The early morning light painted weak stripes across the Guild’s stone floor as Soren and Alaric approached Raz’s office.

Soren’s mind raced back to the heist—the perfect execution, the narrow escape, the ease with which he’d succeeded alone, that partnership meant compromise, meant risk.

Beside him, Alaric’s presence felt different now. Less like support, more like a weight.

Raz’s office door stood before them. Alaric reached for the handle, but Soren moved first.

The door swung open on silent hinges.

Inside, morning light streamed through tall windows. The room could have belonged to any merchant or clerk—neat stacks of papers, well-organised shelves, a sturdy desk of polished wood.

Raz sat behind the desk, hands folded before him.

Soren stepped forward and drew he dagger with careful movements. The blade seemed to drink in the morning light.

He presented it to Raz, handle first.

The office fell still. Even the dust motes seemed to freeze in place.

Raz’s fingers closed around the dagger’s hilt. He turned the weapon slowly, examining every angle, every curve. His finger traced the edge, testing its sharpness.

“Impressive.” Raz’s lips curved in the briefest of smiles as his gaze flicked between them, measuring, assessing. “Pack your things. We leave immediately.”

Soren nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Raz rose to his feet and signalled for them to leave. “Oh, and don’t eat anything before you go.”

Soren dipped his head and headed out, leading the way back through the halls.

When they reached their room, they packed.

Alaric glanced at Soren sidelong, hands pausing over his pack. “Thanks for not telling Raz that you did it alone. I know you didn’t have to cover for me.”

Soren stilled, his fingers tightening around the shirt he was folding. “I didn’t need to tell him. They already know.”

Alaric’s shoulders tensed, then slumped.

Soren returned to his packing.

The morning sun had cleared the rooftops when they followed Raz out of the Guild.

Welttor bustled around them, merchants setting up stalls, workers hurrying to their jobs.

Raz led them through the city, Soren and Alaric a pace behind.

The streets narrowed as they approached the balloon port.

Were they returning to the fortress?

The wyvern-towed balloons dominated the port, their massive forms casting shadows over the docking platforms.

The creatures’ wings beat slowly, their scales gleaming gold and copper in the morning light.

Neither Soren nor Alaric spoke as they climbed into the balloon’s cabin, the cramped space forcing them to sit knee to knee on opposing benches.

As soon as Raz secured the door, the balloon lurched and it left the ground.

Wind buffeted the cabin, making the wooden walls creak.

Through the windows, Welttor shrank beneath them.

The wyverns’ wings beat faster as they gained altitude, their path carrying them north along the Kusten Road.

Soren stared out at the vast landscape below, watching familiar landmarks fade into the distance.

They were headed north, not west—they weren’t returning to the fortress after all.

Across from him, Alaric shifted on his bench. Their knees brushed, and both men tensed at the contact.

The balloon climbed higher, carried on currents of wind.

To their right, the Braun Sea reached to horizon. To their left farms and villages rolled into the distance.

Across from him, Alaric’s head nodded as he fought sleep.

Once, they would have shared observations, joked about the view,

Now silence hung between them like a physical barrier.

The balloon rocked in another gust of wind. The wyverns’ wings beat steadily. Their breath came in great plumes of steam, dissipating into the cold air.

Exhaustion crept over Soren. His body reminded him of every scrape, every bruise from his desperate escape.

The glass felt cool against his temple as his eyes grew heavy.

The steady rhythm of the wyverns’ wings became a lullaby.

The cabin’s gentle swaying no longer seemed threatening but soothing.

His thoughts began to blur, fragments of memory mixing with half-formed dreams.

A sharp prod pulled Soren from uneasy dreams.

His eyes snapped open, body tensing before he remembered where he was.

The balloon’s cabin felt colder as the sun lingered on the horizon, painting the sky in pink and gold.

Alaric pointed to the landscape below.

Soren’s breath caught in his throat.

Nebel Hafen spread beneath them. The harbour curved around the town, fishing boats bobbing at their moorings. Smoke rose from chimneys as the lighthouse flickered to life.

From this height, everything looked as he remembered. The market square where he’d run errands for his father. The weathered stone of the harbour wall where he and Alaric had spent countless hours watching ships come and go, dreaming of adventures. The narrow streets where they’d played as children, imagining themselves as heroes from ancient tales.

An ache spread through Soren’s chest. This place, these memories—they belonged to someone else..

His eyes found his old neighbourhood, and for a moment, he could almost see himself as he once was—the sculptor’s apprentice, hands stained with clay, creating beauty rather than dealing death.

That boy’s dreams had been simpler.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

His hands had been cleaner.

Had it really been less than a year?

