The wind howled around Maros, the biting cold of the Wastes digging into his skin as he stood alone. The world had become a blur of white and gray, the landscape fading into the distance as the air thickened with the familiar weight of magic. But this wasn’t the familiar cold of the Wastes—this was something else. Something deeper, older.

Maros closed his eyes, taking a slow breath as he felt the familiar pull. The magic here was unlike anything else in the world, a force that shaped the land and the very fabric of reality. It was the Old Magic, powerful and unyielding, but it wasn’t unfamiliar to him. He had lived in its shadow for years, wandering the Wastes, keeping its secrets.

But today, it felt different. Today, the magic was calling to him.

His mind was heavy with memories—memories of a time when he had not been the wandering mage, hiding in the desolation of the Wastes, but someone else. Someone with a purpose. Someone with power. And as the magic stirred around him, those memories began to resurface, unbidden, dragging him back to a past he had long tried to forget.

He opened his eyes and found himself no longer in the Wastes.

The air was warmer, the sky clearer. The ground beneath his feet was solid, stable, unmarred by the shifting chaos of the Wastes. He stood on a cobblestone path, lined with tall, ancient trees whose leaves shimmered with the golden light of a fading sunset. The world was peaceful, serene, and yet, Maros felt no comfort here. Only pain.

He knew this place.

It was a memory—one of his deepest, most painful memories. The place where everything had changed.

“Maros…”

The voice was soft, familiar, and it made his heart clench. Slowly, he turned to see a figure standing at the edge of the path, beneath the shade of a towering oak tree. The figure was tall, strong, with dark hair that fell in waves around his shoulders. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that Maros remembered all too well.

Rovan.

Maros felt his chest tighten as he looked at the man who had once been his closest friend, his companion in the pursuit of knowledge and power. But the man standing before him was not the Rovan he remembered. This Rovan was younger, untouched by the corruption that had later claimed him. He was whole, full of ambition and fire. And that made it all the more painful.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Maros said quietly, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves.

Rovan smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Neither should you, old friend. But here we are.”

Maros’ heart ached at the sight of him. This was the Rovan he had known before—before the darkness, before the Ascendants, before the choices that had torn them apart. But even now, Maros could feel the weight of those choices pressing down on him, like a heavy cloak he could never take off.

“I tried to stop you,” Maros whispered, his voice trembling despite himself. “I tried to save you.”

Rovan’s smile faded, his expression growing darker. “And yet, here we are.”

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The memory began to shift, the golden light of the sunset fading as the world around them grew colder, darker. The trees withered, their leaves falling away as the cobblestone path cracked and crumbled beneath their feet. Maros felt the familiar sting of the cold air against his skin, but it wasn’t the Wastes he found himself in now.

It was the hall of the Ascendants.

The grand chamber stretched out before him, its walls towering and ornate, lined with tapestries that depicted the ancient history of their order. The stone floor gleamed beneath the light of the many torches that flickered in their sconces, and at the far end of the hall stood the council—the Ascendants, their eyes cold and impassive as they looked down on him from their elevated thrones.

Maros’ stomach twisted. He had not seen this place in years, not since the day he had made his choice. The day he had walked away from the power he had once sought, the day he had turned his back on the path that had consumed Rovan.

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“You left us,” a voice said from the shadows.

Maros turned sharply, his heart pounding in his chest as he saw another figure emerge from the darkness. She was tall and regal, her silver hair flowing over her shoulders like a river of moonlight. Her eyes were sharp, filled with a cold, unyielding authority that Maros had once respected.

“Eliara,” Maros whispered, his throat tight with emotion.

She was the leader of the Ascendants, the most powerful among them. It had been her vision that had guided their order, her determination that had driven them to seek the control of the Old Magic. And it had been her voice that had condemned him when he had refused to follow their path.

“You had potential, Maros,” Eliara said, her voice soft but laced with disappointment. “You could have been one of us. You could have stood by our side, wielding the magic that binds this world together.”

