As Ariel finished explaining, the pieces finally fell into place for Elias. The raiders' presence outside his home, once shrouded in suspicion, now took on a different light. It became clear that their purpose wasn't to intimidate, but to provide protection.
A pang of guilt struck him as the memory of his earlier confrontation with the old raider replayed in his mind, leaving him feeling uneasy.
Before he could voice his unease, Ariel picked up on it and offered a gentle smile. "Look, I know what you're feeling, but you're fine, dude." His tone was casual, yet laced with a reassuring undertone, as if he'd seen this kind of guilt before and wasn't one to judge.
With a soft sigh, Elias rose to his feet, his gaze drifting to his sister before shifting to Ariel and the raiders.
"Have you guys eaten yet?" he asked, his eyes meeting Ariel's briefly before scanning the others.
A sense of gratitude washed over him—he owed them thanks, not suspicion. And Elias wasn't one for grand words; for him, showing appreciation meant action. Something simple, something genuine.
Like buying a meal.
He thought back to his old life—before everything changed. Back when he was a senior manager on Earth, one of the habits he'd picked up was buying food for the team. It was a small gesture, something that became second nature over time. That kind of thing stuck with him.
Some habits really don't die, he thought.
Without waiting for a reply, Elias stepped forward. He was already close to Ariel—barely a meter away—but moved anyway, as if to close the distance in thought, not space.
"I'm gonna have to ask a little favor," he said, keeping his voice low and steady before turning to head out.
The raiders outside had started the night thinking they were just stopping to rest. But now, just by being there, they'd ended up guarding the house. Maybe unintentionally, but effectively. Their presence alone was enough to keep most threats away.
They wouldn't let anyone hurt a kid, Elias thought, forcing himself to trust that.
Still, he asked Ariel to stay behind—just in case. There was no sense in taking risks when it came to his sister.
Inside, Ariel sank into the nearest chair and leaned back against the wall.
Where's he even planning to get food at this hour? he wondered, glancing around the room and toward the shuttered streets outside.
Outside, Elias stepped out into the night. A few raiders noticed, but none followed. Whatever he was doing, it wasn't their business.
He walked deeper into the slums, the alleys narrowing, the shadows getting heavier. For a moment, everything around him was still and dark.
Then he saw it—light, faint but steady, spilling from down the street.
The bakery.
The sign above didn't move, and the door was shut, but the windows glowed warmly. Golden light cut through the gloom like a familiar memory.
Elias allowed himself a small smile.
He knew why it was still lit.
Before the factory job, before everything became about survival, he'd worked there. Helped out after school, after shifts—back when life was simpler. He remembered flour on his sleeves, warm ovens, and quiet evenings shared with Evelyn, who always worked late.
He wasn't guessing. He knew she'd be there.
He opened the bakery door. The air inside was cool and dry, and the smell of flour still hung faintly, though the warmth from earlier in the day was long gone. It felt like the place had been at rest for a while.
The door to the back—the prep room and storage area—was open just a crack. Faint traces of warmth and work still lingered.
Elias walked up to it and leaned slightly inside. He knocked lightly on the frame, just enough to announce himself.
"Any leftovers?" he asked.
A quiet gasp came from within.
Evelyn dropped the sack of dough she was pulling and blinked in surprise. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, looking over at him.
Recognition slowly spread across her face.
---
Far from the weathered outskirts and crumbling slums, deep within the heart of Lunaris City, stood the University of Arcane Arts—a monumental structure whose towers reached skyward with quiet defiance.
Unlike the hushed decay of Gallow's Reach and the outer districts, the Central buzzed with a certain kind of life, even under the weight of midnight. The moon hung steady above, casting its cold silver over rooftops and archways alike. At the summit of the University, an orb rested—a flawless sphere of polished crystal, shaped in mimicry of the moon itself.
When the moonlight struck it just right, the sphere shimmered with a subdued cyan glow. The light wasn't harsh or dramatic, but soft—almost meditative. It draped the highest towers in a pale brilliance that could easily be missed by those too busy to look up.
To the citizens of Lunaris, it was more than just decoration. It had become a quiet assurance, a constant symbol of protection—a reminder that within the city's ancient walls, they were still safe from the dangers that lingered in the world beyond.
At the top floor of the Masters' Quarter, where the senior professors of the University of Arcane Arts resided, was an office set apart by its size and quiet authority—Dean Hawke's.
Inside, the Dean sat behind a large wooden desk, flipping through a set of documents. The papers in his hand were only a small portion of the larger stack beside him—student reports, application forms, and various administrative summaries.
Though widely recognized as the most powerful man in Lunaris, Hawke hardly looked the part. He wore a clean, buttoned white shirt beneath a gray vest. His long double-breasted coat hung neatly on a rack near the door, alongside his half top hat. Nearby rested a silver-topped cane, though it appeared more symbolic than necessary.
His beard, white and neatly trimmed, betrayed his age—likely in his eighties. Yet he moved with an ease that didn't reflect frailty. Beside the desk, a door led into his bedroom, rarely used. Most of his time was spent here, either working or entertaining visitors in the seating area ahead of his desk—a glass coffee table surrounded by a few sturdy couches.
A large window dominated the far wall, letting in a wash of moonlight. In the corners stood floor lamps that gave off a soft, even glow. The room was dim but comfortable, balanced between elegance and simplicity.
