The scorched horizon still pulsed with aftershocks.

Thorne stood at the railing of the airborne palace, wind howling around him, the echoes of annihilation still vibrating in his bones. The crater below wasn't a battlefield, it was a grave. A testament to the kind of power the Empire of the First Light wielded without hesitation. Without remorse.

But what unsettled him most wasn't the magnitude of the destruction.

It was the casualness of it.

The Empire didn't just possess this kind of force, they used it, openly, brazenly.

Thorne turned to Varo, who stood beside him brushing ash off the sleeves of his ever-shifting robes, looking pleased.

"Who was that?" Thorne asked, his voice low.

Varo arched a brow, almost offended. "Was? You speak like she's already dead. She's very much alive. And moody."

Thorne ignored the jab. "That… that Elderborn. The one who just wiped out an entire kingdom like he was sweeping dust."

"She," Varo corrected primly, adjusting a ring on his pale, long-fingered hand, "is named Amara al-Naruun. And she is the Fifth Light."

Thorne's brow furrowed. "Fifth light?"

"The Emperor," Varo said with theatrical flair, spreading his arms, "has twelve champions. Each handpicked. Each bound by blood, soul, and purpose to his grand design. We are known by our number. Amara is Fifth. I," he added with a slight bow, "am the Third Light."

"Twelve of you?" Thorne murmured. "All Elderborn?"

Varo's smile gleamed like moonlight on glass. "Not all. But most. The Empire is… particular about its tools."

Thorne's stomach twisted as he watched the aftermath, a kingdom reduced to soot and screams, the winds still howling with residual aether.

The Fifth Light had wielded her power not in secret, not hidden behind a mask or through some proxy ritual. She had stood under the open sky, on the front lines, and unleashed annihilation in front of hundreds, no, thousands of witnesses.

And not one soul had tried to stop her.

That… that didn't make sense.

All his life, Thorne had known the truth of being Elderborn: you hid it. You swallowed it, buried it, feared it. His parents had died for it. He had spent every year since living like a blade in the dark, training, hiding, killing, just to stay ahead of those who would study his core and carve him open.

The world feared Elderborn.

And yet… Amara al-Naruun had declared herself with fire and fury and no consequences.

Thorne swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. "Does the Emperor… know?"

It was a stupid question, but he couldn't help it.

Varo's grin widened like a cut.

"Does he know that his Fifth Light is Elderborn?" he said, voice dripping with mockery. "My dear Thorne, he found her."

Thorne's mind reeled.

"So, he allows it? He… protects you? All of you?"

"Of course," Varo said, voice suddenly reverent. "Why wouldn't he?"

Thorne felt like the ground shifted beneath him. That kind of power… out in the open, sanctioned and celebrated? It was like being told the sky was green all along.

No fear. No hiding.

No pretending.

Just… power.

And the Emperor didn't hunt it. He collected it.

A quiet horror stirred at the edges of Thorne's thoughts.

Was that what the Empire was built on?

Not just soldiers or coin or conquest...

... but on the backs of people like him?

Before Thorne could press further, the palace suddenly shuddered, violently enough that the polished sandstone beneath his boots cracked with a spiderweb of fractures.

The very air twisted, a sharp whine tearing through the sky like a scream held just beneath hearing. The wind died all at once. Then a split second later, the entire structure lurched.

The floating garden convulsed. Blossoms tore from branches in a cyclone of petals, the marble fountain sloshing wildly. Trees bent in unnatural directions. The once-luxurious terrace began to ripple, literally ripple, as the palace trembled like it had been struck by a hammer forged of divine will.

Something hit them.

Not a projectile. Not a spell.

A pressure wave of pure, condensed, tuned aether, packed with intention and precision, rolled through the space like the fist of a god. It didn't come from above or below, but from every direction at once, bending the light and sky around it as it struck.

Thorne didn't think, he reacted.

His core flared, his body already moving. He seized the ambient aether like it was his birthright, yanking it toward himself with terrifying efficiency, weaving it in front of him in a spiral, redirecting the blow like guiding a river away from a village.

The wave collided with his constructed current and peeled off at the last second, exploding into a harmless hiss across the sky, like wind whistling between the teeth of giants.

He rose slowly from his instinctive crouch, chest rising and falling.

His heart thundered.

But not because of the attack.

Because of the look in Varo's eyes.

The Third Light was staring at him with something between rapture and reverence, his face split in a wide, toothy grin. One eye twitched.

