The frost-covered fields stretched into the pale light of dawn, the air carrying a crisp stillness that was unusual even for Kyros. Ronan sat on a bale of hay near the barn, his magenta hair ruffled and his expression stoic. Despite his quiet demeanor, the weight of his exile lingered in his posture—a tension that none of the others missed.

Sorin leaned casually against the barn wall, flipping through his notebook with deliberate ease. “So,” he began, his voice cutting through the silence, “how does it feel to be officially unwanted by the people who raised you?”

Ronan’s sharp glare was answer enough, but Sorin only grinned, undeterred.

Gabriel, standing a few paces away with his arms crossed, sighed heavily. “Lay off, Sorin.”

Sorin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to break the tension. Isn’t that what we do here?”

Alexander worked silently nearby, hammering a loose board back into the fence. His blue eyes occasionally flicked toward Ronan, curiosity etched into his face, though he said nothing. Jordan, as always, moved with quiet efficiency, stacking freshly chopped logs near the fire pit.

Ronan finally spoke, his voice steady but laced with bitterness. "Unwanted or not, at least now I know where I belong—or don’t."

Gabriel shot Sorin a pointed look before addressing Ronan. “Well, you stand here now. Let’s see if you make it worth our while.”

Sorin smirked, clearly enjoying the exchange. “And here I thought we didn’t do charity work.”

The group gathered under the shade of a crooked oak tree. The smell of earth and hay filled the air as they passed around water and bread.

“Kyros is… chaotic,” Alexander remarked, his brow furrowed. “It feels like it’s holding itself together by sheer force of will.”

Gabriel leaned back against the tree trunk, his expression indifferent. “That’s because it is. Kyros isn’t a kingdom—it’s a battlefield disguised as one.”

Sorin flipped his notebook shut and chimed in. “The north? That’s barbarian territory. Clans like the Ironfangs and Bloodhowls fight each other more than anyone else. Unless someone stronger shows up, then they’ll play nice—temporarily.”

“And the west?” Alexander asked.

“Monsters,” Sorin replied. “Two kinds of lands there. The Frontlines are crawling with Ash Wolves and similar beasts. But the Deep Beyond? That’s home to the Five Great Beasts.”

Gabriel nodded. “Ashrend, Gorath, Nyssira, Skarn, and Vaelith. If they move, entire cities fall.”

“And the east?” Alexander pressed.

“The House of Veridral,” Sorin said with a faint smirk. “The royal family. They keep to their gilded halls, pretending the rest of us don’t exist.”

Jordan, stacking his logs neatly, added, “The east has resources—farms, trade routes. But don’t expect them to help out here.”

Alexander frowned, his curiosity clear. “And the unorthodox clans? Where do they fit in?”

Gabriel’s gaze sharpened, and his voice carried an edge. “The renegades,” he corrected. “Some just want to live freely—no taxes, no laws, no interference. They’re a nuisance, but they’re not the real problem.”

Sorin’s smirk faded, his tone taking on a rare seriousness. “The problem is the other kind.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “The other kind?”

Gabriel’s voice dropped, laced with disdain. “Murderers. Terrorists. The kind that pillage villages, own slaves, and leave no one alive to tell the story. The worst of them are the Four Elites—leaders of the most violent factions.”

Jordan, who had been silently observing from a few steps away, shifted his posture slightly. His dark eyes flicked toward Sorin, whose usual grin had vanished, replaced by a tense silence.

Gabriel continued, his tone dark. “Brask the Titan, head of the Ironblood Marauders, is a brute who sees strength as the only law. Then there’s Selira the Viper, leader of the Shadowfang Syndicate—assassins and slavers who thrive on fear. Thaleon the Butcher, from the Crimson Reavers, leaves a trail of carnage wherever he goes. And finally, Marven the Wraith, the mastermind behind the Black Blades. They don’t leave survivors.”

Sorin’s hands clenched at the mention of Brask, his posture stiffening as if he were holding back a storm.

Alexander, noticing the shift in Sorin’s demeanor, frowned. “I’ve heard of them,” he said carefully. “Even outside Kyros. They’re infamous—stories of what they’ve done make their way through every city, even the capitals.”

Gabriel nodded grimly. “They’re everywhere, but here in Kyros, it’s worse. They hide in plain sight. The Royal House doesn’t bother with us anymore, so there’s no one to root them out.”

Alexander’s brow furrowed. “But where do they hide? Kaelholm? Somewhere else in Kyros?”

Gabriel glanced at him, his tone flat. “Kaelholm is a lot bigger than the slice you’ve seen.”

“Bigger?” Alexander echoed, confused. “I’ve walked through most of it. It’s just a crowded market city.”

Jordan finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “What you’ve seen is just the outer layer. Beneath that are tunnels, networks—places you don’t want to wander into unless you’re ready.”

Gabriel added, “And it’s not just Kaelholm. Every major settlement in Kyros has corners like that. Even the farm isn’t far enough to keep us completely out of their reach.”

Alexander’s gaze shifted back to Sorin, whose clenched fists betrayed more than he wanted to show. “And you’ve dealt with them before,” Alexander said quietly, his voice more an observation than a question.

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Gabriel cut him off before Sorin could respond. “Some things are better left alone,” he said, his tone final. “For now, all you need to know is they’re not a problem you want to deal with.”

Alexander hesitated but nodded, sensing the unspoken weight behind Gabriel’s words. Even so, his gaze lingered on Sorin, whose jaw was tight, and his posture unusually tense. Whatever Gabriel wasn’t saying, it was clear Sorin carried scars deeper than he cared to admit.

