Seluvia smiled wide, her pride obvious, a rare warmth softening her sharp features. Petrus stood still, silent, his presence a mountain against the forest''s edge. His gaze moved from one of us to the next—though when his eyes found me, they lingered, heavy and searching. A moment longer than the others. Like he saw something the rest didn''t—something buried deep, flickering beneath my skin.


    And then, a nod. Approval. Quiet, but unmistakable.


    He spoke quietly, but his words carried weight, sinking into the air like stones into still water. "You have learned the secret of true strength."


    He paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back, boots crunching the brittle grass. "Individual strength will only take you so far. There is always someone stronger. Faster. More powerful." He paused, letting the truth settle. "And pride... pride is the enemy of true strength."


    His gaze swept over us again, sharp and knowing. It rested on me, cutting through me like a blade, before moving on. "No matter how strong you are... as long as you trust one another, as long as you have the courage to lean on each other, you will always have the strength to overcome."


    He stopped, his silhouette framed by the sinking sun. "One battle doesn''t win a war. But it earns you the right to keep fighting. To keep moving forward."


    Petrus''s voice softened, but the warning was clear, a shadow threading through his calm. "Those reflections you fought—those were what you could become if you chased power and ignored your bond as a team." He let his next words sink in, heavy and deliberate. "Alone... you fall. And become a vessel for darkness."


    Another long silence stretched out, the forest whispering around us—wind rustling leaves, distant birds calling. Then, finally: "You have grown into warriors far beyond the ones who first entered this forest. Keep honing your skills—together. No matter how hard the path becomes... as long as you rely on each other, you will prevail."


    After passing the final test, our training was coming to a close. We decided to celebrate our hard work the best way we knew how—food and drink at a local inn, a chance to breathe after seven years of relentless grind.


    We found a cozy spot in the corner, away from the noise of clinking mugs and raucous laughter. Torglel clapped Laboritus on the back with a booming laugh and dragged him off to get drinks for everyone, his bronze clasps glinting as he wove through the crowd. Alythiel and I took a seat at the table, the wood worn smooth by years of use, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale.


    I glanced at her, still curious, the memory of the arena sharp in my mind. "What was that you did back there?" I asked. "Helping me channel my magic." I was grateful... but I needed to understand, the chaos of that power still tingling in my veins.


    Alythiel smiled faintly, her silver hair catching the dim lantern light. "Magic is difficult, even when you have an affinity for it," she said, her voice steady, almost instructional. "You''re just a vessel for it to flow through. But if you try to channel too much at once, it overflows—and that''s when you lose control." She paused, resting her hands on the table, fingers tracing the grain of the wood. "Your spell was too strong for you to handle alone. So I used one that temporarily made your vessel... bigger, I suppose. Just enough to contain it."


    I nodded slowly, the explanation clicking into place. Realizing—maybe for the first time—I should''ve paid more attention to Seluvia''s lectures on magic, instead of dozing through them with Torglel snoring at my side.


    "You know, Alythiel," I said, leaning back, "when we first met, I didn''t know what to make of you. And I still don''t understand why you continue to stand with us in this fight." I met her gaze, steady and open, and gave her hand a light pat—gratitude in the gesture. "But I''m grateful you do."


    Alythiel opened her mouth to respond—but just then, Torglel slammed down four mugs of ale in front of us with a loud thud, foam sloshing over the rims. "Solari," he said, dropping into the seat next to me with a grunt, "settle a debate for us."


    Laboritus slid into the seat across from us, giving his usual sharp nod, his bow resting against the wall behind him. "Who''d win in a fight?" Torglel asked, his grin wide, eyes glinting with mischief. "A hydra or a dragon?"


    I raised an eyebrow, taking a mug. "Depends on the dragon. Are we talking young adult or ancient?"


    Torglel waved a hand dismissively, ale slopping onto the table. "Like it bloody well matters! A dragon is a dragon, no matter what fancy name you slap on it." He took a long swig from his mug, then thumped it down, the sound echoing. "In fact, I took one head-on once. Nothing but my bare hands."


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    I shook my head, laughing, the memory vivid. "You were drunk and got into a bar fight with a Dragonborn."


    "Same thing," Torglel said, completely unfazed, wiping foam from his beard. "They both got dragon in the name."


    Laboritus crossed his arms, his deep voice cutting in. "What about that time we broke into the cultist lair? You said there were ten dragons then."


    I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Kobolds," I said. "They were kobolds."


    Alythiel laughed then, the sound light and bright—like wind chimes in a soft breeze, cutting through the inn''s din. "Torglel doesn''t really know what a dragon is, does he?"


    I smiled at her, warmth spreading in my chest. "Not the slightest clue."


    Torglel slammed his mug against mine, grinning wide. "May we fight a dragon and kick its scaly behind!"


    I laughed and clinked his mug in return, ale sloshing again. "I''ll drink to that."


    We ate, drank, and shared stories late into the night—tales of near-misses, dumb luck, and victories hard-won. For the first time since our journey began, we had a truly peaceful moment. We weren''t thinking about the path ahead of us. We weren''t worrying about the dangers waiting out there. For one night, we were just... together. A family, bound tighter than blood.


