The outpost stood firm, its stone walls bearing the scars of past battles. Faint traces of mana pulsed through the fortifications, a reinforcement that could be fully activated by mages inbuing their mana into the walls in the event of an attack.

Inside, the fortified space was divided—one half rigid with military precision, the other overflowing with desperation.

The inner walls were lined with makeshift shelters, patchwork tents, and collapsed wagons repurposed into homes. Smoke curled from shallow fire pits, doing little to mask the staleness of damp cloth and the acrid scent of sickness.

The refugees looked torn and exhausted, yet hope still lingered in their eyes as they watched their children play with makeshift toys, small remnants of a world that once was.

In contrast, the legionaries occupied the center of the outpost in stark military order. Their camp was a grid of canvas tents, arranged in neat, disciplined rows, each entrance facing inward toward a central command post. Racks of weapons stood at the ready—swords sharpened, shields and spears lined in formation, waiting.

Though they were better off than the refugees, the wear of war was unmistakable. Their armor, once polished and engraved, now bore scratches, dents, and dried streaks of old blood. Many had wrapped strips of cloth around their gauntlets where plating had broken, and some wore patched-up tunics beneath their chestplates to keep out the cold.

As Rifi and his group entered alongside the Commander, they drew only a few fleeting glances from the legionaries and civilians alike. Most simply returned to their duties, unsurprised that yet another group of refugees had joined them.

The commander of the patrol worked swiftly, wasting no time in organizing shelter for the newly arrived refugees.

There wasn’t much he needed to do since the shelters had already been prepared. This was not the first group of refugees to pass through, nor would it be the last. The process had been repeated many times, and yet, despite its routine nature, it was clear that the commander took extra care in ensuring everything was handled properly. Perhaps it was his natural sense of duty—or perhaps he was simply looking to get in the good grace of an Orange-Core.

With the war dragging on and casualties mounting, the number of high-tier mages had dwindled. An Orange-Core was not just another soldier; they were a rare resource, an asset that could shift the tide of battle. Whether out of respect, caution, or self-preservation, the commander ensured that the group Rifi was traveling with was accommodated without issue.

After the refugees had been settled, Severus personally led Rifi toward the main command structure, where the mage overseeing the outpost awaited them.

Unlike the grand keeps of major clans, this outpost was built for function. Its position was no accident. Flanked by uneven terrain, it acted as a natural chokepoint, with little room for a full-scale assault. Strategically placed for defense, it stood in contrast to most outposts, which were simply constructed around mana veins.

Severus moved with purpose as they stepped inside the main building.

The meeting chamber was as utilitarian as the outpost itself. A heavy oak table stood at its center, covered with maps pinned down by iron markers and scattered notes written in hurried script. A single dagger had been stabbed into the wood, holding down a parchment—its placement not decorative, but deliberate.

The walls bore faint scorch marks, remnants of spells cast in anger or frustration, and the air carried the scent of old parchment and burning mana. A single iron sconce, its surface dulled with age, flickered with enchanted flame, casting long shadows across the chamber.

As they entered, the man standing at the far end of the table rose. His movements were steady and controlled—not the motions of a man unsure of his place, but of one accustomed to command.

Septimus Sobriana was a man of governance before he became a man of war. His posture was upright, disciplined, yet his movements had the calculated efficiency of a statesman rather than a lifelong soldier. There was no wasted motion, no brashness—only a quiet control that spoke of years spent in negotiation halls rather than battlefields.

His uniform, though practical, still carried traces of the refinement expected of a leader—a dark, reinforced tunic woven with mana-threaded embroidery, tailored for comfort as much as protection. Unlike seasoned warriors who wore their scars openly, Septimus bore only faint markings of battle, as if conflict had been an unwelcome but necessary addition to his life. His half-cloak, embroidered with the sigil of the Sobriana clan, proudly displayed.

His gauntlets, polished and well-maintained, had few scratches, their edges showing wear from defensive use rather than prolonged combat. He was not a man who reveled in battle, but neither was he one to shy away from it. His presence was not one of brute force, but of measured authority, the kind that carried more weight in council chambers than on the front lines.

His eyes, however, were sharp—not the reckless gaze of a warrior eager for blood, but the piercing, assessing look of a man who had spent years studying people, weighing intentions, predicting outcomes. Even as he regarded Rifi, there was no immediate instinctual challenge—only calculation, curiosity, and a mind constantly at work.

On his uniform, clearly visible, he carried his rank insignia—the marking of a Red-Core spellbound mage.