"Well," he whispered, and then louder, "well, well, well. Aren't you just delightful?"

Thorne cursed himself inwardly. His reflexes, normally his greatest strength, had betrayed him. Too fast. Too sharp. Varo had seen everything. There was no hiding now.

Before Thorne could respond, the sky ripped again.

This time, it wasn't subtle.

A beam of violet-gold aether screamed toward them, a lance of reality-breaking force, spiraling with threads of kinetic wards and delay triggers, an attack designed not to kill outright, but to disassemble magical structure midair, to unmake enchantments.

Thorne felt the palace itself scream. The sandstone warped, crumbled, twisted into itself. Chunks of balcony fell, shattered, then reformed midair as if time stuttered.

Varo groaned as though someone had interrupted his nap.

"Oh, for the love of, honestly!"

He rose with a sigh, his fingers flicking lazily through the air. Sigils erupted from his ring like spinning blades. The beam, a death sentence for any lesser vessel, curved, redirected at the last moment, then split into golden feathers of light that burst upward into the sky and vanished.

Cracks spidered across the garden floor.

The walls of the palace bled golden sand.

But then… the palace shifted.

Like a living thing, it reasserted itself.

Under Varo's humming breath and dancing fingers, the broken structure began to reshape, to flow and seal. The floor stitched itself. The cracked walls twisted back into form. The damaged garden rippled like a mirage before blooming again, fresh and whole.

Thorne's eyes narrowed.

The palace wasn't enchanted.

It was alive or at least, bound so completely to Varo's will that it responded to him like a muscle.

The serpent palace was Varo.

And someone, someone with terrifying precision, was trying to kill him, or at least to wound his pride.

Varo dusted his robes and rolled his neck.

"I swear, one little public execution of a kingdom," he muttered to himself, "and everyone gets pissy."

He leaned over the railing, robes fluttering like smoke, and waved wildly with both arms. "Amara! Must you? I have company! You're making me look very inhospitable!"

A third beam tore through the air toward them, aimed straight at Varo's face.

With a flick of his wrist, Varo caught it midair.

Caught it.

The beam curled around his hand like a whip around a master's grip before he redirected it straight upward. It vanished into the clouds, tearing a hole through the sky.

Varo scoffed. "Insolent child."

He turned to the serpent, his demeanor instantly softening into something almost affectionate. He stroked the sandstone wall beside him as if patting the beast's flank.

"My love," he murmured, "I believe it's time we move on. Before our sister decides to ruin the drapery."

The serpent hissed in agreement.

A black portal bloomed in the sky, rimmed in flame and sigils Thorne didn't recognize. With one final wingbeat that sent tremors through the heavens, the great beast carried them forward and through.

Behind them, the ruined kingdom vanished from view, as did the smoldering crater, the screaming winds, and the warrior goddess who had erased a city with her will alone.

Ahead, only darkness.

Then light.

The sky tore open again, not with violence this time, but with purpose.

The serpent palace emerged from the black portal, spiraling outward in a dizzying arc before leveling, wings slicing through the desert heat. This landscape was drier still, sun-scorched and broken, a different face of desolation. Jagged ridges cast long shadows across the land below, cutting across red dunes like the scars of titans.

But it was what moved below that stole Thorne's breath.

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He stepped to the terrace edge, heart hammering in his chest.

Below them stretched an endless tide. A living sea of banners, steel, and marching death.

Two cities lay nestled in the basin of the valley, their outer walls already fractured. Plumes of black smoke twisted into the blue sky like grasping fingers. And between them, surrounding them, flooding every pass and trail between the rocks...

Armies.

Not armies. Not plural.

An army.

One massive, coordinated, unstoppable tide. The banners of the Empire of the First Light fluttered across every ridge, every battalion, stitched into every standard. The symbol, a rising sun peeking over a golden horizon, gleamed with unholy symmetry.

There was no sound up this high. No cries. No thunder of siege weapons.

But Thorne didn't need sound.

He could feel it. The chaos. The slaughter. The magnitude of the machine below.

He clenched the edge of the terrace railing until his knuckles whitened, then slowly, carefully, schooled his face into a lazy smile and turned.

"Well," he said, with dry amusement, "this part of the tour's definitely working."

Varo, sprawled in his seat with one leg propped on the low table like a lounging cat, quirked an eyebrow.

"You approve?"

"I think I understand your intent," Thorne replied coolly. "Show me the might of the Empire. Awe me with its power. Bury me in the spectacle of it all."