Hawke set his glasses down carefully and reached for the bottle of wine on the table beside him. He poured two glasses, stood slowly—ignoring the cane at his side—and walked over to the couch.
"Is it time?" he asked, more out of routine than urgency.
He placed both glasses down on the table and lowered himself into the seat, glancing toward the figure seated at the window.
The woman sitting there said nothing at first. Her attention remained on the night sky, the moonlight catching her profile.
"I wouldn't be here if not," she replied, her gaze still fixed on the moon for a moment before turning it toward him. "Right?"
He took a sip from his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. "You were never the type to show up without a reason."
Still seated at the wide window, her legs crossed and both arms draped loosely over her back, she finally broke the silence. "Aren't you too old for that?"
Hawke gave a soft laugh, lifting his own glass. "My mistake," he replied. "I forgot you're too young for this."
"Young, huh?" she muttered, standing to take the glass. "As far as I remember, I'm older than you, Hawke."
She returned to her seat by the window, taking a slow sip.
Hawke leaned back in his chair, holding his own glass without drinking.
"I suppose you are," he said, half to himself. "But time doesn't treat everyone the same."
Hawke glanced at the woman by the window, the corner of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement.
She claimed to be older, but nothing in her appearance supported the claim. Her features were smooth and sharp, untouched by time or wear. Long hair flowed down her back in gentle waves, catching the moonlight in silver streaks. Her posture was relaxed, confident. Legs crossed, spine straight—she carried herself like someone in her mid-twenties, perhaps even younger.
The room fell quiet again, lit only by the faint amber of the lamps and the pale light from the moon outside. Neither of them seemed to mind the silence.
A moment later, the woman arose from her position by the window and approached Hawke with deliberate slowness.
"This presents us with an opportunity to reclaim what is rightfully ours—what belongs to him," she stated, her voice unwavering.
As she descended, her form seemed to defy the conventions of the physical realm, her body appearing to be gradually consumed by the floor as she passed through the glass table with an air of unconcern.
"I shall endeavor to do my utmost, Miss Bella," Hawke replied, his gaze fixed upon the woman's figure as it continued its inexorable descent.
When only her head remained visible above the glass table, she uttered a final instruction, "good. After all, I'm still a warden."
As Hawke watched the woman disappear from view, he set down the glass in his hand and rose to his feet, approaching the expansive window to close it.
His thoughts were consumed by the imperative of caution, this course of action is fraught with risk, yet we must secure him before they do. Before the Vasperhaven Kingdom becomes aware of his presence, every detail must unfold according to plan.
---
Back in the slums, Jim made his way through the dimly lit paths, noting how most of the raiders were already busy eating their bread. Some had gathered in small groups, talking quietly among themselves. Others were scattered, keeping an eye on the perimeter, patrolling like it was second nature.
As he reached the campsite, Jim saw Old Neil, Ariel, and another young man sitting at a makeshift table—one clearly shaped from the earth by a specialist's hand. It wasn't elegant, but it was functional.
Old Neil spotted him and waved him over.
"Now that you've got a better grasp of things," he said, raising his voice slightly, "let me introduce you to Jim."
Jim walked closer, still unsure of what to expect, the look on his face somewhere between curiosity and confusion.
Old Neil gestured to the boy beside him. "Jim, this is Elias," he said, then turned to study Jim's reaction. "The one you saw in the arena."
Jim took a better look. Elias didn't seem like much at first glance—shorter, lighter, definitely younger. But now that he was seeing him up close, something clicked.
This kid… he's the same one? Jim squinted slightly, thinking back to the match. He's really only seventeen?
Old Neil then looked at Elias, who still seemed unsure why any of this mattered.
"And Elias," he added, "this is Jim. Like you, he's no specialist."
With that said, Old Neil gestured for Jim to join them. He took a seat, and soon they were all sharing a quiet meal, introducing themselves as they ate.
Elias kept his expression calm, but his thoughts were spinning.
I knew something was off… but I didn't expect this. The Wardens targeting me? Thinking I'm one of those half-magi?
He recalled the moment in the arena—the unnatural strength, the reaction he got from the crowd, and especially what he did to that boy.
I shouldn't have tasted that punk's blood.
The memory of the unconscious body haunted him. Even when he woke up earlier, it was the first thing that flashed in his mind. A cold sweat broke across his skin, as if the reality of it all was only now catching up with him.
Do I really need to kill someone every time I feel that thirst is creeping in?
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Ariel tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"We'll stay outside tonight," he said, voice low. "We leave at first light."
Elias looked at him, then at the dim house behind them. He hesitated for a heartbeat.
Do I need to sleep too?
Am I even tired?
"Alright," he murmured, offering no resistance.
Inside, he laid his body down on the rough, cold cement, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling overhead. His mind replayed the incident—over and over—until reality blurred into speculation.
Maybe it wasn't a loss of control at all, he thought grimly. 'Maybe I knew exactly what I was doing... and simply watched as my body moved. Maybe I'm just a coward—pretending I wasn't aware.
With his thoughts in disarray and shadows of doubt gnawing at the edges of his reason, his mind gradually loosened its grip on the waking world. One by one, the threads of consciousness unraveled, slipping silently into the embrace of darkness—until, at last, sleep claimed him entirely.