The mana storm continued to grow as Hageawn began to relax, his shoulders falling, his mind drifting back to the Glade.

A weary smile touched his lips, and a single tear burned its way down his cheek.

He seemed unaware of the arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him as his heart fractured inch by inch.

“Hageawn,” Thery whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re not alone. You can talk to me.”

But Hageawn’s mind was elsewhere—lost in the whispers of the Glade, lying on the soft bed of blue grass beneath the shade of a silver tree. The memory of Shirai’s distant, averted gaze lingered, her discomfort cutting through the fragile peace he sought to recreate.

The mana inside him surged violently, and a wail escaped his throat, raw and unrestrained.

Thery screamed as the energy lashed at her, forcing her back as the gale from Hageawn’s outburst ripped her hood away.

The first crack of thunder roared through the sky, shaking the air. Purple streaks of lightning tore jagged wounds through the churning clouds. Flames flickered at the edges of the storm, golden embers raining down like ash, igniting the boot-tracked soil below. Hageawn gasped, his knees buckling under the weight of the storm bearing down on him.

The images came faster now—relentless, vivid.

Shirai’s fleeting smile. Her soft but distant voice. Her final words, sharper than any blade, cutting him anew.

His head throbbed, and he pressed his palms against his temples, desperate to shut it all out. “No!” he shouted, his voice cracking as the cry tore from his throat with raw intensity.

The mana responded in kind, exploding outward in a violent wave. The plains cracked beneath his feet, fissures glowing with the same silvery light that burned in his eyes.

The storm pressed against his skin like an electric tide, the spiraling energy roaring louder, streaks of purple lightning dancing wildly across the storm-darkened sky. Flames burned at the edges, their golden glow reflecting off the silvery haze engulfing the clearing.

The nomads had fled. One by one, they vanished into the distance, their frantic cries swallowed by the deafening storm. Their silhouettes shrank against the chaos, carrying their belongings in a frantic bid to escape the wrath of the spiraling energy above.

Hageawn didn’t blame them.

If he could, he would run from himself, too.

But there was nowhere to go—no escape from the storm raging within. The mana clawed at him like invisible hands, demanding more. Always more.

He staggered forward, his chest heaving, his silver eyes glowing brighter with every breath.

“Stop…” he whispered hoarsely, though the storm devoured his words.

He knew it wasn’t enough. Mana didn’t obey words. It obeyed will.

And his will was faltering under the crushing weight of his grief.

Another crack of lightning split the sky, illuminating the clearing in a blinding flash. The ground trembled violently, throwing him off balance. He fell to one knee, the pain dulled by the storm’s relentless pull.

In his periphery, he saw Thery.

She hadn’t run.

Instead, she stood frozen, her hood blown back, her hair whipping wildly around her face. Her wide eyes locked onto him, flickering between fear and determination.

“Thery… run…” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the storm.

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But she didn’t move.

She took a hesitant step forward, her small frame dwarfed by the chaos surrounding her. “Hageawn!” she shouted, her voice raw with urgency. “Stop this! You have to stop this!”

“I can’t,” he rasped, his voice shaking with despair. “I can’t control it…”

The storm grew fiercer, feeding on his anguish. The air shimmered with raw energy, the pressure building until it felt as though the world itself might collapse.

“Hageawn!” Thery’s voice broke through the chaos again, sharper this time. She took another step forward, the ground cracking beneath her small feet.

She cupped his face, forcing their eyes to meet. Her hands trembled against his skin, her own fear betrayed by the gentle smile she offered him.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” she whispered, her voice cutting through the storm as if it had been crafted from steel.

Her words pierced the maelstrom of his grief, striking a chord deep within him.

Hageawn’s fists clenched tighter, his silver eyes narrowing as he fought to regain control. He could feel the mana’s chaotic rhythm, its edges pulsing erratically. For a fleeting moment, it seemed possible—

Until another surge of anguish shattered his concentration.

The storm lashed out violently. A streak of purple lightning struck a nearby tree, setting it ablaze.

Hageawn screamed, the sound raw and guttural as the mana spiraled beyond him. His body trembled, his vision blurred, and the storm roared, drowning out everything else.

Thery did not retreat. Despite the storm’s ferocity, despite the danger, she battled the roaring wind and fought her way to him, her arms outstretched. Her small frame collided with his, and she threw her arms around him in a desperate embrace.

The storm seemed to falter, the spiraling mana hesitating as if uncertain. The chaotic energy shifted, spiraling in a chaotic rhythm, responding to her touch and her words.

Hageawn’s silver eyes glowed brighter, his trembling form caught in the struggle between the storm’s fury and the faint glimmer of control she offered.

Then, one by one, gleaming portals blinked into existence around the clearing. The air rippled and warped, rupturing space itself. From the shimmering voids stepped long-eared high elves, their startling blue eyes cold and calculating, each figure radiating an aura of immense power.

