Jaenor stood before Baren, and then Baren reached out and pinched Jaenor's cheek, his fingers pressing against the warm skin as if to convince himself that this was not so elaborate dream or illusion.
"You're real?" he asked, voice low, disbelieving. "You're actually real."
Jaenor gave a soft, knowing smile.
"Yeah… I'm real."
Baren let out a quiet chuckle, the sound shaky with emotion. He still couldn't believe it—after everything, here Jaenor was, standing before him, alive and solid.
Not a dream, not a shadow from the past.
Baren chuckled softly, shaking his head in amazent. "I thought you were dead. Morgana said you were dead."
"Well, I'm alive and kicking."
"I know," he said quietly.
But before more could be said, Odessa's voice cut through the mont like a blade wrapped in silk.
"As touching as this reunion is," she said dryly, arms crossed as she glared at the onlookers, "people are staring, and we need to move. You've already made enough of a scene for the day."
Baren looked at this strange woman with confusion clearly written on his face.
Who was she? And why did she speak to Jaenor with such familiar authority?
There was sothing in the way she positioned herself—protective, possessive, like a mother wolf guarding her cub—that made it clear she considered herself responsible for his safety.
Still unsure, but sensing the urgency, Baren gave a nod.
She was right, of course. Even now, so of the braver spectators were edging closer, their eyes wide with curiosity and sothing approaching worship.
"Co," Odessa said, turning toward their waiting carriage.
They made their way back to the road where their driver waited, the old man's eyes wide with shock at what he had witnessed.
As they climbed into the carriage, Jaenor could hear the murmur of voices behind them growing louder and more excited.
"Wait!" called out one of the rchants. "Young sir! What's your na?"
They shut the door behind them with a final click.
Others took up the cry, calling out questions and praise in equal asure. But so voices carried notes of fear rather than admiration.
"Who is he? Or what is he?"
Questions and questions dropped one after the other.
As their carriage began to move, pulling away from the crowd and the scene of destruction, Jaenor caught glimpses of the faces watching their departure. So looked upon him as a hero, others as sothing to be feared. But all of them would rember this day, and all of them would tell others what they had seen.
-
The pathway of Hanompetra's winding thoroughfares bore the weight of centuries, worn smooth by countless pilgrims who had co seeking audience with the Mother Witch.
Above the city's baroque spires and gas-lit boulevards, the Silverspire dominated the skyline—a testant to Origin's eternal presence in the mortal realm.
Its four towers stretched toward the heavens like fingers grasping at infinity, while at their heart, the ethereal spire pulsed with argent radiance, visible even through the industrial haze that clung to the city's lower quarters.
Rena pressed her palm against the carriage window's cool glass, her breath fogging the pane as she gazed upon the monunt that had haunted her dreams since childhood.
She only heard of the spire from her mother. About its majestic presence and gigantic architecture, but words hadn't done the spire justice. She was completely in awe and amazed at seeing the spire directly.
The Origin within her stirred restlessly, responding to the proximity of such concentrated power. Unlike the gentle brook-like flow she had known in her village, here the fundantal force seed to cascade in torrents, making her fingertips tingle with barely contained energy.
"The statues grow larger as we approach the inner sanctum," Morgana observed, her voice carrying the asured cadence of one who had walked these paths before.
The older witch's hands rested serenely in her lap, though Rena could sense the subtle currents of Origin that surrounded her—not the wild, untad essence that won of their kind wielded directly, but sothing more refined, disciplined through decades of communion with the singular power that governed all existence.
The Guardians of the Path lood on either side of their procession, each standing sentinel at precisely one hundred ters in height. Carved from Hanompetra's native silvered stone, these feminine figures bore the regalia of Origin-wielders from ages past: flowing robes that seed to ripple despite their mineral composition, elaborate headdresses that crowned brows etched with symbols of the ancient compact, and outstretched hands from which ethereal mist perpetually flowed—a reminder that even in death, the strongest among them continued to channel Origin's essence.
"Where is Baren?" Rena's question hung in the perfud air of the carriage, tinged with the anxiety that had gnawed at her since their departure from the mansion.
Taeryn shifted uncomfortably beside her, his weathered hands gripping his spear with the white-knuckled intensity she had learned to recognize as his response to uncertainty.
The projection of his aura flickered montarily—a translucent shell of amber light that extended perhaps three feet from his weathered fra.
It was impressive for a man of common birth, though still pale in comparison to the raw power that won could draw directly from the source.
"He will co," Morgana replied with the certainty of one who had felt the threads of fate through Origin's vast tapestry.
"But we cannot delay our audience. The Supre Mother does not summon lightly, and the conjunction of the spheres waits for no mortal concern, however dear to our hearts."
"If sothing has befallen him—" Rena began, her Origin energy responding to her distress by casting dancing shadows across the carriage's velvet interior.
"Child." Morgana's interruption carried the weight of absolute authority.
"I have dispatched my most trusted seekers. Baren moves through the world under Origin's protection, as do we all. Trust in the fundantal truth that binds all existence—nothing occurs outside the Will of the Origin."
Darian, the knight whose silence had accompanied them since their departure, finally spoke.
His voice erged from behind his steel helm with the resonance of one whose aura had been forged in countless battles.
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