He turned his gaze back to the carnage, voice lowering.

"But don't you worry that it might backfire? That instead of inspiring awe, you'll just horrify me?"

Varo tilted his head, his long, lacquered fingernails tapping the rim of his wine glass.

"No," he said simply. "Because I know you."

He leaned forward, grin gleaming like a crescent blade.

"You admire power, Thorne. More than safety. More than morality. More than comfort. You crave it. Not the kind handed down from noble bloodlines or empty crowns, but real power. The kind that makes the world bend."

Thorne didn't answer.

Because damn him, he was right.

And Varo knew it.

"I hate you," Thorne muttered.

Varo beamed. "Oh, but you hate so beautifully."

He glanced to the horizon and clapped his hands together with a child's excitement. "Oh goodie. Company."

Thorne looked.

Two shapes had detached themselves from the swarm below.

The first rode an airborne beast, a massive hybrid of eagle and scorpion, its carapace glistening in the sun, wings as wide as rooftops. The man astride it wore simple leather armor, black curls whipping in the wind, skin bronzed by countless days under open skies. He was slender, lean muscle tightly coiled around bone, and his movements had the lazy precision of a predator that didn't need to rush.

The second figure... flew.

No wings. No mount. Just a comet of movement, a man in full regalia, streaking skyward with arcane propulsion. His armor was a masterpiece: gold and silver, polished to perfection, inlaid with dozens of gems, each one humming with subtle enchantments. A wand spun loosely in one gloved hand, like a toy rather than a weapon.

They closed the distance in seconds.

The winged beast arched above the terrace, hovering effortlessly, its rider perched with easy balance. The other landed with eerily perfect grace, not a single rattle from his ornate armor.

Both men inclined their heads, perfectly in sync.

"Second Light," they said, voices respectful.

Varo rose with theatrical pomp, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"Third," he corrected with a wink, "but I'll forgive the slip. I'm among friends."

The winged rider grinned, revealing sharp white teeth. "Welcome back."

The mage in armor said nothing, merely staring at Thorne.

And Thorne, well...

He stared back.

Something told him the show was only just beginning.

The beast-rider, lean and roguish, with sun-darkened skin and a laugh like wind on steel, grinned wide, revealing perfect white teeth that seemed a little too sharp.

"Welcome back, Third," he said, reins loose in his calloused hands as his monstrous mount hovered effortlessly beneath him. Its wings beat in slow, lazy strokes, each gust disturbing the flowers on the terrace. "Didn't think we'd see you again this soon."

The armored mage beside him still hadn't spoken.

He stood like a statue of divine war, unmoving, unsmiling. His gem-studded armor glinted in the desert sun, humming with power barely leashed. But his eyes…

His eyes were locked on Thorne.

Not curious. Not dismissive.

Measuring.

Thorne didn't flinch. Didn't let his shoulders dip or his gaze break. He matched the look with one of practiced disinterest. Sculpted Persona, Mask of Deceit, Acting, all quietly at work. A neutral, slightly bored student's face looking into the abyss.

Inside, though?

Inside, Thorne was cataloguing.

The mage's stance was perfect, centered, ready to cast or strike. The rings on his left gauntlet were clearly foci. One hummed with air, one with heat, and the last… something colder. Aether unknown. His boots didn't touch the ground even now; some enchantment made him hover a hair above the stone.

He stood like a statue of divine war, unmoving, unsmiling. His gem-studded armor glinted in the desert sun, humming with restrained, volatile energy. The helm he wore was a thing of awe and intimidation, sculpted from burnished gold and wrought with enchantments, its surface etched in thousands of tiny runes that shimmered faintly with inner heat. A crown of jagged spikes flared out around it like the rays of a rising sun, giving him the silhouette of a celestial executioner.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised both hands and removed the helm.

Thorne's breath caught.

Beneath the radiant gold and arcane glamour was a face scorched by power. Not the polished elegance of the imperial image, but the raw, brutal truth. His skin was weathered and leathery, marked by a network of jagged aether-burns that crawled down from his temples and across his jaw like cracks in porcelain. His hair was a mass of thick, green-black strands tied back into warrior's knots, and his eyes were black pits, flat and tired. Not old in the sense of weakness, he had the build of a man still very much capable of killing gods, but old in the way of someone who had given too much and received little in return.

And worse still: he looked human.

Not in his appearance, but in his suffering.