“Welcome to our Sobriana clan’s humble outpost,” he said, his voice even and measured. “Rifi, is it?”

Rifi inclined his head slightly. “It is. Thank you for your help.”

Septimus nodded once, speaking with the efficiency of a man who undoubtedly carried himself well in political circles.

“No, no. I should be the one expressing gratitude. Ah, but where are my manners?” He straightened slightly. “Septimus Sobriana. I believe you are already acquainted with my son, Severus Sobriana.”

“Yes,” Rifi said. “I had the pleasure.”

There was a flicker of something in Septimus’s gaze—something unreadable—but it passed quickly, his expression returning to its usual pragmatism.

Septimus’s expression grew more serious, his brows knitting together in thought. "My son tells me you are a legionary of Hepestus… and an Orange-Core at that. Forgive me if I am blunt, but I do not recall any of Hepestus’s Orange-Cores bearing the name Rifi."

"It would be worrying if you did," Rifi replied evenly. "I only recently broke through."

"Ah," Septimus said, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment. "That does explain it… to an extent. But it also raises more questions."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Rifi nodded, his tone calm and measured. "Naturally. However, the City Lord or one of his trusted officers would surely be able to confirm my identity."

Septimus and Severus exchanged a glance, their concern evident.

"We cannot simply bring anyone before the City Lord, especially not in his current state," Septimus said cautiously. "Even though you are stronger than us, we still need to exercise caution and common sense. Surely, you understand our position."

It was clear to Rifi that while they were making an effort to remain respectful, both men were wary of him. Their unease stemmed not only from their strict leadership but also from Rifi himself. They did not trust him—yet they did not dare risk offending him either.

Recognizing their apprehension, Rifi relented, recounting the events of his last mission and the circumstances of his disappearance. As he spoke, Septimus’s expression shifted several times—moving from skepticism to contemplation, and finally, to grim understanding. The weight of Rifi’s story was not lost on him.

"Your story does make sense," Septimus said finally, his voice heavy. "Kaelin is a name well-known to us. He played no small role in the fall of the City. The bastard is hated by all, but I don’t need to tell you that. Even now, he plagues our legionaries, his blade claiming more lives by the day."

Rifi’s eyes narrowed, his mana surging involuntarily as anger gripped him. "So that piece of shit is still alive?!"

The oppressive weight of his mana filled the chamber instantly. Severus instinctively took a step back, his hand brushing against the wall for balance. Even Septimus, seasoned and composed, adjusted his stance, shoulders squaring to withstand the force pressing against him. The heavy air crackled with restrained power.

Only when Severus muttered, "Scary," did Rifi realize what he was doing. With a slow breath, he reined his mana back into his core, letting the tension in the room settle.

"My apologies," Rifi said quietly. "It seems I let my emotions get the better of me."

Septimus exhaled slowly, smoothing the front of his tunic. "No apology necessary. It was my fault for carelessly bringing him into the conversation." His voice, though calm, carried an edge of awareness now. "Let’s return to the matter at hand."

He studied Rifi for a moment longer before speaking. "I believe you, even under these circumstances."

Turning to Severus, he gave his orders. "Gather two more legionaries and prepare to depart in an hour. You will escort Rifi to the main clan."

Severus gave a sharp nod before swiftly leaving the room.

Septimus turned back to Rifi. "I appreciate your patience. The situation demands caution, and I must take my duties seriously."

"The situation demands such, so do not worry," Rifi replied.

A rare chuckle escaped Septimus. "Refreshing, to meet such an understanding Orange-Core." His tone, though lighter, did not lose its edge of calculation. "I won’t hold you much longer, but as a precaution, you will be questioned again before entering the main compound. However, you arrived at a fortunate time—a delegation from the City Lord’s forces is present. They will likely be able to confirm your story."

Rifi inclined his head. "That is reassuring news. Thank you."

Septimus returned the nod before gesturing toward one of the maidens waiting near the door.

"Take our guest to wash up," he instructed.

Only then did Rifi truly notice himself. His uniform was caked in dried blood and dust, his hair tangled and stiff with sweat. The scent of battle clung to him—iron, smoke, and blood—a lingering reminder of the path that had brought him here. He had grown used to it, but now, within the walls of relative safety, he realized just how out of place it must seem.

The maiden, a young woman with tied-back auburn hair, bowed lightly, though there was fear in her blue eyes. “This way, honored guest.”

Rifi followed, casting one last glance at Septimus, who had already returned to his seat, deeply in thoughs. The weight of leadership never left a man like him.