Maros swallowed hard, his hands trembling at his sides. “I couldn’t. I saw what it did to Rovan. I saw what it was doing to all of you.”

Eliara’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. “Rovan was weak. He let the magic consume him because he was afraid. But you were different. You understood the power. You understood what it could offer.”

Maros felt a surge of anger rise within him, his hands clenching into fists. “It wasn’t power. It was madness. The Old Magic doesn’t obey your will—it twists it. It corrupts everything it touches.”

Eliara took a step closer, her gaze cold and unrelenting. “And yet, you still use it. Even now, you carry the burden of the Old Magic with you, hiding in the Wastes like a coward, too afraid to embrace what you were meant to become.”

Maros’ heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with memories of the past—the day he had walked away from the Ascendants, the day he had abandoned Rovan to his fate. He had believed, back then, that he was doing the right thing. He had believed that leaving was the only way to stop the madness, to prevent the magic from consuming him as it had consumed Rovan.

But now, standing here, he wasn’t so sure.

Had he been a coward? Had he walked away because he was afraid of what the magic would do to him? Or had he walked away because he knew that staying would have destroyed him?

“You left because you were weak,” Eliara said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “You ran because you were afraid.”

Maros shook his head, his hands trembling. “No. I left because I saw what it was doing to you. To all of you. The magic was changing you, turning you into something… something wrong.”

Eliara’s eyes gleamed with cold amusement. “And what are you now, Maros? A wanderer? A man hiding in the Wastes, afraid to face the truth of what you could have been?”

Maros’ heart ached at her words. The truth was, he didn’t know. He had lived in the Wastes for so long, hiding from the past, from the Ascendants, from himself. He had believed that by leaving, by isolating himself, he could avoid the corruption, the madness. But now, he wasn’t sure if he had escaped it at all.

“You’ve been running all your life, Maros,” Eliara said, her voice softening slightly. “But you can’t run forever. The magic is a part of you. It always has been. You can’t escape it.”

Maros felt the weight of her words pressing down on him, the memories of his past choices swirling in his mind. He had left the Ascendants because he had seen what the magic was doing to them. He had seen what it had done to Rovan. But now, standing here, he realized that he had never truly escaped it. The magic had followed him, haunted him, no matter how far he ran.

And now, it was time to face it.

Maros took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. “You’re right,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I’ve been running. But not because I was afraid of the magic. I was afraid of what it would make me become.”

Eliara’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. “And what do you think it will make you become?”

Maros met her gaze, his voice firm. “It doesn’t matter. Because I’m not afraid anymore.”

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The world began to shift again, the shadows closing in around him. But as the hall of the Ascendants faded, Maros felt something different inside him. He wasn’t just confronting the past—he was moving beyond it.

He thought of Zarin, of the young man who had come to him for guidance, who now stood on the precipice of something far greater than either of them had ever imagined. Zarin carried the same burden that had once threatened to consume Maros and Rovan. The Old Magic coursed through him, powerful and unpredictable.

But there was something different about Zarin, something that gave Maros hope.

Perhaps Zarin could be the one to wield the magic without being consumed by it.

Maros knew the risks. He had seen what the Old Magic could do to those who were unprepared, those who tried to control it without understanding its true nature. But Zarin… there was a chance he might be different. A chance that, with the right guidance, Zarin could find the balance Maros had once sought but never fully achieved.

It was a gamble, and Maros knew it. But for the first time in years, he was willing to take that chance.

As the memory faded entirely, leaving only the cold wind of the Wastes, Maros opened his eyes. Zarin and Reya were standing beside him, their expressions tense but resolute. The Spire loomed ahead of them, dark and foreboding, but Maros no longer felt the weight of his past dragging him down.

He wasn’t running anymore. He had made his choice, and now, he would face the consequences—both for himself, and for Zarin.

“I’m ready,” Maros whispered, his voice steady.

He didn’t know what the future held, but he believed in Zarin. He believed that this time, things could be different. And for Maros, that belief was enough.