Thorne had expected perfection. The Empire made no room for flaws. But this man, this so-called champion, wore his damage openly. He had paid dearly for his power, and the cost hadn't been in gold. It had been in flesh. In mind. In soul.

The mage tucked the radiant helm under one arm and locked eyes with Thorne.

He said nothing.

But the message in his gaze was unmistakable: This is what loyalty looks like. This is what you'll become.

A shiver crawled down Thorne's spine before he could stop it. Not out of fear.

Out of understanding.

So this was the truth behind the Empire's champions. Not just tools, sacrifices. Icons carved from suffering and obedience. The Emperor didn't just demand greatness.

He demanded everything.

Varo's voice broke the silence, light and airy. "Introductions, perhaps?" He gestured lazily between them. "Thorne, meet the Ninth and Tenth Lights of the Empire. Joint commanders of our Northern Expansion."

The winged rider offered a nod, reins still loose. "Nerith of Vaka'al," he said. "Tenth Light."

The mage didn't move.

"His name's Ashkar," Nerith said, amused. "He doesn't talk much. Or smile. But he's real good at vaporizing things."

Ashkar's gaze finally flicked to Nerith for a heartbeat, then back to Thorne. Still silent.

"Don't be offended," Varo said to Thorne, as if they were gossiping in a salon. "Ashkar hasn't spoken more than a dozen words since he joined the Lights. Some say he burned his own voice out in the crucible of ascension."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to sound impressive?"

"Mm," Varo hummed, pleased. "See? I told you he had bite."

Nerith laughed again, a loose, sun-drunk sound. "So this is the new one? Doesn't look like much."

Thorne's expression didn't shift. "Says the guy riding a bug."

The beast beneath Nerith shrieked at the insult, wings flaring wide with a burst of heat and static.

Thorne didn't blink.

Nerith's smile grew wider. "I like him."

Varo, watching with visible amusement, added, "Careful with that tongue, Thorne. Nerith commands the Sable Vulture Battalion, the Empire's most elite rapid-deployment unit. They've turned the tide of more battles than I can count. Whenever a kingdom needs to be broken fast and loud, he's the one they send."

Thorne cast a sideways glance at the winged beast, now snorting plumes of heat into the air. "Figures."

Nerith smirked and patted the creature's scaly neck. "Fast, loud, and thorough. It's a reputation I'm proud of."

Ashkar's eyes narrowed slightly. Not in amusement.

Varo, still leaning against the railing, clapped once. "Let's not get too distracted. We're on a tour, remember?"

The elderborn turned to his fellow Lights. "I was just telling Thorne here about your progress. He seems surprised the Empire can win with so few champions on the field."

"We don't win with champions," Nerith said. "We win with systems. Resources. Pressure."

"And fire," Ashkar said at last. His voice was dry, rasped, like parchment catching flame.

Thorne tilted his head. "So you're one of the Twelve, and your job is… burning?"

Ashkar didn't answer.

"Let's just say," Varo murmured, "Ashkar specializes in reducing variables. Entire cities worth of variables."

Thorne's mouth was dry.

"I'm more of a logistics man," Nerith offered with a lazy shrug. "We break economies, not bones. Bleed treasuries dry, turn neighbors into enemies, poison trade routes. When we finally arrive, most of the fight is already done."

"Sounds charming," Thorne said, voice clipped.

"It's effective," Ashkar said.

Thorne turned to Varo. "Are all of the Twelve this cheery?"

Varo laughed so hard he bent over, slapping the railing. "Oh, darling. Wait until you meet the Seventh. You'll be begging for these two again."

"Is he worse?" Thorne asked.

"She," Varo corrected. "And not worse. Just... imaginative."

Before Thorne could ask what that meant, Varo pushed off the railing. "Well, we mustn't linger. Thorne hasn't even seen the Citadel yet."

Nerith clicked his tongue. "He's not sworn in yet, is he?"

"Not yet," Thorne said sharply. "Still deciding."

That hung in the air like blood in water.

Ashkar's fingers twitched by his side.

But Varo, ever the showman, cut through the tension with a delighted, "Oh, we'll fix that. Won't we, Thorne?"

Thorne didn't answer.

But in his mind, a new truth was dawning. These weren't just warriors.

They were weapons given titles.

Systems of destruction wearing skin and grins and names.

And if Varo was Third Light…

How much worse were the rest?

And more importantly, what would they turn him into if he stayed?

The air between the four men thrummed with restrained power, but it was Nerith who broke the silence first.

