Something flickered there—recognition, as brief as lightning between clouds, gone before it could be named. When he spoke, his tone didn't change, but the choice of words shifted.
"So, you are the ones who crossed the City of Chains and the Valley of Blooms. Few have walked that road in centuries." His gaze stayed on Nameless, pale gold meeting shadow. "The man beside you… looks familiar, yet not. Perhaps I am mistaken. He is more weapon than wanderer—and the kind, yet not the kindest, person I've known."
Nameless didn't speak.
The words lodged in his mind like hooks. Familiar… yet not?
He didn't know this man. He didn't know himself—not truly. His earliest memories were a blur, fractured into moments of power and violence with no thread between them. He remembered the way his hands could tear through steel, the way shadows bent toward his will. He remembered the fear in other people's eyes.
But names, origins… those had always been out of reach.
What does he see when he looks at me? Nameless wondered. A memory? A ghost? Or something I haven't yet become?
The Grandmaster's eyes didn't waver, but Nameless felt an unspoken thing pass between them—something deeper than curiosity, something almost… wary.
"This place," the Grandmaster continued, turning away, "is older than the oldest ruins in the First Realm. When the demon legions came, my ancestors bled for this land. They bound their corruption beneath the stone and wove sigils to keep the survivors hidden."
"Sigils?" Ryne asked.
"Ancient powers," he said, his voice like stone locking into place. "Will made permanent. The ones etched into these streets keep Araveth unseen, and bind what sleeps beneath. We will speak of them later."
Nameless's voice was low when he finally spoke: "Those children above the land. Why do they look… unhealthy?"
The Grandmaster's smile thinned. For a moment, silence weighed heavier than stone. "You noticed," he said quietly.
"How could I not?" Nameless replied. "Their eyes carried more hollowness than hunger. What do you keep them from?"
The Grandmaster moved to the edge of the dais, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "They are born without elemental resonance. No affinity to flame, water, storm, or stone. Empty vessels in a world that worships strength drawn from the elements. Without that spark, they cannot weave sigils, cannot cultivate, cannot defend themselves. Even their bodies weaken faster—every sickness strikes deeper, every wound lingers longer."
Ryne frowned, her voice sharper than usual. "So they're outcasts."
"Yes," the Grandmaster said. "In the great cities below, such children are abandoned—or worse, shunned, treated as though their very existence is a curse. To live without elemental blood is to live outside society's law. They are not admitted into the guilds or schools. They are denied apprenticeship, denied sanctuary. Discrimination wears many faces, and all of them cut deep."
Ryne's jaw tightened. "So you hide them here."
"We train them here," the Grandmaster corrected. "Even without elemental energy, there are ways to strengthen the body, sharpen the mind, teach the blade. Discipline can carve potential from stone, if one is willing. We build them not into sorcerers, but into survivors."
Nameless tilted his head slightly. "And yet, they still looked frail."
The Grandmaster exhaled slowly. "Because what they lack cannot be replaced. Every human body was meant to resonate with at least a fragment of the elemental order. Without it, the body becomes… incomplete. Weak bones, fragile lungs, shortened lives. We can teach them to fight, to think, to endure—but not to escape what fate denied them."
For the first time, his voice carried something close to sorrow. "Still, it is better than leaving them to die in the gutters of underworld cities that scorn them. Here, at least, they are given shelter. Here, they are told their lives are not worthless."
Ryne crossed her arms. "And do they believe you?"
The Grandmaster's pale golden eyes flicked to her. "Belief is a luxury. Survival is not. They take what we give and make of it what they can. That is all any of us can do."
Nameless studied him in silence. There was truth in the Grandmaster's words—harsh, pragmatic truth. But beneath it, Nameless sensed another current, something deeper. This man was not only training outcasts; he was shaping them for something yet unnamed.
The Grandmaster studied them, the faint curl of a smirk on his lips."You saw the children. Tell me… do you pity them?"
Ryne blinked. "Pity? That's a bit generous, don't you think? I pity myself for ending up in this city."
The Grandmaster's eyes glinted with amusement. "Deflection. Clever. But I wasn't asking about you." His gaze slid back to Nameless. "What do you see in them? Helpless mouths? Empty shells? Or do you see yourself?"
Nameless's reply was cold. "I am not that fragile."
"No," the Grandmaster said smoothly. "But you are empty in other ways."
Ryne let out a sharp laugh. "Gods, you two could duel in cryptic one-liners all night."
The Grandmaster didn't look at her. "A blade that does not know its purpose will cut anyone who holds it. Friend or foe—it makes no difference." He leaned forward slightly. "So tell me… what are you, Nameless? A weapon still searching for a hand, or a hand still searching for a weapon?"
Nameless's jaw tightened, silence his only answer.
Ryne crossed her arms. "He doesn't answer because he doesn't like riddles. Or he doesn't know. Or both."
The Grandmaster chuckled low in his throat. "Ah, then he is exactly as dangerous as I thought."
"Which makes me wonder. Why are you both here?" the Grandmaster asked at last.
Nameless spoke before Ryne could. "To find whoever is responsible for her death."
Ryne glanced at him, then cut in quickly. "We're heading for the next realm."
The Grandmaster's gaze sharpened. "Do you think you can stand against corrupted divinities and live?"
"We'll try," Ryne said, her chin lifting. "Help us reach it, and you'll see for yourself."
He studied them both for a long moment, then said, "Maybe I can help you both."
"Do you wish to rest for the night?" he asked.
"Yes!" Ryne answered instantly.
Nameless's voice was cold. "Rest? Is it needed?"
"I may look unbreakable," Ryne replied dryly, "but I'm still alive. And they might have a vault of knowledge we could unravel. That matters more than you think."
Nameless tilted his head slightly, an unspoken question in his eyes. She caught the look, and her shoulders slumped the faintest bit.
Ryne let out a slow, weary sigh—the kind that came from carrying too many burdens for too long. Her gaze drifted away from him, as if the conversation itself was another weight she didn't want to bear.
"Don't start," she murmured, rubbing the side of her temple with two fingers. "Not now."
It wasn't anger, not even frustration—just exhaustion, plain and unadorned. The kind that made her look older than she was, the kind that hinted she'd been fighting battles that didn't leave visible scars.
Nameless said nothing, but the way her eyes briefly met his again was enough to remind him: in this city, survival wasn't just about strength. It was about knowing when to stop fighting, even for a moment.
Nameless's silence was its own agreement.
The Grandmaster's smirk deepened. "Then prepare yourselves. The Araveth you've seen so far is nothing but its mask. Tomorrow, you'll see its true face as you explore more."
"I have questions," Nameless said.
"Later," the Grandmaster replied, turning to the far wall. His fingers traced a sigil into the air—a tiger's face, ancient and knowing. Pale light bled from it, and the wall folded inward like space itself was bending to his will.
"Come."
He stepped through. Ryne and Nameless followed.
Beyond the threshold… a city stretched out before them, vast and alive.