Evening fell over the market, bathing the stalls in a trembling golden light. Thalen and Tharion stayed back, motionless, their breaths held. In front of them, two figures clashed in an explosion of anger, their voices mingling with abrupt gestures, as if every word were a cutting blade. Hands trembled, fists clenched, and the volume rose with every passing second, turning the corridor's silence into a nearly physical tumult.
Then, amidst this chaos, his gaze fixed on a familiar figure: Arzyel. The person he had crossed paths with among the silent rows of books, whose eyes had once reflected a quiet curiosity, was there. But it was no longer the same look. Now it burned with a strange intensity, almost menacing, as if a dark veil had settled over him. And it was this detail that struck Thalen immediately: Arzyel wore an eyepatch. It wasn't just a simple piece of cloth; it was black, made of slightly worn leather, held in place by a strap that wrapped around his head with precision. It seemed to protect something—or hide something.
Tharion, at his side, noticed his unease but said nothing. He knew Thalen was watching Arzyel with that particular mix of wariness and fascination. Around them, the outbursts of voices transformed into a discordant melody of shouts and curses, each gesture heralding an imminent drama.
The two friends were suspended between the desire to intervene and the fear of revealing themselves. In the brief silence that followed, Thalen noticed a detail that chilled him to the bone: Arzyel was clutching something in his hand, an object he hadn't noticed in the library, which now gleamed faintly under the rays of sunlight filtering through the dusty windows.
All around, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if time itself hesitated to move forward. Thalen felt his heart pound harder, each beat echoing in his ears. He realized then that this moment would mark a turning point—not just for them, but for everything that would follow.
One of the two, Arzyel, was recognizable: he still carried that mixture of calm and curiosity that had struck him in the library. But his face, contorted, his eyes dark and burning with anger, was unrecognizable. The other… Thalen and Tharion had no idea who he was. A brother? An enemy? Doubt gnawed at them, adding an almost painful tension to the air already thick with shouts.
Arzyel kept his eyes closed, motionless, as if the world around him didn't exist.
— "You keep running, Arzyel…" said Nyros in a cold, cutting voice that sliced through the air.
Arzyel tilted his head slightly, a wider smile forming on his lips.
— "Running? No… I want to have fun."
A shiver ran through Tharion. Thalen instinctively pressed his talons against his shoulder, feeling the tension rise like an invisible weight.
— "Why do you always want to have fun?" Nyros asked.
The floor cracked under their feet, a dull warning that no one really noticed. Arzyel let out a faint, almost muffled laugh, blending with the vibrations of the street.
— "Arzyel… why do you refuse to listen? Everything I do is for you…"
— "Listen… to you? You never really do."
Before Nyros could say a word…
Arzyel brought a hand to his ear, curling his fingers as if to push away an invisible sound.
— "Enough… stop…" he murmured, more to himself than to Nyros.
Nyros stared at him, confused and wary, but he hadn't heard.
The voices stopped. Not gently. Abruptly. As if they had been cut off.
Arzyel remained motionless… then slowly lifted his head. His gaze met Nyros's. For the first time, Nyros saw Arzyel serious.
A faint spark shone in the right eye that had just opened… but his face remained impassive. A silence passed. Arzyel closed the eye.
Arzyel straightened, resuming his calm tone, as if the storm had vanished.
— "So… tell me… why do you want to train me?"
His gaze stayed fixed, serious, but his expression was almost detached, as if it were mere curiosity, not confrontation.
Nyros exhaled slowly.
— "So you want to understand…" he murmured, his eyes darkening slightly.— "Very well. I will show you."— "Veil of Shadows."
Suddenly, a shadowy veil, a hundred meters wide, spread around them from the outside—light but tangible, almost alive. The contours of the world began to dissolve in this darkness. Thalen, standing a few meters away, could see nothing. Neither could Tharion… yet Nyros's power felt strangely familiar to him.
— "…This technique…" Tharion murmured, his mouth barely open, as if recalling an old memory.
Tharion turned to Thalen.
— "Come… let's go," he whispered softly, a little tense.
Thalen beat his wings slowly, hesitating for a moment as if still feeling the echo of the fight behind them. Then, understanding it was time to leave, he rose silently, his feathers brushing the dark corridor air. Tharion moved in small, careful steps, alert to any movement behind them, and together they withdrew, alone in the silence that followed the storm.
Nyros turned to Arzyel.
— "Do you know the guild system? Because with knights, it's different."
Arzyel frowned.
— "But… what does that have to do with it?"
Nyros insisted, firmly:
— "Answer my question."
Arzyel raised an eyebrow, his curious gaze piercing through the dimness.
— "So, with knights, it's like this? The higher you climb, the stronger you become…"
Nyros let out a dry chuckle, striking the ground with his foot to punctuate his words.
— "If only it were that simple… We've grown up in it since childhood. But rank does not make the warrior. Many nobles become knights without ever facing true danger, and most don't understand what war really means. Your rank… it's just an illusion, a way of telling yourself stories."
Arzyel shivered slightly, the weight of these words settling into his mind, blurring for a moment the quiet curiosity he usually held for the world.
Arzyel lowered his head slightly, his eyes searching for something behind Nyros's gaze.
— "Yes… and no. I've met strong people in high ranks… but they are exceptions."
Nyros exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and gravity in the gesture.
— "It's normal. Those who truly rise are rare… strong, yes, but rare. Most… barely survive. Ranks do not make the warrior, Arzyel. Understand that."
Arzyel frowned slightly, a mix of curiosity and worry in his gaze, feeling the hardness and truth of Nyros's words sink into his mind.
— "Rare. Very rare. The majority? Incompetent. Ranks do not make the warrior. And I know you know it."
Nyros paused, letting his words fall into the air like a heavy echo.
— "Knights… they teach you to face death, betrayal, strategy… not just to accumulate power. In warring kingdoms, barely half are truly strong. The others… barely survive… or disappear."
Arzyel frowned, a mixture of frustration and defiance in his eyes.
— "Nyros… I'm not stupid. So speak! Tell me what you mean once and for all, and stop beating around the bush."
A slight smile tugged at Nyros's lips, but his eyes remained serious, almost thoughtful.
— "Calm down first… and remember freedom, becoming an adventurer. I've known that. Three years, away from the army. Yes, you have freedom… but it's not like being a knight. Knights wage war, that's true… but at least they know who their enemy is. Adventurers? Anyone can be one, and no one really knows what to expect."
Arzyel felt a strange weight settle inside him. He understood… but a part of him still doubted.
Nyros's foot struck the ground.
— BOOM.