    We left the forest behind us the next morning, the canopy thinning as we stepped into open air. Seven years inside, but out here, only a week had passed—the world''s time warped against ours. The landscape hadn''t changed much—rolling hills, distant smoke curling skyward—but we had, carved anew by the forest''s trials.


    Torglel broke the silence first, his voice gruff as we trudged along. "What''s next?"


    I took a breath, staring out at the horizon where that smoke twisted like a signal. "We have no leads on Zolphan," I said. "Not yet. But the best way to find him is through networking."


    Torglel gave me a sideways look, one brow arching. "Networking?"


    I smirked, but there wasn''t much humor in it—more resolve than anything. "We rebuild the Shadow Hand."


    His expression sobered, the grin fading as he shifted his hammer''s weight. "Are there any of us left? Besides you and me?"


    I shook my head, the uncertainty gnawing at me. "I''m not sure." I paused, clenching my fists until my knuckles whitened. "But we''re going to find out."


    We made our way back to the old base. The ruins of the Shadow Hand.


    We didn''t say much on the way, the silence thick with memory. Too many ghosts lingered in these tunnels—comrades fallen, walls stained with the past. Too much death and destruction etched into every stone. The air grew colder as we descended, the weight of it pressing against my chest.


    As we approached the entrance, I slowed, my boots scuffing the dirt. The cold stone archway loomed ahead, its jagged edges unchanged since the day we''d fled. Only this time, we were coming back as the last of the line—survivors carrying a legacy on our shoulders.


    I held up a hand, stopping Torglel. "Be on guard," I said quietly, my voice low but firm. "We don''t know if the base is empty."


    He nodded, drawing his hammer with a casual ease that didn''t fool me—his grip was tight, ready to swing through hell itself if need be.


    We entered cautiously, moving through the labyrinth of tunnels, torches long extinguished casting faint shadows. It was... clean. The bodies were gone, no trace of the sprawled corpses we''d left behind. The blood scrubbed away, floors polished to a dull sheen. No signs of the massacre that had torn this place apart two months ago lingered—only an eerie stillness remained.


    Torglel broke the silence, his voice a rough whisper. "I don''t remember this place coming with maid service."


    I almost smiled. Almost. The corner of my mouth twitched, but the unease held it back.


    We made our way toward Arcainius''s old office, the heart of what the Shadow Hand had been. I paused at the door, resting my hand on the old iron handle—cold, pitted with age. Memories flickered: Arcainius barking orders, maps sprawled across the desk, the hum of purpose. I pushed it open slowly, hinges creaking in the quiet.


    Someone was inside. Back turned. Methodically placing books back onto the shelves, each spine aligned with precision.


    "Kaelen," I said, stunned, my voice barely above a breath.


    Torglel grinned wide, lowering his hammer with a thud against the stone. "You little bugger—you''re alive!"


    Kaelen turned at the sound of his name, movements fluid, deliberate. A scar cut across his right ear, stark against his pale skin, dark eyes as sharp as the twin daggers sheathed at his sides—steel glinting faintly in the dim light. The most dangerous halfling I''d ever met, all four feet of him a coiled threat.


    And the first one to ever beat me in a fight.


    That scar? I gave him that when we first met, a clumsy slash from a younger, brasher me. He''d tried to recruit me into the Shadow Hand back then, his voice smooth as silk, his stance unyielding. And I''d challenged him, cocky and green. I didn''t stand a chance—his daggers had danced circles around me, that scar my only mark before he''d pinned me flat.


    But Kaelen wasn''t just another Night Talon. He was Arcainius''s right hand, the top of the chain. Even among the Night Talons—the Shadow Hand''s deadliest—he stood above them all. His specialization was Shade, the elite of the assassination units, masters of silence and precision. And Kaelen wasn''t just elite. He was the best—death in shadow, a legend whispered in the tunnels.


    Their motto was carved into every blade they carried: One breath. One death. Kaelen didn''t just live the creed—he defined it, every kill a testament to its truth.


    Kaelen''s fingers tapped once on the hilt of his dagger—a signal, a vow, a challenge. "If you''re serious," he said, his voice cold and measured, cutting through the air like a blade, "then as Arcainius''s right hand, I invoke Certamen Noctis."


    The words hit like a hammer smashing stone—final, unyielding, no turning back. A challenge to lead, steeped in Shadow Hand tradition: the strongest takes the mantle, no exceptions.


    Torglel patted me hard on the shoulder, his grin as fierce as any battlefield charge, his hand heavy with confidence. "With your newfound strength," he said, "this''ll be a breeze, brother."


    I didn''t answer, holding Kaelen''s gaze—steady, unflinching, those dark eyes boring into me like they could see through to my core.


    Kaelen''s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of assessment. "It''s the strongest that leads," he said, voice low and firm. "Always has been. You know that."


    I gave a slow nod, the weight of it settling in my bones. "I know."