Morning in Virelia was a lie.
The sun rose, yes, casting its golden light across the city. But it touched nothing living. It kissed crumbling rooftops and empty streets, lit dust dancing through hollow windows. But the people did not stir. Doors remained shut. Curtains drawn. And those few who moved did so like shadows, faces downcast, as though afraid the light would see them.
It was a city breathing in fear.
Inside the quiet inn tucked away in the outskirts of the capital, three fugitives lived in silence. Their room was small, but it had warmth. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. The scent of burning pine mingled with the faint aroma of dried herbs. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows. Inside, it was time to grow stronger.
---
Lina stood in the center of the room, sweat beading on her brow. Her fists were wrapped tight in cloth. Each movement she made was swift and precise. Jab. Step. Hook. Dodge. Elbow.
Then, with a breath, her heel lit with flickering orange. She spun, fire erupting from her boot as she struck an invisible target. The flames hissed as they vanished on impact with air, leaving only heat behind.
She panted, her eyes narrow. "Still too slow."
From the corner, the main character watched her with quiet admiration. Lina's movements had changed. The rage she once wore like armor had refined into something sharper, focused. She wasn't just fighting anymore.
She was evolving.
"Again," she muttered to herself, adjusting her stance. This time, when she moved, flame swirled around both her fists and feet. Controlled. Balanced.
---
Near the window, Cilia knelt on a woven rug. Her hands hovered above a shallow bowl of water. Her eyes were closed, brows furrowed in concentration. The water rippled as her magic stirred it, thin threads of light dancing along its surface.
A flicker of blue mist coiled above the bowl, hovering for a breath before fading into the air.
"Come on... again," she whispered.
This had become her routine: focus, shape, release. Again and again. She hadn't joined the others in sparring yet. Not because she couldn't. But because she wanted her magic to be ready first.
Even now, small glyphs shimmered faintly beneath her palms—strange, looping patterns she couldn't name. They came when she focused too deeply. They left just as quickly. But she was learning.
And somewhere inside her, a quiet voice whispered: you are not normal.
---
The main character stood alone in the yard behind the inn. Dirt shifted beneath his boots as he stretched his hand forward, palm raised.
A rock floated from the earth, quivering in the air. Then a second. A third. Ten.
His breathing was steady, his mind focused.
Push.
The rocks launched forward like bullets, slamming into the target post with a deep thunk.
Pull.
They reversed, spiraling back toward him. He sidestepped, caught one midair.
This wasn't just movement anymore. He had expanded the field—his push and pull now worked over wider distances. He could lift heavier objects. Shift faster.
Control had always been the key. And now, at last, he felt it: the flow of gravity responding to his will.
He raised his hand again, this time with a smile.
---
Evening fell slow. Inside, they gathered near the fire.
Lina nursed a bruise on her arm, muttering about needing harder targets. Cilia curled up on a cushion, her fingers glowing faintly as she wrote small runes in the air, watching them shimmer before fading.
The main character leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then Cilia asked quietly, "Do you think they'll come for us again soon?"
Lina's eyes flicked toward the window. "Definitely."
The main character opened his eyes. "Let them come."
His voice held no fear. Only certainty.
They weren't the same trio who had fled the shadows of the tunnels. They were changing. Sharpening.
And Virelia would soon learn:
The hunted had stopped running.
They were preparing to fight back.