Alaric shifted in his seat, and Soren caught his friend studying him.

Once, they would have shared this moment of recognition, this bittersweet return. They would have pointed out familiar landmarks, remembered shared adventures, perhaps even laughed about how far they’d come.

But that ease between them had fractured.

The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid.

“You should sleep,” Soren said, turning away from both the view and Alaric’s questioning gaze. He pulled his cloak tighter, as if it could shield him from more than just the cold.

After a moment, he heard Alaric settle back with a soft sigh.

The balloon carried them onward, leaving Nebel Hafen to fade into memory.

He’d left this place as a boy seeking justice for his father’s death.

He passed over it now as something else entirely.

The town grew smaller behind them, fading into the dusk.

Soren wondered if he would ever see it again, wondered if it even mattered.

He was no longer the fisherman’s son. No longer the sculptor’s apprentice.

The Guild had reformed him, reshaped him as he’d once shaped clay.

There was no going back—only forward.

Soren opened his eyes to find Alaric slumped against the cabin wall, sleeping.

His muscles protested as he stretched.

Rolling hills and jagged peaks caught the moonlight.

Raz sat next to Alaric, his profile sharp against the night sky.

“You did well, Soren.” Raz’s voice cut through the quiet. “Taking the initiative, completing the heist alone—that showed promise.”

“Thank you, sir.” Soren kept his voice low, conscious of Alaric’s sleeping form.

“Master Kurgan would be proud.”

The words hit Soren like a physical blow. “You didn’t know him.”

“Didn’t I?” Raz’s lips curved in a slight smile. “There’s much you don’t understand yet, Soren. Your biggest challenge still lies ahead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Patience. All will become clear in time.”

Soren nodded. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.”

He drew a steadying breath. “I saw Master Kurgan in Welttor. What was his relationship to the Guild?”

Something flickered in Raz’s eyes. “Questions like that aren’t for initiates, Soren.”

“When will they be? After I become a full member? After I prove myself?”

Raz turned to face him fully now.

Soren wanted to look away. But he held Raz’s gaze, refusing to back down.

“You have potential. More than most. That’s why I want you as my apprentice.”

Soren’s breath caught in his throat. “Why me?”

“You show initiative. Intelligence. The drive to succeed, no matter the cost.” Raz’s eyes flicked to Alaric’s sleeping form. “You understand that some bonds must be broken for true growth to occur.”

“I haven’t broken anything.”

“Haven’t you?” Raz’s smile held no warmth. “The heist proved what I’ve suspected since you were first identified.”

Soren frowned. “Identified? Was that before, or after my father?”

Raz’s mouth twitched. “Be careful, Soren.”

“I just find it odd that we caught up you in Hafendorf. A master of stealth and exfiltration tracked down by a pair of clueless lads.”

Raz pushed out his bottom lip. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“The way you think. The way your mind works.”

“So, you don’t deny it?”

Raz shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Am I?”

“Perhaps.”

“Please.” Soren fixed his gaze. “A straight answer. Please.”

Raz remained silent, his face a mask.

“Fine.” Soren glanced out of the window.

“You’re capable of so much more when you’re not encumbered.”

Soren turned to him. “What does that mean.”

Raz nodded towards Alaric.

“He isn’t a burden.”

“No? Then why did you succeed alone where you failed together?”

Soren had no answer for that. He looked away, his gaze falling on the coastline below.

“Being my apprentice won’t be easy. I’ll push you harder than you’ve ever been pushed. I’ll expect more than you think you can give. But in return, I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“Including the truth about my father?”

“If you prove worthy.”

Soren’s jaw clenched. But what choice did he have?

“When do we start?”

“All in good time, Soren. All in good time.” Raz gestured to the horizon, where a dark shape emerged against the darkness. An island.

“Is that where we’re headed?”

Raz nodded. “Gottsisle.”

“What’s waiting for us the?”

“The next stage of your journey.” Raz’s eyes moved to Alaric again. “Though only one of you will complete it.”

“What does that mean?”

But Raz had already turned away, his attention seemingly fixed on their approaching destination. The conversation was clearly over.

The island drew closer as the wyverns began their descent.

Alaric stirred, blinking awake.

As they drew closer, details emerged from the gloom.

A fortress dominated the island’s western shore—an octagonal structure of weathered stone, its walls stained black by time and salt spray.

A single torch flickered at the entrance, a lone point of warmth in the gathering dark.

The wyverns’ wings beat slower as they landed in a clearing outside the fortress.

The balloon settled with a gentle bump.

The wyverns folded their wings with soft screeches that echoed off the fortress walls.

Soren clambered from the cabin, his legs stiff, his back aching.

Wind whipped in from the Braun Sea, waves crashing against the shore.

