Aaryan stirred with a groan, his breath slow and uneven. The ache in his bones lingered from… something. A vision? A dream? His mind felt like scorched paper—fragments of dragons, flames, and dying skies still burned behind his eyes. But before he could sort through the haze, a sharp, radiant light forced them open.

It was there.

Floating in front of him, the egg rippled like a second sun—its gleam so intense it cast long, jagged shadows across the cavern walls. The veins of colour racing across its surface weren't just brilliance—they were alive. Living flame and flickering starlight threaded through the shell-like breath trapped in crystal.

Thum.

A soft heartbeat echoed through the chamber. Then again. And again.

Each time, it resonated deeper—not just in sound, but in soul. Aaryan could feel it syncing with him, like a second heart trying to align with his own.

The surface of the egg shimmered. It shifted—subtle cracks like hairline fractures of light running across it. Something within was pressing outward, straining to emerge. His breath caught. Was it hatching? Here? Now?

But just as suddenly as it began, the light faltered.

The heartbeat dimmed. The radiance collapsed inward and flickered out, leaving behind a cold, suspended silence. The egg still floated in place, unchanged. Unhatched.

Aaryan blinked, his hand already reaching forward. He didn't know why, only that he had to. That something—someone—inside that shell was in pain.

A wave hit him—sharp, raw, and unexpected. Grief. Frustration. A crushing sense of being denied… again. Like a newborn suffocating just before its first breath. It wasn't his emotion, but he felt it all the same.

And underneath it all, a quiet, dangerous fury.

Aaryan exhaled shakily and placed his palm against the shell. "It's alright," he whispered, voice low and steady. "Seems like you're ready to come into this world… but something's still holding you back." He leaned in closer, his touch gentler. "Don't worry. Whatever lays ahead, whatever you want to do… I'm with you. Even if the whole world stands against us—" his tone hardened, "—I'll still stand with you."

The egg throbbed beneath his hand.

A faint hum filled the air. Warmth spread from the point of contact—not fire, but something gentler. Like the sound of laughter behind a closed door, or the scent of home on a long-forgotten breeze. A soft emotion bloomed. Happiness. Gratitude. Trust.

Then, without a sound, the egg vanished.

One blink, it was there. The next, gone—drawn inward like a swallowed flame. Hidden once more within his body.

Aaryan stayed still, staring at the space it had left behind. After a moment, he let out a long, tired sigh. "The worst possible timing…" he muttered. The world was already breaking apart around him— enemies weaving their web, cornering him with no clear way out.

And now this.

A life. A being tied to him by something he didn't yet understand. Protecting it—finding a place where it could hatch safely—would be no easy task.

He closed his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. Still, he thought, 'what is easy has never been mine to begin with.'

And this… this would be no exception.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The morning sun filtered through high windows, painting golden streaks across the stone corridors of Evernight Sect's inner palace. Dew still clung to the courtyard leaves, but inside, tension already hung like a veil.

When Elder Shiela arrived at the steps of the main hall, the twin guards posted outside straightened. With a sharp bow, one of them announced her presence.

"The Fourth Grand Elder has arrived."

The grand doors creaked open.

Shiela entered without slowing. Her pale lavender robes trailed behind her like a storm cloud, her expression unreadable. Every step echoed like a warning across the polished marble floor. The scent of sandalwood and aged scrolls lingered within the chamber, but it did little to soften the chill.

Inside, four figures already waited.

Sect Leader Pryag sat at the centre of the raised dais, eyes half-lidded, posture regal and immovable. On either side of him, the First Grand Elder and the remaining two—Second and Third—stood with hands clasped before them.

The First Grand Elder, as expected, didn't so much as blink at her entrance. Calm. Steady. Cold as iron. He looked not at her, but through her, as if she were no more than a gust of wind.

The Second and Third, however, exchanged fleeting glances. Just a flicker. A twitch of the eyes. Their masks nearly perfect—nearly. There was a tightness in the Third Elder's jaw, the barest shift of weight from foot to foot. Old guilt didn't vanish; it only learned to hide deeper.

Shiela met none of their gazes. She offered no bow, no greeting, no courtesy.

There was a pause—long enough to sting.

Sect Leader Pryag's voice broke it, devoid of warmth or irritation.

"It seems the Fourth Grand Elder is in poor spirits this morning."

Shiela stopped at the foot of the dais. Her voice, when it came, was low, clipped, and dangerous.

"The Trial for Mani Disciple, huh?"

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Even the air felt suspended, brittle and waiting.

"So you're finally going to make your move."

The statement hung in the air, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

No denial. No defence from the Second or Third Grand Elders. They stood like statues, though the air thickened around them. Even the sunlight seemed to retreat, casting the chamber in uneasy gold.

Pryag didn't even lift his eyes.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Shiela's tone turned glacial.

"Enough of this farce. We both know you're planning to use the Mani Disciple Trial again—just like last time. Fifty years ago."

The words fell like thunder.

A flicker—barely perceptible—passed over the Third Elder's face. The Second's fingers flexed behind his robes.

But Pryag remained unmoved.

"The trial is a long-standing tradition," he replied smoothly. "It has been held for centuries. There is no harm in conducting one now."

Then, a pause.

When he continued, his tone softened—mockingly, almost kindly.

"What happened to your niece was… unfortunate. But accidents during such trials are hardly rare. One or two losses among so many disciples is to be expected."

