While Elise remained in her meeting with Elder Azemir, Iolanda guided Elian through the frozen streets of Askov.
The cold wind sliced at the skin like countless invisible blades, yet the city seemed unmoved. Its stone streets were alive, thrumming with merchants who shouted their offers amid the constant drift of mist. Bright cloaks, tapestries from distant lands, and the scent of burnt spices contrasted with the harsh snow piling upon rooftops. Men and women in heavy garments mingled with mages from different orders, their robes bearing distinct emblems that shimmered beneath the pale sun. Among them, the Arcane Swordsmen stood out — rare and revered figures, their blades strapped across their backs radiating faint glimmers of mana.
Askov was a city without king or lord — neutral by nature, prosperous by convenience. Its foundations rested upon the balance of four great powers: the Crown, the Nobility, the Arcane Council, and the Orders. Entwined within this political weave, mages of lesser orders held secondary posts, deputies of a sort, preserving the fragile fabric of neutrality. It was this equilibrium that allowed Askov to flourish, unlike so many forgotten villages.
Brumaria was a cruel example of such neglect. Too small to draw the interest of the great orders, only the Tower of Wisdom maintained a discreet presence there, sustained by solitary mages such as Gremory, Marduk, and another still unknown to Elian. Yet now, with his acceptance into the Dark Throne and the dispatch of three mages to guard his family, even Brumaria would see a branch raised — not out of devotion to its people, but under the shadow of a promise made by an elder.
Passing through the ornate gates, Elian beheld the Dark Throne's branch in Askov. The structure loomed like a bastion of war amidst the prosperous city: black walls, narrow windows like slits in a helmet, crimson crests of swords etched into iron. There was beauty in its severity, but also an oppressive aura, as though the very stone carried echoes of ancient battles.
Inside, the torches burned with abnormal intensity, casting shadows that shifted as if alive across the corridors. The air reeked of scorched iron, bitter incense, and polished leather — the very essence of an order forged in war.
There Elian met the man who, at that moment, held command: Babel.
The mage carried on his shoulders the dignity of a veteran and the coldness of a judge. His dark-blue hair, almost black, fell in unruly strands across his brow, while his greenish-blue eyes gleamed with the sternness of one who had seen the world bleed. Age weighed upon his marked skin — seventy years or more — yet his straight posture left no doubt that his strength endured.
His garments were unlike Iolanda's. His attire resembled more that of a general, refined, with deep crimson embroidery, the military cut tailored to carry both authority and presence. Every fold of the cloth reminded all that he was not merely a mage, but a commander accustomed to giving orders amid chaos.
"Elder Marduk has already returned to the main stronghold, in the south of the kingdom," Babel explained, his deep voice resounding like a slow drum. "The city of Canaan, the fortress we claimed after the war against the Alexandrian Empire, is where he now waits."
As Babel spoke, Elian felt the weight of history within his words. Alexandria… an empire that had nearly devoured the kingdom, defeated only at the cost of countless lives. Now the Dark Throne had raised its fortress upon the ashes of that war — Canaan, a name that seemed to carry both promise and damnation.
And in the silence that followed, Elian understood: each step he took alongside this order drew him further from the simple life of Brumaria, plunging him into a world where every gesture bore the weight of eternity.
Elian remained for hours in conversation with Babel. The veteran spoke slowly, as one who carried decades upon his lips, and each word reverberated against the austere walls of the Dark Throne's branch.
Upon the table before them, Babel traced slowly with his finger the emblem of the order: a triangle entwined in twisted roots.
"The triangle represents balance, harmony, and stability," he said, his grave voice echoing as if born of the very stone. "But it also holds another meaning: the holy trinity of the gods who founded the universe." He paused, then continued: "The roots that enclose it are the Qliphoth. To us, this emblem embodies the duty of seeking balance between light and shadow, harmony with the gods, and the stability without which life collapses."
Elian kept silent, eyes fixed upon the drawing. The torchlight flickered, casting the shadows of triangle and roots upon the stone wall as though the emblem itself had come alive, imprisoning him within its creed.
It was all new to him. In the past, as Rodrigo, he had never heard of balance, harmony, or founding gods. His existence had been a river of blood, driven by vengeance and later by the bitter addiction to kill. There had been no order, only chaos. No gods, only the silence of the graves he left behind.
