East Garden – Midnight
The garden was colder now.
Quieter.
The perfu-choked tension of the ballroom replaced by the whisper of leaves and the faint hum of string instrunts 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 shimred.
And soone else saw it.
Then—
“You’ve grown.”
Selene stepped from the hedges like moonlight given shape.
Erald 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 here?”
He needed the distraction. Anything to keep the Elaren na from chewing through his thoughts.
“I’m giving you a map to Eryndar’s dojo,” Selene said, already pulling parchnt from her cloak. “And healing you. You’re still wounded.”
“Thanks,” Towan muttered. And ant 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 na… 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 fla erupted from the ballroom’s west wing, followed by shattering glass and a second, deeper shockwave that hit like a hamr to the lungs.
Towan hit the ground.
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Selene threw up a shield of green-tinged Essentia—just in ti 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 fla, 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 ti 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, flas 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 judgnt.
The attacker’s head hit the ground before his body did.
“Stay behind , 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 flas like a god’s breath.
Smoke curled around her, but the fire dared not touch her robes.
Towan turned—
Movent. Behind him.
His body snapped sideways—instinct taking over—just as a rusted halberd slamd 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 montum to throw him into a burning table.
(Leon definitely knew.)
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