The door closed behind the Grandmaster with the weight of stone settling into place. Silence followed, heavy and complete, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Outside, the city of Araveth glittered under a deepening night, its veins of pale light threading through rooftops and bridges like frost under moonlight.
Ryne stood at the window for a time, her breath fogging the glass as she stared at the tiers of the city falling away beneath them. Then, with the long day finally catching her, she retreated to her alcove. She murmured something faint—half a thought, half a wish—and was asleep before the last log in the fire split with a pop.
Morning came quietly.
Light slid over the mountains first, catching the icy crowns and turning them molten gold, before it spilled down into the streets. The city seemed slower at this hour—merchants rolling carts into place, the smell of fresh bread curling up from unseen ovens.
Ryne woke to that light on her face. She blinked, groggy, and turned toward the far wall.
Nameless sat in the wide window seat, one knee bent, the other leg hanging loosely. His gaze was fixed on the city below. The pale gold of the morning made the scars across his hands seem sharper.
She rubbed her eyes. "Did you even sleep?"
He didn't turn. "No."
Her brow knit. "Why? Couldn't?"
"I don't have to," he said simply. "Sleep isn't… necessary."
She stared at him for a long moment, then pushed herself upright. "That's weird."
He shrugged, as if the word didn't apply to him.
"It's kind of sad, though," she added, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "You don't even know what it feels like to really rest."
Nameless didn't answer, and the quiet stretched until Ryne decided she wasn't going to get anything more from him.
They got freshen up and stepped out into the cold streets. A faint frost still clung to the stone, crunching softly under their boots. The air was sharp, but alive—the kind that seemed to wake every nerve.
A messenger found them before they reached the first corner. He was a young man, cheeks red from the wind, his cloak bearing the University's symbol.
"The Grandmaster sent you his word," he said. "He is occupied at the mountain's peak until evening. His request is that you… explore." The pause suggested it was less a request and more an instruction. "He will meet you at day's end."
And just like that, the boy was gone, vanishing into a side street without looking back.
Ryne grinned. "Guess we're on our own."
Nameless only adjusted the strap across his chest. "Let's keep moving."
The city felt different in the morning—more human. The upper tiers bustled with shopkeepers laying out wares and smiths setting coals to heat. The smell of pine smoke tangled with the scent of fresh fish being gutted on a block. Beasts unlike anything Ryne had seen in the lowlands moved through the streets—long-bodied creatures with snow-pale fur and curling black horns, pulling sledges loaded with goods. Bright-eyed birds the size of hounds perched on eaves, their feathers shimmering with every shift of light.
They had just turned past a row of tall, narrow houses when Ryne spotted her.
The woman they had met upon first arriving in Araveth.
She stood leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, watching them approach with the kind of self-possession that suggested she'd been there for some time. She wore crimson layered over black, the silk moving like fire caught in the wind. A dark sash bound her waist, threads glinting faintly like molten wire. Her hair, half-tied in a high knot, spilled loose in windblown strands, the light catching copper streaks within the black. Inked markings curled along one arm, vanishing beneath her sleeve, the edges shaped like coiled flame.
"Morning," she said, her voice smooth but carrying a weight beneath. "Didn't think I'd see the two of you again so soon."
Ryne brightened. "Hey—you're—"
The woman smiled faintly. "Lysera Kael."
It was a name that seemed to burn the air when she spoke it.
Nameless gave the smallest nod. "Nameless."
"And Ryne," Ryne added, gesturing to herself.
"I know," Lysera said easily. "Most people here do. Visitors aren't exactly common, especially ones the Grandmaster escorts through the gates himself."
Ryne blinked, then leaned toward Nameless with a smirk. "We're famous already."
"I doubt it's the kind you want," Nameless replied.
Lysera pushed off from the post. "If you're free—and it sounds like you are—why not let me show you around? You've barely scratched the surface."
"Yes," Ryne said immediately, almost before Lysera had finished.
Nameless's expression was unreadable. "Fine."
Lysera's grin sharpened. "Good. And since we're starting somewhere… why not here, where you're already half tied? The University's training grounds."
The training grounds were alive with motion.
From the arched entryway, they saw students moving across packed snow and stone, blades flashing in the pale morning light. The sound was a rhythm—steel on steel, the thump of boots, the low bark of instructors. The cold air carried the scent of oil, leather, and the faint tang of sweat.
"This," Lysera said, stepping forward, "is where they begin. First steel, first scars. Every student here chooses a discipline—sword, spear, bow, or the more… unusual arms. They learn the basics, then the shaping of their energy."
They moved between two smaller grounds where younger students loosed arrows into straw targets painted with red. Further on, the space widened into the main arena—a vast sunken bowl of stone, ringed by high seating, large enough for a hundred warriors to clash at once.
Ryne slowed at the edge, her gaze caught by a figure in the center.
A young man, alone, spinning a spear in slow, deliberate arcs. Frost clung to the weapon, the air shimmering faintly with each sweep. When the spear struck, petals of snow spiraled outward before fading into the air, each one as distinct as if carved from ice.
Ryne leaned toward Lysera. "How is he doing that?"
Lysera folded her arms. "Core resonance. Everyone is born with an elemental core—or, more rarely, more than one. It's a spark of raw alignment to certain forces in the world. Fire burns, water flows, stone holds. The core is tested in youth, and once known, it's marked—sigils drawn onto the body to shape and focus it."
She began to pace slowly as she spoke, her voice warming with the subject. "Some resonate with fire, Others with water—adaptability, healing. Wind gives speed, earth grants strength and rootedness. Then there are the rare ones: ether, wood, metal, lightning, ice, light, shadow, blood, time, gravity, sound, poison, nature, magma…" She ticked each off like beads on a string. "Each element carries its own philosophy, its own instinct."
Nameless's gaze stayed on the frost-wielder below. "And they can push that into their weapons."
"They can push it into anything," Lysera said. "Steel, flesh, air, even the ground under their feet. It's the difference between swinging a blade and wielding a storm."
Ryne's brow furrowed. "And you just… have one?"
"One is common. Two is rare. Three is the kind of rarity you could live your whole life and never see. Four or more—" Lysera let out a low chuckle. "—and you're looking at someone born for legends. Power like that shapes realms."
She let the words sink in before adding, "Of course, the number of cores you have doesn't matter if you can't master them. Power without control is just a loud way to die."
Ryne hesitated, then asked, "And the Grandmaster? What does he have?"
Lysera's eyes glinted. "You should ask him yourself."
And with that, she turned away, the answer left hanging in the air like a spark waiting for kindling.
Ryne's voice followed her. "Then I want to find out. Whatever it is I have—if I have anything at all."
Lysera glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting. "It's possible. I can get you an appointment for the testing." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "But don't be surprised if the results come back empty. Not everyone is born with the energy cores… and even fewer can wield them without being torn apart."
Ryne's lips tightened, but she didn't look away. "I'll take my chances."