The first spoke, his voice deep and resonant, echoing like a tolling bell as the portal behind him faded into nothingness. “Aesec’s Warden, Great Mage Toire,” he announced, his fingers tightening around the staff in his hand. His sharp gaze swept across the scene, lingering briefly on Hageawn before he moved into position.

Another figure emerged from the next portal, her flowing robes shimmering in the light of the storm. Her voice was steady, commanding. “Hicarit’s Warden, Great Mage Seneca,” she stated as she approached Toire, her movements fluid and precise. The two wardens stood side by side, their presence seeming to stabilize the chaotic energy around them.

More portals opened, their rippling energy casting strange, distorted shadows across the clearing. A figure stepped through, his aura subdued yet no less imposing. “Wyrlec’s Archmage, Jais,” the ven intoned expressionlessly. His arrival drew an immediate reaction from the others; Toire and Seneca dipped their heads respectfully, though their expressions betrayed both wariness and deference.

“Your presence is most welcome, Archon,” Toire said, clasping his staff tightly as though it were an anchor.

Belatedly, another portal shimmered open beside them, its energy dissipating instantly as a figure stepped through. “Telos’ Archmage, Trevis,” he greeted warmly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement. He raised a hand, stopping the others as they prepared to bow.

“My brothers—and sister,” he added with a wink at Seneca, “Raise your heads.”

Trevis’s gaze lingered on Jais, and a wide grin split his face. “Jais, thought you were dead,” he chuckled, his tone light but tinged with genuine relief. “It’s good to see you.”

Then his expression shifted, brightening at the sight of another figure. “Titus!” he called, his eyes alight with recognition. But as the tall ven stepped forward, Trevis’s brows furrowed. “No… who are you?” he asked, his tone sharpening.

The ven smiled gently, inclining his head. “His son,” he replied simply, the weight of his words settling over the group.

Trevis blinked, his surprise giving way to a broad smile. “Indeed, the resemblance is impressive,” he said, his voice tinged with awe. But the levity was short-lived; his expression turned serious as his gaze shifted to the roiling storm above.

“Have you all determined the cause of this mana storm?” Trevis asked, his tone commanding.

Jais, ever the picture of indifference, lazily raised a finger, pointing it directly at Hageawn. “There he stands,” he remarked, his voice dripping with nonchalance, as though the chaos swirling around them was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Trevis glanced at Jais briefly, a flicker of irritation passing which he quickly hid. His gaze traveled upward and he sucked a breath of cold air through his teeth.

“I’ve never seen mana this powerful before,” he muttered softly.

“Agrestal state?” Jais nodded, walking forward to stand beside him.

“Some tower’s untrained initiate, why else would his potential not be sealed?” He shook his head with a look of boredom. “Pixie shit like this is why I left my own tower.”

Trevis’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his focus remaining on the boy at the center of the storm. The chaos roared louder, the mana lashing out with violent intensity as if defying the mages gathered to contain it.

Let’s go,” Trevis said abruptly, his tone leaving no room for debate. Without waiting for an answer, he plunged into the storm, his movements swift and precise as he dodged arcs of purple lightning and veils of flame cascading from the chaotic skies.

Jais raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as he watched Trevis charge ahead. “Always the noble fool,” he muttered under his breath, before reluctantly following, his steps unhurried but deliberate.

The storm roared louder in protest, its raw energy lashing out as the two mages approached the eye of the chaos. Trevis’s staff glowed faintly in his hand, the mana around him rippling as he forced his way through the spiraling current. Every step was a battle, the storm resisting his presence with all its might.

Trevis reached the pair first, a long fingered hand grasping Thery’s shoulder causing her to let out a shriek. She whirled around and then froze, stunned. “Supreme…mage…” she uttered, nearly choking.

Archmage Trevis nodded firmly. “Get back. The seven of us will do what we can to save him.”

Thery hesitated, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. For a moment, it looked as though she might protest, but something flickered in her expression—a memory or realization that stilled her tongue. She raised her hood once more and retreated reluctantly to the edges of the chaos.

As the mages raised their staffs in unison, a translucent dome of shimmering mana formed above their heads, shielding them from the storm’s fury. Its surface rippled with energy, refracting the chaotic flashes of lightning outside. Within, the air hummed with power, the focus of every mage fixed intently on Hageawn.

Jais’s sharp laugh broke the tense silence. “Trevis,” he called, amusement coloring his tone, “look at his robes. One of yours?”

Trevis’s frown deepened as his sharp eyes swept over Hageawn. The robes were nearly unrecognizable—torn and frayed, falling apart at the seams, caked in dirt and grime. But even through the filth, the emblem of Telos Tower stood out, its faded design unmistakable.

The Archmage’s expression hardened as he searched his memory. The boy didn’t resemble any of the faetlings under his charge. His mind turned over the possibilities until a faint spark of recognition struck him. There was one… a young initiate who’d gone missing months ago. Could it be? His silver eyes…

Trevis shook his head sharply, forcing himself to refocus. Now wasn’t the time for speculation. They had to act quickly to save him before the storm devoured them all.