It had been five days since Renna and Cale began their quiet work within Ardan's glittering halls—digging through accounting logs, trailing hushed conversations, and bribing overlooked scribes with glances, not coin.
Today, they stood inside the lower wing of the palace, deep in the Chamber of Records, a place where even nobles rarely ventured, its vaults layered with dust and secrets.
Cale crouched before a ledger that bore the imperial crest—its corners frayed, but recently opened. He ran a finger along the columns, eyes narrowing.
"Look here," he whispered, tapping a line of seemingly innocent transactions. "Three shipments of grain redirected to the north quarter within one week. That's enough to feed a battalion."
Renna leaned over his shoulder. "But there's no military action in the north. No disaster relief. No decree. That's unauthorized movement."
Cale nodded. "And it's been signed off… by Lord Edric Vane." He looked up. "He's a known Marvane ally."
Renna exhaled slowly. "And yet, he stood in court just yesterday asking for more funding for coastal security. Lying with a straight face."
There was a silence.
Then Renna added, "Rythe was right. Someone's stockpiling. Preparing for something." She tapped the page. "And they're using imperial resources to do it."
Before Cale could respond, the low creak of the chamber door froze them both.
Footsteps.
Measured. Heavy.
Renna stepped back, hand drifting to the concealed dagger at her waist. Cale's eyes scanned for an escape—but there was none. Only shadow.
Then the voice came—low, calm, amused.
"You move like spies. But your scent says you're loyal."
Lareth stepped through the doorway, his cloak damp from rain, eyes sharp. Behind him, two masked figures stood silently—imperial shadows assigned by Rythe himself.
"Report," Lareth said.
Renna didn't hesitate. "The Marvane alliance is bleeding the empire's resources under false pretenses. Edric Vane's signature is on several falsified transfers. Enough to support an armed force."
Lareth gave a single nod, as though he'd expected it.
"Continue watching. Do not confront. I'll prepare the emperor and Maleus quietly. We strike only when we've unraveled the whole net—not just the fish inside it."
He stepped closer to them, voice now a murmur.
"And be careful. The moment they suspect you know, you'll become targets."
Renna and Cale exchanged a brief glance.
"We were always targets," Cale muttered with a grin. "They just don't know it yet."
Lareth gave a rare flicker of a smile before fading back into the shadows with his guard.
Once alone, Renna rolled up the ledger and slid it into her cloak.
"Next stop?" Cale asked.
"The temple accounts," she replied. "If they're funneling grain, they're buying silence with silver—and priests always write things down."
The two of them disappeared once more, ghosting through the palace—unseen, but not unfelt. The storm Rythe predicted was building.
And in the shadows of Ardan, the war had already begun.
Back in Virelia, the morning sun spilled golden light through the translucent canopy of the training court, catching on the obsidian strands of Aurean's hair. No longer gaunt and withdrawn, he looked stronger now—his once-pale skin kissed by the Virelian sun, his silver eyes alight with something that hadn't lived there in years: focus, fire, purpose.
The blade in his hand whirled with a high-pitched hum—its sleek form cutting the air with a grace that defied physics. It was no ordinary sword. It was alive in a way that felt ancient, powerful. Born of Virelia's enchanted corestones, tempered in moon-forged steel, and sealed with runes that only responded to omega blood—dominant omega blood.
"In the hands of an ordinary omega," one of the Virelian craftsmen had told him, awe plain in his tone, "it is lethal. But in the hands of a dominant omega… it is something else entirely. It becomes will made steel."
And Aurean—whose will had once been broken—was now wielding that very blade.
It had started with a simple stroll through the inner city. He had been restless, wandering, trying to rediscover the rhythm of a world he no longer feared. That was when he'd found the craftsmen's forge tucked between two spiraling towers. They hadn't noticed him at first—until he'd picked up one of their unfinished weapons with bare hands and brought it to life.
They'd stared at him like he was something out of prophecy.
Two weeks later, they placed the completed weapon in his hands—a custom-forged blade, curved yet elegant, marked with three crescents near its hilt and glowing faintly with blue and violet fire.
They named it "Varethien" — He Who Awakens the Edge.
And now Aurean moved with it as though it was a part of him.
Spinning. Striking. Shifting balance on his toes. Controlled and dangerous. Varethien responded to the tension in his muscles, the whisper of his thoughts. The very air around him shimmered with latent magic.
He didn't see Prince Rhaellis approach until he was almost at the edge of the training ring.
"Aurean," Rhaellis called softly, hands behind his back. "The Emperor has summoned you."
Aurean nodded, lowering the blade. As he did, it dimmed—its pulse softening, as if resting. Rhaellis' eyes lingered on it for a moment.
"They say only one dominant omega in a generation can awaken a Virelian soulblade. And yet, here you are."
Rhaellis regarded him carefully before stepping closer. "Come. The Emperor doesn't call without cause. I believe this meeting concerns more than pleasantries."
Aurean gave one final glance to the training ring, then followed Rhaellis—his steps firm, his presence quiet but undeniable.
He was no longer just a fallen noble hiding from the world.
He was Aurean, reborn in steel and magic. And with every passing day, he was remembering what it meant to be powerful.