They awoke without announcement.
It was not an order, nor a pull. It was the cold withdrawing just enough to allow awareness. The air of the fortress had changed its weight; it no longer pressed—it guided. The lamps were still where they had been, but their light had learned another discipline. The shadows did not move on their own.
The wounded were lifted first.
There were no questions.
No explanations either.
Hands touched bodies with the same precision as the night before: neither gentle nor cruel. Functional. The bed gave beneath Arhelia with a damp sound. The bandages tightened. The iron at her shoulders answered with a brief, clean pain—warning enough.
They placed her in a wheelchair.
Cold metal. Silent wheels. Someone had oiled them recently, as if knowing they would be needed. A mortal nurse pushed it forward. Straight white tunic. White gloves. Her head was covered by a bag of the same color, fitted, without features. From the forehead descended a long cloth reaching the knees. On it, embroidered in red, a symbol: a four-clawed serpent coiled around a sword. It did not shine. It absorbed the light.
The symbol advanced before the body.
A robe was placed over Arhelia's bandages. Thick. Made for the cold that had learned to linger. Her right arm rested in a sling, returned to its place by iron and constant pressure. It did not hang—it weighed. The skin trapped beneath tight layers burned with a concentrated, insistent pain. The hand that still responded closed on its own. The fingers searched to scratch where the flesh screamed. They restrained themselves.
The chair moved forward.
The corridors were old and narrow. Not from neglect, but by intention. The stone was worn at shoulder height, not at the floor. It had been touched by bodies, not by footsteps. Few lamps. Sections without light. Brightness broke and returned like irregular breathing. Doorways without frames. Others, torn down, leaned against the walls like defeated shields. No one had lifted them again.
The place was not abandoned.
It had been left.
The architecture did not ask for admiration: it imposed posture. Low ceilings forced the head to bow. Sharp turns broke one's stride. Walls too thick to be merely walls. The design spoke of obedience practiced for generations, until it became habit. There were no visible religious symbols. Only proportion, repetition, fatigue.
At the end of the corridor, the stairs.
They descended.
High, irregular steps, carved for full feet. Each turn of the wheel made the metal vibrate, and the tremor climbed the body until it concentrated in the fixed shoulder. The iron answered with a dry pulse. The pain did not spread—it stayed.
Below, the space opened.
Kael was there.
Standing, leaning on a crutch held in his left hand. Dark wood, polished by recent use. Where the foot was missing, clean, firm bandages. On his cheek, a pale cloth covered the wound. It did not hide it—it marked it. His body leaned slightly forward, learning to negotiate with its new center.
He saw her.
He smiled.
It was not a confident smile. It was clumsy, disarmed—a gesture that forgot the correct order of the muscles. He held it longer than necessary, as if afraid that releasing it would cause something else to be lost.
Arhelia looked at him.
She did not respond immediately. The red symbol passed between them. The chair stopped. Pain pushed again from the supported arm, insistent. The robe scraped against the bandages. Even so, she inclined her torso just enough to draw closer.
"I see you're well. And… thank you for saving me, I think."
Her voice dragged the cold still clinging to the corridors.
"Yes… I hesitated," Kael replied. "I thought that if I left you, I'd gain time. But I saved you. I suppose that creates a debt."
"Yes."
Silence remained suspended, dense. A doctor coughed. The sound rebounded against the stone. The physician looked at him—or seemed to. The air closed again.
"What do you think?" "Cough… cough…" Arhelia whispered, her voice broken by pain, her breath staggered, remembering every blow received. "About what?" "About the master. He called us." "Yes… I think I heard he's someone who takes seriously what he teaches. Although… between us, it's not what he should have been teaching."
The echo of the phrase shattered against the walls and left the sphere vibrating at the back, behind Arhelia.
"If you believe that…" "Speaking of another matter, why was there a fallen cultivator in the forest?" "I don't know." "Do you think it's because… new times are coming?" "Could be."
Kael fell silent. He seemed to calculate each word, weigh the mass of what he was about to say. Then he opened his eyes. Something ignited—a restless glint—and he spoke:
"There are secrets, spread among the ten clans of our country… It seems cultivation cannot occur elsewhere, due to lack of resources and other matters. Some cultivators with nothing went to these lands, but that… that was before."
"How 'before'?" Arhelia asked. "Were there more fallen cultivators?" "Yes… and the flowering of the Four Moons is also approaching. And if you know…" "The near impossibility of surviving the trials," Arhelia interrupted, her voice low, hard. "And the coming of the Deep Ones as well," Kael completed, as if pointing toward an invisible horizon. "Exactly. Now the harvests move faster, and new treaties dictate how to survive."
A metallic sound cut the conversation.
A mortal nurse appeared at the threshold.
"You must see your master."
Arhelia looked at her. Her eyes pierced the white fabric. A minimal gesture of repugnance crossed her face. Kael noticed and raised an eyebrow. The nurse did not react. She was not invisible—she did not matter. She was an extension of the fortress.
They were led toward the inner plaza.
The Threshold of Those Who Wait
The plaza was rectangular, enclosed by ruined reddish brick walls. Not from abandonment, but from ancient wear, as if time had passed too many times over the same point. Low columns marked the center, aligned with precision—remnants of an absent building that still remembered order.
White grass covered the ground. It did not grow—it occupied. It reflected the light upward, forcing the gaze. In the distance, plains of smooth stone stretched until sight surrendered. Above them, night descended in a contained blue. A change of rhythm. Without announcement.
Before the exit, two figures waited.
The first was a young man with crimson eyes. A wide cloak covered his entire body and feet, concealing the shape of his step. On his shoulders he wore black wool—wolf, or some nameless beast. Across the fabric, brutal decorations zigzagged like needles or golden thunder, without ornamental symmetry—only applied force. His eyes did not observe: they waited. His wide smile showed a twisted amusement, barely contained by discipline learned late.
To his right, a woman.
Her posture was straight, stoic. Hands together in front, low, without visible tension. Golden eyes held the scene with a calm that asked no permission. Short hair framed a face of soft, almost tender expressions—excessively delicate for the place. That delicacy turned playful as it rested on the approaching youths.
She wore trousers both wide and fitted, cinched at the abdomen like a functional sash. The white shirt, with loose, open sleeves, added a light, almost festive contrast, improper to the setting. From her belt hung several instruments: some resembled tools of torture; others were simple iron pieces, unadorned trinkets. From all of them emanated the same pressure.
A contained aura.
Level one.
The plaza did not react.
The grass did not move.
The columns offered no shadow.
The threshold was marked.