The gates of the Arcadium shimmered in gold as the cohort gathered beneath the silver-spire arch, bags packed and weapons ready. The morning mist clung to the tower bases like silk.
Instructor Nythe paced before them, a parchment scroll in hand. "You are to proceed to Fennvale. Investigate only. Record any findings. Do not engage. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Instructor," the six chorused.
He nodded. "Then it's time you were equipped."
One by one, they received their field gear—crafted within the Arcadium or gifted by allied kingdoms. The mages received enchanted bracers, focus stones, reinforced robes laced with elemental runes.
Rowan's coat was embedded with mirrored glyphs that shimmered at certain angles—a passive shield against minor enchantments.
Teyla was given flame-hardened bracers etched with emberscript, known to increase combustion potency.
Eilo, hesitant as always, received a subtle weavecloak—threaded with charm glyphs, designed to confuse hostile tracking spells.
Then came Darian.
From the shadows stepped Master Forgewright Brumm, a compact dwarf with soot-darkened gloves and a quiet, proud posture. He carried a cloth-wrapped weapon across both arms.
"For the one who walks with no spellcraft," he said, "you'll want something that holds true when magic does not."
Darian unwrapped it.
The dwarf-forged longsword was simple yet exquisite—black steel polished to a moonlight sheen, double-edged, heavier at the hilt, yet perfectly balanced. Its crossguard was shaped like a short crescent, and the grip was bound in dark leather.
Brumm nodded approvingly. "Weighted for your style. Cuts true. Doesn't chatter when it hits bone."
Darian tested the balance. "It's perfect."
"Stays perfect," Brumm grunted. "Just don't try to use it like a spell. You'll get yourself killed."
He then passed Darian a neatly folded robe—a dark coat of layered weave, stitched with strong thread, flexible but reinforced along the shoulders and chest. It shimmered faintly in light. Not quite armor, not a uniform—a warrior's garb.
Darian slipped it on. It fit like it had been made for him.
Caelum smirked. "Looks better than mine."
"Try not to burn yours," Darian replied.
---
That evening, as the six set out from the Arcadium's southern path, the world felt heavier.
Their footsteps echoed in the silence of an otherwise busy road. No traders. No couriers. Even the wind had quieted.
By sunset, they reached the outer woodlands just short of Fennvale's boundary.
They stopped on a ridge overlooking the valley. Smoke rose faintly from far-off chimneys—but the shadows stretched too long, and no lights burned in the windows.
"We camp here," Darian said.
"Agreed," Caelum added. "We observe from distance first. No sudden entrances."
They found a small clearing near a mossy outcrop, shielded by brush and root.
---
That night, a fire flickered in the center of camp. Teyla sat cross-legged polishing her bracers. Bryn stirred stew over the flames while Eilo traced charm sigils into the dirt beside Rowan.
"Anyone want to trade stories?" Rowan asked. "About home?"
"Sure," Teyla said. "I'm from the Ember Reaches. We cook everything with fire magic. Even water. It's tradition."
Bryn grunted. "I'm from the Stonebelts. Near the northern ridges. Lots of lumber. Fistfights are a seasonal sport."
"Verdelune," Rowan said. "City of scrolls and sass. Our library's grumpier than our people."
"Viorra," Eilo said quietly. "A fishing coast. Glyphs written in sand, not parchment."
Caelum glanced at Darian. "Valmere. Land of magic."
Darian gave a crooked smile. "And I was the one who didn't have any."
But he didn't sound bitter.
He touched the hilt of his sword. "Now I carry my magic a little differently."
Bryn raised her cup. "To carrying our own weight."
The others joined in. "To weight."
---
Elsewhere, inside the crystalline halls of Velmyra, Queen Maerion stood beneath a mural of the first 13 disciples. High King Orvain joined her, arms folded behind his back.
"We should inform the others," Maerion said. "The signs are not fading—they're multiplying."
"And risk panic?" Orvain replied. "We've already lost control of the southern lines. The moment we mention 'demons,' every king from Azeth to Aergald will start preparing for war."
"Then perhaps they should."
Orvain turned to her. "Do you believe Might has returned?"
"I believe the seal has cracked. And something is calling to it."
They stared at the mural in silence.
Orvain said quietly, "If Might returns, it will not be in the form we expect."
"No," Maerion agreed. "It never is."
---
Far from the palace, in a shallow cave near the cliff paths, the creature stood over the husk of a man it had just consumed.
This one had wielded ice.
Its bones cracked—again. Its body shifted—again.
It stood taller now.
Its arms human. Its spine straight. Its breath more controlled.
It stared at its own reflection in the pooled water.
Then it stopped.
Sniffed.
Turned east.
Toward the Arcadium's southern valley.
Toward them.
"…Might…" it whispered, licking the air.
It crouched.
Stalked forward.
"The smell," it hissed, voice deeper, more assured, "has become stronger…"
It disappeared into the trees—heading for the camp.