The bathing chamber was simple but functional—a stone basin filled with heated water, a wooden bucket, and fresh uniform folded neatly on a stool. As he stripped away the layers of grime and stepped into the water, the heat seeped into his muscles, loosening the tension that had become so familiar he had almost forgotten it was there.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Rifi took a breath that did not carry the scent of war.

By the time he emerged outside, clad in fresh clothes provided by the Sobriana, Severus and the two legionaries were already waiting in front of the barracks, their gear polished and pristine—no doubt wanting to present a certain image as representatives in front of their main clan, Suburana.

Just as he approached, a familiar voice rang out.

“Wait!”

Diana.

The young woman hurried toward him, her expression tense, her hands balled into fists. The deep cerulean hue of her mana flickered faintly around her fingertips, barely contained. Rifi had seen that glow before—the odd, shifting, ever-changing nature of her element—something he still couldn’t quite categorize.

He turned fully to her. “Diana.”

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice sharp, as though accusing him of slipping away without saying goodbye. Her golden eyes searched his face, looking for something—perhaps reassurance, perhaps a promise.

Rifi hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice softer than usual. “I have no choice. The situation is… delicate.”

Diana exhaled through her nose. “I know. But—” She bit her lip, then straightened. “You owe me.”

Rifi arched a brow. “I owe you?”

She crossed her arms, chin raised defiantly. “Yes.” Then, as if scrambling for justification, she quickly added, “I did tell you what happened to Hepestus… and that the City Lord was probably alive. That has to count for something.”

Rifi studied her for a moment. That was true—but the way she said it, the sheer boldness of it, amused him. Ambitious, brazen, completely unwilling to back down.

He let out a genuine, heartfelt laugh.

Rifi let out a genuine, heartfelt laugh.

“Pretty bold for someone who, mere hours ago, was lost for words because of a scary Orange-Core mage.”

Diana scoffed, shaking her head. “My parents always told me that if I wanted to succeed, I had to be bold.”

Rifi smirked. “I just cant catch a break seems.”

Then, after a brief pause, he nodded. “Fine. Once this is over, I’ll train you.”

Diana’s posture relaxed slightly, but she quickly masked her relief with a huff. “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

Severus, who had been quietly observing, cleared his throat. “We need to leave.”

Diana took a step back, but before Rifi mounted his beast, he placed a hand on her forearm, his grip firm. “Stay alive.”

Diana’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard, but she didn’t look away. “I intend to.”

And with that, he departed with Severus and the two legionaries.

The journey was swift, the wind whipping past them as they traversed battle-worn plains and dense forests on foot. Even through the trees, the looming walls of the Suburana stronghold were visible—dark stone reinforced with high-rank beast bone, its pale, jagged traces running like veins through the structure, fortifying it against magic. The walls stood high, an immovable bastion against the encroaching dangers of war.

The gates towered six meters high, the crests of the Suburana clan etched into the archway. Flanking the entrance, guards stood at attention, their armor well-maintained despite the wear of constant conflict.

As they approached, Severus slowed his pace, lifting the Sobriana clan’s insignia—a token of authority.

“Severus of the Sobriana clan,” he declared. “I bring information that must be shared with the main clan.”

One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his eyes scanning the group. His gaze lingered on Rifi for a fraction longer, his expression unreadable, before he finally spoke.

“We didn’t expect you so soon. Did something happen?” The guard’s tone was cautious, his gaze flicking between Severus and Rifi.

Severus met his stare evenly. “Ah, nothing much. We just happened to stumble upon a lost Orange-Core,” he boasted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “So we rushed to inform the Matriarch and, well, confirm his identity.”

The guard studied Rifi for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally motioning toward the gatekeepers. “Open the gates.” Then, turning back to Severus, he added, “You’d best report to Selmak first. You know how things are—going straight to the Matriarch would stir up a storm.”

Severus gave a slight nod. “Naturally. Thank you.”

With a heavy groan, the reinforced doors swung open, revealing the city beyond.

Inside, the Suburana stronghold was a city of its own. Though smaller than Hepestus, it was meticulously structured—stone buildings lined the streets, watchtowers strategically placed at high vantage points, and markets interwoven with training grounds where legionaries sparred in disciplined formations. The scent of treated beast hide, fire, and earth lingered in the air, a testament to the city's dual nature as both a military bastion and a place of governance.

Severus turned to Rifi. “Welcome to the Suburana stronghold,” he said. “A bit more cramped than usual.”