Now, seated before Babel, those words struck him like iron upon flesh. Balance. Harmony. Stability. Words that seemed like mockery to his former life. Yet he longed for them — a peaceful life, a compass to guide him away from the abyss that had consumed him once before. But as though some cruel god toyed with his fate, that compass had been torn from him with Arthur's death.
Still, he was not alone. Maria, Emanuelle, and Anthony lived on. They were the last anchor to whatever humanity still remained within him. And that was why he had chosen the Dark Throne. Not for glory, not for prestige, but for the promise of becoming strong enough to protect those he loved — and perhaps, one day, to avenge the blood unjustly spilled.
The meeting ended when the door opened and another mage entered hurriedly, bowing with respect before Babel.
"Sir, the council you scheduled is about to begin."
Babel nodded gravely, signaling that the conversation was over. Elian rose and bowed deeply, his expression solemn — as one who recognized the weight of the trust placed in him. He then left the hall and returned to the streets of Askov, Iolanda at his side.
The city continued to astonish him. Pale-stone palaces rose like carved jewels, bridges spanned canals adorned with sculptures, and each corner seemed to breathe a wealth almost artificial. Well-dressed children played in plazas, merchants laughed loudly behind stalls piled high with fruit and spices, and even the beggars, when they appeared, wore whole garments and washed faces.
But amidst such splendor, unease stirred within Elian.
"Maga Iolanda," he asked, eyes fixed on the streets unfolding like a perfect labyrinth, "is there no slum here?"
"No," she replied at once. Her tone was firm, though a shadow lingered within it. "Askov presents itself as a 'model' city. Even a commoner can live with dignity here."
Elian's gaze lingered on her lips, and in that moment he noticed: Iolanda did not smile. Her eyes turned northward, toward the white towers gleaming in the last light of the sun — the branch of the Golden Dawn.
"But do not be deceived by what you see," she added, her voice lower, almost to herself. "All of this is nothing but a mask."
He sensed the hidden pain within her words but chose not to ask. He simply followed beside her in silence, as the laughter of children, the rattle of carriages, and the ringing of bells echoed through the streets.
When at last they reached the inn, Iolanda broke the silence.
"Tomorrow, we depart."
The word fell upon Elian's chest like an unexpected weight. His eyes widened slightly.
"Depart?" he asked, doubt heavy in his voice. "Elder Marduk granted me one more year with my family before leaving for Canaan…"
Iolanda halted, studied him for a moment, then burst into laughter — a deep, jarring sound against her stern countenance.
Elian's heart clenched. Had I been deceived? Had I sold my soul to the devil?
Before despair consumed him, the mage spoke:
"I know that, boy," she said, resuming her pace, walking a step ahead of him. "I am going to your village. I will be one of the three mages sent to guard your home."
The weight lifted from Elian's chest, though not completely.
"And besides," Iolanda added, "I will be your overseer until the day we depart for Canaan."
The boy exhaled, relieved, murmuring something like a faint "phew." The sun, already low, painted the rooftops in hues of orange, while night slowly swallowed Askov with its biting cold. The wind carried the scent of burning wood from hearths, mingling with the spices of taverns preparing to welcome travelers.
With his heart somewhat lighter, Elian followed Iolanda into the inn, where Elise awaited them.
The night slipped away in the blink of an eye, and by morning Elian donned the garments delivered to him: a black tunic of firm fabric, adorned with crimson details — the colors of the Dark Throne.
"Let us go," Elise announced, striding through the corridor. At her side, Elian and Iolanda already wore their own uniforms.
"It suits you, boy," Iolanda praised, a faint smile breaking her usual severity.
"Thank you, Maga Iolanda," he replied with a slight bow.
"Call me only Iolanda. Save the title for the branches and the order's stronghold."
"I understand, Iolanda."
At the inn's entrance, a carriage awaited them. Black and imposing, drawn by two equally dark horses, it bore the Dark Throne's crest etched in red upon its sides. Iolanda, during her visit the day before, had arranged the journey: three days and three nights until their return.
"Climb in," she said, her tone calm yet firm.
They obeyed, taking their places within the carriage's somber luxury. The driver snapped the reins, and the horses moved forward.
The cold wind of Askov beat against the carriage windows. Elian leaned back against the seat, his eyes fixed ahead. He did not dare look behind. The neutral city — beautiful, masked, and cold — vanished in silence. He left it without once turning back.