The morning after the whispers, Draemhold seemed alive in a different way. Market bells rang, vendors shouted, and life carried on—but for Nelly, Nathan, Courage, and Divine, the city's colors felt muted, edges sharp with unease.
They had gathered near the river gate, silent at first, each waiting for the other to speak.
"I heard them," Nelly finally admitted, voice low. "Voices in the dark. They knew my name."
Nathan's jaw tightened. "I felt something too. Not voices, but… eyes. Watching."
Courage snorted, though his grip on his staff was iron. "So it wasn't just me. Thought I was losing it."
Divine closed his journal with a snap. His expression was grave. "The Cult of the Black Sun. I've been tracing fragments of their rites. Last night wasn't chance. They're watching us—because of this." He tapped the faint mark glowing on his palm, the sign of his Pathway's awakening.
Before they could say more, the air shifted. The sounds of the market dimmed, muffled as if smothered by unseen hands. Nelly turned and froze.
Figures emerged from the crowd—not men, not entirely. Cloaked in tattered robes, their faces hidden, they moved with jerks and spasms, like puppets pulled by invisible strings. Their shadows bled outward, writhing against the stones.
"Pawns," Divine whispered. "Cult-thralls."
The first one lunged.
Nathan reacted instinctively, light bursting from his palm, searing the air in a flash that made the thralls recoil. "Stay behind me!" he shouted, but Courage had already stepped forward, staff swinging with bone-shaking force. He smashed through one thrall's chest, but instead of blood, only black smoke spilled out.
Nelly's own shadow rippled like a living thing, snaring the legs of another cultist. He gasped, startled by his own power, but pressed on, letting instinct guide him. The thrall shrieked, its form unraveling as the shadow dragged it down.
Divine, hands trembling, traced a rune in the air, his voice steadying as he chanted: "Time bends, falters—slow." The thralls staggered, their movements sluggish, as though the very flow of seconds betrayed them.
The four stood back-to-back, an unspoken bond tightening between them. For the first time, their powers wove together—not perfect, not controlled, but enough. Within moments, the thralls dissolved into smoke and whispers, retreating into the cracks of the earth.
Silence fell. The market, untouched by what had transpired, returned to its noise as if nothing had happened. Only the four of them knew the truth.
"They'll come again," Nathan said, voice heavy.
"And stronger," Divine added.
From the shadows nearby, a figure had been watching. When the battle ended, he stepped forward—an older man in a long coat of deep blue, the insignia of the Azure Dawn Association stitched over his heart. His eyes scanned each of them with a mix of calculation and quiet relief.
"You've drawn their attention sooner than I expected," he said. "But fate wastes no time. My name is Ellisar, Mentor of the Dawn." His gaze fixed on Nelly. "And you four—whether you accept it or not—are stepping into a war older than kingdoms."
Courage frowned. "What war?"
Ellisar's expression darkened. "The war to keep the Ancient One from waking."
The boys exchanged glances. None of them spoke, but the choice was already made. They could no longer pretend to be ordinary. The Cult had marked them, and destiny had chosen its stage.
That night, they followed Ellisar beyond Draemhold's gates, toward the hidden halls of the Association.
And for the first time, Nelly felt the weight of something vast pressing down on him. A war older than history. A power buried in his very veins.
And shadows that whispered his name.