the peaceful clearing, the district beyond.
Seris studied him carefully.
"You're excited," she said.
Lucien hesitated—then smiled.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I am."
Elaira's lips curved softly.
"That's good," she said. "Fear alone isn't enough to climb the Tower."
Rogan stood, dusting himself off.
"Then we'd better make sure you don't die in the first day."
Lucien laughed.
The sound was bright.
Hopeful.
Above them, leaves rustled as the wind passed through—carrying with it whispers of a future that felt suddenly very close.
And for the first time, Lucien didn't just think about the Tower.
He looked forward to it.
And somewhere within him…his own spirit stirred, quiet and unreadable.
_________
Side POV — The Weight of a Name
The merchant district looked ordinary.
That was the problem.
From the edge of the street, the men watched Mr. Williams's stall with practiced eyes. They weren't amateurs — their stances were loose but ready, their gazes sharp. People passed them unconsciously, sensing danger without understanding it.
"Boss said sundown," one of them muttered."Plenty of time."
A shadow fell across the cobblestones.
Footsteps.
Unhurried.
The leader turned first, irritation already on his face.
"Hey—"
He stopped.
The man approaching them wasn't armed.
No visible blade. No flaring Sword Spirit. Just a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a plain coat, hands clasped behind his back like a merchant out for a stroll.
Older.
Calm.
Uninterested.
"Morning," the man said pleasantly.
Something shifted.
Not in the air.
In them.
The leader frowned, pulse quickening for no reason he could name."Move along," he snapped. "This doesn't concern—"
The man stopped three steps away.
And looked at them.
That was all.
No killing intent.No threat.No movement.
Yet the world seemed to press inward.
The air thickened, heavy and suffocating, like standing at the bottom of a deep lake. Their Sword Spirits reacted instantly — not manifesting, but recoiling, curling inward as if burned by something unseen.
One of the men staggered back.
"What… what is that…?"
His knees buckled.
Another dropped his weapon with a clatter, breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
The leader tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
It felt like standing before a cliff that noticed you.
Darius Arcelion sighed softly.
"You chose a poor place," he said, almost apologetically."And worse people."
The pressure deepened.
No explosion.
No violence.
Just existence bearing down on them.
The men collapsed.
One sobbed openly.Another clawed at the ground, trying to crawl away.The leader shook so hard his teeth rattled, eyes wide with animal terror.
"I—I'm sorry—! We didn't know—!"
Darius crouched slightly so they could see his face.
Calm.Unangry.Almost bored.
"Tell whoever sent you," he said, voice steady, "that this district does not tolerate parasites."
He stood.
"And if you return," he added, "I won't bother speaking."
That broke them.
They ran.
Not strategically.Not bravely.
They fled like frightened children, tripping over each other, tears streaking down their faces, their Sword Spirits completely silent — too afraid to answer.
Darius watched them go.
Then he turned, adjusted his coat, and continued down the street.
To anyone watching from afar, it would have looked like nothing happened.
And that was the most terrifying part.
________