“The fire crackled softly as the group settled into their usual spots, the earlier tension about the renegade factions still hanging faintly in the air. Alexander, deep in thought, broke the silence, his tone contemplative.

"The conversation shifted from the weight of the renegades to something lighter, though no less charged—the rising stars of Kyros." I’ve heard of some of the rising stars,” he began, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Leonar Ferros, Mira Lysenne, Velra Mareth—they’re names I grew up hearing about.”

Jordan, who had been sitting quietly, glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve heard of them?”

Alexander nodded, leaning forward. “My family kept close ties to the capitals. Stories of their feats would often come up at the estate. Leonar, for example, was spoken of like a living legend—a man destined for greatness.”

Gabriel snorted faintly, his green eyes glinting in the firelight. “Living legend or not, they’re all the same. They come here, use Kyros as a stepping stone, and leave when it stops being useful.”

Jordan’s voice carried a note of disapproval. “They’re not the only ones who use Kyros. Everyone here takes what they can to survive.”

Sorin chuckled, leaning back and flipping his notebook closed. “Fair enough. But the ‘rising stars’ are special, right? They’re the ones who make headlines. Leonar Ferros hitting his fourth Aura Circle, Mira Lysenne perfecting her spells on the frontlines, Velra Mareth taking down an Ash Wolf.”

Alexander frowned. “They’re strong, no doubt. But I always thought they came here to help Kyros.”

“Help?” Gabriel asked, his tone sharp. “No one comes to Kyros to help. They come to prove something. Strength, skill, reputation—it doesn’t matter what. Once they’ve got what they need, they leave.”

“And the people they leave behind?” Alexander asked, his brow furrowing.

Sorin gestured broadly, his smirk laced with bitterness. “Us. Left with the chaos they stirred up.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, the weight of Gabriel’s words settling in. Then, Ronan broke the silence, his tone casual but curious.

“And what about Celestia?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Gabriel. “She’s the one I’ve heard the most about.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression remained neutral. Sorin’s grin widened as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Oh, Celestia,” Sorin began, his tone deliberately teasing. "She burned brightest of all. Climbed the ranks, married the Duke of the North, and left with her prodigies."

Jordan, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “She didn’t just leave. She took the best fighters Kyros had seen in years and used them to build her legacy. Now, she’s a symbol of strength everywhere except here.”

Gabriel’s posture stiffened, and his green eyes flicked to Sorin. “Don’t.”

But Sorin only leaned forward, his grin growing wider. “Why not? It’s a great story. And you’re part of it, Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his annoyance palpable.

Ronan, watching the interaction closely, tilted his head slightly. “Wait a minute…” His magenta hair caught the firelight as his sharp eyes narrowed. Slowly, realization dawned. “You’re her ex-fiancé, aren’t you?”

Gabriel exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “What? How? Even barbarians know what I look like?”

Ronan shrugged, his tone neutral but curious. “It’s not exactly a secret. Your face was plastered all over the papers during her rise. There were sketches from the ceremonies you attended together.”

Sorin, already grinning, burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Oh, this is too good! Kyros’ most famous ex! Even the mountains couldn’t keep that under wraps.”

Gabriel shot him a glare, his patience wearing thin. “Fantastic. Just what I needed.”

Jordan, though he said nothing, watched Gabriel closely, his gaze unreadable. He wasn’t one to press, but he could sense the tension radiating from Gabriel like a coiled spring.

Ronan, meanwhile, smirked faintly and leaned back against the log. “So, what happened? Did she trade you in for the Duke?”

Sorin let out a mock gasp. “Ronan, you can’t just ask that!”

Gabriel stood abruptly, brushing off his hands with exaggerated patience. “I’m going to check the traps. You three can stay here and reminisce about my apparent celebrity.”

As he walked off, Sorin’s laughter echoed after him, and even Alexander allowed himself a faint smile. Jordan, however, remained quiet, his gaze following Gabriel into the darkness.

Ronan turned to Sorin, his tone dry. “You really enjoy poking at him, don’t you?”

Sorin shrugged, his grin still in place. “Someone has to. Besides, it’s good for him.”

Alexander looked between them, his curiosity gnawing at him. “Celestia… she must have been important.”

“She was,” Sorin replied, his grin fading slightly. “But that’s a story for another time.”

The night deepened, the fire crackling softly as the group dispersed to their respective spots. Gabriel stood alone at the edge of the field, staring out at the frost-covered expanse. The cold air nipped at his skin, but his thoughts were far from the present.

His green eyes narrowed as memories stirred, unbidden. Celestia’s voice, sharp yet melodic, echoed in his mind—a reminder of a life left behind. She had been brilliant, ambitious, and utterly relentless. Yet, as much as she had burned bright, her ambition had cast long shadows.

Gabriel clenched his fists. "Kyros’ brightest star? Maybe. But when stars fall, they leave scars that don’t fade."

The sound of footsteps drew his attention. Turning slightly, he saw Jordan standing a few paces behind him, his expression unreadable.

"You’re thinking too much,” Jordan said, his voice low.

Gabriel snorted faintly. “Someone has to.”

Jordan tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “Not about the past. It doesn’t change anything.”

For a moment, Gabriel didn’t respond. Then he exhaled sharply, letting the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “You’re right,” he said finally, his tone carrying a faint trace of weariness. “It doesn’t.”

Jordan nodded once, turning back toward the barn. Gabriel remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

The stars above shone faintly against the inky black sky, their light distant and cold. He turned away, retreating into the night, the weight of both past and present pressing down on him.