Alaric stumbled behind him. “What is this place?”

Neither Raz nor Soren answered.

Hooded figures emerged from the shadows, their grey robes blending with the mist.

They secured the wyverns with chains, the creatures submitting without protest.

Raz gestured Soren and Alaric towards the fortress’s main gate.

Iron chains rattled overhead as a massive portcullis ground upward, the sound echoing off stone walls.

The entrance gaped before them, torchlight flickering deep within.

They passed through the tunnel and emerged into an expansive courtyard.

The fortress rose around them in perfect octagonal symmetry, its walls stretching upwards.

Hundreds of windows dotted the black stone face—some blazing with warm light, others dark and empty.

Torches lined the courtyard’s perimeter, flames dancing in the salt-laden wind. Above, the open sky formed a perfect octagon, framed by the fortress walls.

Raz led them across the courtyard’s worn flagstones toward a door set into the northern face.

Inside, torches flickered at irregular intervals. The air grew colder as they climbed, carrying the musty scent of age and decay.

The stairs wound upward in tight spirals, each turn revealing another identical stretch of worn stone steps.

Soren’s legs burned from the climb.

“Third floor,” Raz said.

The stairway opened into a corridor barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Arrow slits pierced the outer wall at regular intervals, letting in thin shafts of moonlight.

Raz moved with purpose, counting doors under his breath, before coming to a stop. “Here.” He produced a key from within his cloak and drove it into the lock.

The door swung open, revealing a small bed chamber. “Soren, in here. Alaric, you’re next door.”

Soren stepped into his assigned room without hesitation. He took in the narrow bed, a simple desk, a window that looked out over the Braun Sea.

“Your first task begins now.” Raz’s voice cut through the silence. He produced two small glass vials, handing one to each of them. “By morning, these must be filled with your blood and tears.”

“Why couldn’t we eat before leaving?” Alaric asked. “We haven’t had anything since—”

“You should save your strength,” Raz said. “The ritual demands you fast.” His tone left no room for debate.

The door closed behind Soren as Raz led Alaric to his room.

Alone, Soren studied the small vial in his palm.

The blood would be easy enough—a quick cut, a moment’s pain.

But tears?

He pulled his dagger from its sheath, the steel catching what little light filtered through the window.

The cut was quick, precise—barely more than a pin prick to his fingertip.

He watched the blood well up, dark and thick, dripping into the vial.

But as he set the blood-filled vial on the desk, the real challenge loomed before him.

When had he last cried?

Before joining the Guild certainly. Perhaps not since his father’s death, and even that grief had calcified into something harder, colder.

Soren sank to the floor, his back against the rough stone wall.

He closed his eyes, trying to summon emotion, any emotion strong enough to break through his carefully constructed walls.

He thought of his father, of finding him that night, of the questions that still haunted him.

But the memories felt distant now, dulled by time and training.

Hours crept by.

The frustration mounted with each failed attempt.

He paced the room, the empty vial mocking him from the desk.

The more he tried to force the tears, the more they eluded him.

His chest felt tight, constricted, as if his body fought against this display of weakness.

Kurgan’s face floated in his mind—his old master, seen briefly at the Guild.

It was him.

It was definitely him.

What secrets did he hold?

What part had he played in all of this?

The questions burned, but produced no tears. Just more anger, more determination to uncover the truth.

What if he couldn’t do it?

What if this simple task proved his undoing?

After everything, to fail because he couldn’t cry seemed absurd.

Yet here he was, dry-eyed and desperate.

His thoughts turned to Alaric.

His best friend, his brother in all but blood, the one person he’d trusted above all others…had become a burden.

Every failure, every setback, every compromise could be traced back to their partnership.

Alaric’s recklessness, his impulsiveness, his need to be saved

It had all weighed Soren down, held him back from what he could truly become.

The tears came then, silent, and unstoppable.

Not for his father, not for his lost innocence, but for the death of something he hadn’t even realised was dying—his friendship with Alaric.

Each tear that fell into the vial marked another crack in their bond, another step towards inevitable separation.

He didn’t sob or wail.

The tears flowed quietly, a controlled release of grief for what was and what could never be again.

The vial filled slowly, each drop a testament to the truth he’d been avoiding:

he and Alaric had outgrown each other.

Or perhaps he had outgrown Alaric.

When both vials were full, Soren placed them side-by-side on the desk.

His body felt hollow, drained of more than just fluids.

The emotional release had taken something from him, burned away another piece of who he used to be.

And, perhaps, that was the point.

He collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the darkness.

Whatever waited for them in this fortress, whatever trials lay ahead, Soren knew one thing with certainty—he would face them alone.