East Garden –
Midnight
The garden was colder now.
Quieter.
The perfume-choked tension of the ballroom replaced by the whisper of leaves and the faint hum of string instruments beyond stained glass.
Towan stood at the fountain, the moonlight silvering his reflection.
The sigils on his sleeve had faded—but the
truth
remained.
They had shimmered.
And someone
else
saw it.
Then—
“You’ve grown.”
Selene stepped from the hedges like moonlight given shape.
Emerald cloak trailing.
Eyes sharper than blades.
Still in her gown—but with none of the softness nobles feigned.
“Not tall,” she added, “but in... other ways.”
Towan straightened. “So... why did you call me here?”
He needed the distraction. Anything to keep the
Elaren
name from chewing through his thoughts.
“I’m giving you a map to Eryndar’s dojo,” Selene said, already pulling parchment from her cloak. “And healing you. You’re still wounded.”
“Thanks,” Towan muttered. And meant it.
She pressed two fingers to his side. A pulse of Essentia—warm, clean—ran through his ribs. The ache eased, replaced by her usual quiet efficiency.
“I wish I could tell you more,” she murmured. “But knowing your name… might already be too dangerous.”
He opened his mouth to ask—
BOOM.
The blast ripped through the air like thunder made flesh.
The ground
shook.
The fountain
cracked.
A bloom of orange flame erupted from the ballroom’s west wing, followed by
shattering glass
and a second, deeper shockwave that hit like a hammer to the lungs.
Towan hit the ground.
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Selene threw up a shield of green-tinged Essentia—just in time to deflect the
hailstorm
of stained-glass shards peppering the garden’s edge.
Screams.
More than screams—
battle cries.
“Death to the towers!”
“Burn the bloodlines!”
“End the chains of class!”
Smoke surged from the shattered hall as
masked rebels poured out of the flame
, wielding scavenged blades, rusty halberds, and unstable Essentia-charged gear that sparked with chaotic energy.
They weren’t soldiers.
They weren’t assassins.
They were
desperate
.
Selene shoved Towan toward the wall. “GO! The ballroom's collapsing—find the others!”
“What about you?”
“I’ll hold this side—move!”
He turned back once—just in time to see Selene
rip the skirts off her gown
for mobility, her hands glowing green with ready Essentia.
The scream tore through the night—
Len’s voice
, sharp with panic.
Towan didn’t hesitate.
He
sprinted
into the burning ballroom, the heat clawing at his throat with every breath. Smoke curled through the air like venom, and the scent of scorched silk clung to everything.
The once-opulent hall was unrecognizable—
Shattered chandeliers crashed in slow motion from the ceiling.
Tables overturned and splintered underfoot.
Velvet drapes curled into ash, flames licking up their length like
hungry tongues.
Chaos.
Near the dais,
Governor Verestra
stood cornered—his usually pristine coat
singed
, the embroidery blackened.
His bodyguards fell one by one to a
swarm of rebels
, blades flashing like wolves descending on a penned stag.
The Governor himself, not a warrior, held a fallen soldier’s dagger with trembling hands—fingers trained for ink and treaties, not steel.
Across the hall—
Len
fought.
Elegant, desperate—her sapphire gown torn at the shoulder as a rebel lunged with a crude spear—
CLANG.
Steel rang out.
Ser Varras
intercepted, his dress sword
flashing like judgment.
The attacker’s head hit the ground before his body did.
“Stay behind me, my Lady,” Varras ordered, his eyes never leaving the chaos.
Near the broken stained-glass windows—
Sylra
moved like a storm incarnate.
Wind surged at her command, howling past her outstretched arms as she cleared escape routes,
parting flames like a god’s breath
.
Smoke curled around her, but the fire dared not touch her robes.
Towan turned—
Movement. Behind him.
His body snapped sideways—instinct taking over—just as a
rusted halberd
slammed into the space his head had occupied a heartbeat before.
(Shit—)
The rebel snarled, swinging wildly. No uniform. No insignia. Just
rage.
Towan ducked low, pivoting on reflex. His fist buried in the man’s stomach, followed by an elbow to the jaw.
He dropped like a sack of bricks.
(No corruption. No black veins… not Circle. Just angry.)
The suit moved
with
him—its threads flexing at the shoulders, never snagging. Breathable. Weightless.
Built to fight.
(Was this… armor?)
A second attacker surged in—knife raised.
Towan stepped into him, twisted, and used the man’s own momentum to throw him into a burning table.
(Leon definitely knew.)