He swung a leg off his beast and dismounted in a fluid motion that sent sparks of energy flickering along the creature's carapace. "You picked an interesting one this time, Varo."

Varo smirked. "Don't I always?"

"Sometimes," said the armored mage, the Ninth Light, with a voice that sounded like a canyon breaking. Deep, deliberate. "And sometimes your toys snap in half."

Thorne didn't rise to the bait, but he filed the comment away.

"So," Nerith said, turning to face Varo with a predator's ease, "are you here for our report, or just to parade your little discovery?"

"A bit of both," Varo replied, brushing a speck of dust off his sleeve. "Thorne is touring. Observing. Learning. But make no mistake, this is as much a test for me as it is for him."

That caught Thorne's attention.

Varo's grin widened, reading it. "Oh yes, dear boy. Did you think we Lights were a harmonious choir, singing praises in the Emperor's name? Please. We're a nest of vipers stuffed into a golden cage. The Emperor may have selected us, but the competition never ends."

The Ninth Light didn't deny it. "There are those who think recruiting another Elderborn is reckless. Dangerous."

"And others," Nerith added, "who are hoping you fail." His smile sharpened. "You'd be surprised how many of us are watching. Closely."

Thorne's gaze shifted between them, taking in the subtle barbs, the weight behind every word. They weren't posturing. These weren't simple soldiers. They were rivals in a game where survival meant dominance.

Good, Thorne thought, his mind already spinning. Maybe they could be used against each other.

"And what about the Emperor?" Thorne asked, casual in tone but sharp in intent. "Does he send you memos? Or is this all just a pissing contest without a conductor?"

The atmosphere changed.

The Ninth Light's expression didn't shift, but his shoulders tensed. Nerith stopped smiling.

Varo, surprisingly, didn't laugh.

Instead, he gazed at Thorne with something darker in his eyes. "You don't meet the sun," he said softly. "You bask in it. Or you burn."

It wasn't an answer. Not really. But it said enough.

"You mean none of you..." Thorne paused. "Has anyone actually seen him?"

The Ninth Light responded this time, his voice low. "He is not seen. He is known. His will moves through dreams, visions, signs. Through us."

"Through Light," Nerith added, almost reverently. "That is how the Empire endures."

Thorne's skin crawled. Whether the Emperor was a man, god, or something in between, one thing was certain: his power was absolute.

"And the war?" Thorne asked, steering the topic back with careful nonchalance. "How's it going?"

Nerith rolled his shoulders. "Velvaran is ash. You saw that. We've pushed into the Dhalmari Basin, four kingdoms fell in the last two weeks. We're heading toward the coast next. Durnathi tribes are putting up resistance, but they're poorly organized."

The Ninth Light picked up where Nerith left off. "Our next objective is Shav'Ra. A fortress-state built into a canyon. Their aether defenses are old but layered. Excavating and dismantling will take time. That's where I come in."

Thorne eyed him. "You'll collapse the canyon?"

"Or raise a new one," the man said without irony.

Varo gave a small sigh of mock weariness. "Honestly, you two are so predictable. All fire and brimstone."

The Ninth Light turned his black eyes back to Thorne. "And you. If you join us, you won't be spared the battlefield. You'll earn your Light in blood."

Thorne didn't flinch. "Sounds familiar."

The trio exchanged glances. A flicker of approval passed between them.

Varo clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and oddly musical in the desert air. "Well, this has been a delightful little reunion," he said, rising from his seat with exaggerated grandeur. "But we must be off. I have one final stop on our tour, somewhere truly… illuminating."

The Ninth Light didn't move. "The Citadel?"

Varo wiggled his fingers mysteriously. "The very one."

Nerith groaned. "Lucky brat. Took me years to get clearance."

Thorne raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.

"Off you go, now," Varo said, twirling a finger in the air like he was ushering away a pair of pets. "We'll catch up another time. Or not. Depends on how offended I am tomorrow."

The Ninth Light inclined his head once and turned away, vanishing in a blink of fractured air.

Nerith gave Thorne a mock salute, vaulting back onto his beast's back. "Don't die too fast, new blood. You look interesting when you're confused."

With a screech of wings and a shimmer of displaced heat, he was gone.

Varo sighed contentedly and stretched like a cat. "Now then," he said, voice suddenly silkier, quieter. "Let's go see where legends are built… and broken."

The sky warped.

Another black portal yawned open in front of them.

And together, they sailed into it.

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