Shiela's jaw clenched. The quiet grind of her teeth filled the silence as her fingers twitched at her side. Her eyes, once calm, now burned like dying stars—brighter just before collapse.

Pryag looked at her—just a glance, like a king glancing down at a moth struggling in his shadow.

"Baseless accusations against the Sect Leader," he said coolly, "are punishable offenses."

He tapped the armrest of his seat once, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"If not for the old ancestor's Favor, you would have already been… corrected."

He leaned back slightly.

"There is no need for your attendance in future meetings, Elder Shiela. Not until the trial is complete."

The command was absolute. Final.

Shiela stood frozen for a heartbeat. The weight of memory crushed against her ribs—her niece's smile, bright with hope, the scent of jasmine in her hair, the way she'd said, 'Wish me luck, auntie.' That night was the last time anyone saw her.

Then she turned on her heel, robes flaring behind her like a whip of violet flame.

At the threshold, she spoke—voice calm, but laced with iron.

"I don't care what you bury behind customs and laws. I will not let you win."

She stormed out without waiting for a reply.

Behind her, silence settled like ash.

Pryag's brow furrowed—just slightly. A crack in the facade. But he said nothing.

The Second and Third Grand Elders remained still, yet a flicker of unease passed through their eyes. A shared hesitation. A memory neither had dared voice aloud. One that festered still.

Only the First Grand Elder stood untouched, unmoved, like a blade yet to be drawn.

And the hall fell quiet once more—heavy with the weight of what had been, and what was to come.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Shiela moved through the winding corridors of the inner sanctum like a blade through silk—silent, swift, and unyielding. Her robes barely whispered as she passed, though every movement carried weight. The guards along her path bowed low, some stiffening, others avoiding her eyes entirely. Even among the hardened elite of the sect, there was an unspoken awareness: when Lady Shiela walked like this, it was best to step aside.

Disciples paused mid-sentence, bowing hurriedly before retreating to the edges of the halls. One junior nearly dropped the tray he carried when he met her gaze—sharp as a hawk's and colder than a mountain stream.

Yet she registered none of it.

Her feet moved of their own accord, driven by something deeper than purpose. Her mind, usually so precise and deliberate, felt fogged, as though thoughts were trying to slip away from her, leaving only images. Faces. Echoes.

She turned a corner sharply and emerged into one of the courtyards within the core disciple quarters.

It had not changed.

Not in all these years.

The courtyard stretched wide beneath a vast sky, its openness a rare luxury in the Evernight Sect. It was framed by weathered dark-stone archways, where creeping vine crawled silently up and over, trailing delicate blue blooms that only opened in moonlight. Beneath the arches, old training dummies stood forgotten, their straw guts spilling from sword scars.

Crimson-leaved tirthan trees dotted the yard in elegant clusters, their long branches whispering to one another in the mountain breeze. Petals drifted down like glowing embers, painting the cobbled paths below in soft red. The air smelled faintly of steel, sap, and memory.

At the courtyard's centre lay a pond—circular, still, and impossibly clear. Lotus blossoms floated atop its surface, roots stretching into unseen depths. Even the koi beneath moved as though aware this was sacred ground.

She walked forward slowly, her steps softer now. Each stone she passed carried an echo of laughter, of breathless cheers, of clashing blades. Near one of the larger tirthan trees, she stopped. The tree was old—older than most elders in the sect—and its roots coiled through the earth like the skeleton of some buried giant. The trunk bore the faintest of scars: curved slices, impact dents, and a single burn mark shaped like a crescent.

Marks of training. Of youth. Of pride.

Shiela reached out and rested her hand gently against the bark.

It was warm, as if holding onto echoes of her niece's touch.

Here—this place—was where she'd trained. Grown. Dreamed.

It was here she had laughed until tears ran down her cheeks, trying to mimic the steps of a sword dance she'd barely learned. Here she had spun between sparring partners, barefoot, hair tied high, mouth set in that fierce, stubborn grin she always wore when she refused to back down.

Shiela closed her eyes.

And the past surged up like a tide.

She saw her again—face flushed, eyes shining, sweat streaking her brow as she stood atop the duelling platform, panting but triumphant. Three senior disciples had fallen to her blade that day. The courtyard had erupted in cheers, disciples clapping and shouting her name.

Pride had swelled in Shiela's chest like never before. It had been all she could do not to show it too openly in front of the others.

And then the day of the Trial.

The day everything changed.

She remembered watching her niece walk across this very courtyard, the cheers echoing in her wake, as she made her way to the mountain Veinsunder. So full of joy. So certain of her place in the world.

That was the last time she saw her.

Standing here.

Smiling.

That smile had never faded from Shiela's memory.

And then—gone.

No body. No clues. No blood on stone.

Just… vanished.

She remained beneath the tirthan tree for a long time, fingers brushing against the bark as if it might answer her grief. The breeze tugged at her sleeves, but she didn't move. Didn't blink.

She had tried everything. In the days that followed, she had raged. Threatened the elders. Demanded explanations. Forced the Sect Leader to allow the Grand Elders to search the trial grounds with her. They had looked everywhere.

And found nothing.

But Shiela… she had known. Even then. Somewhere deep within.

This wasn't a mistake. Not some beast attack or a mishap with another disciple.

This had been orchestrated.

Planned.

And as the seasons passed, she stopped raging—and started digging. Quietly. Carefully. She peeled back layers others dared not touch. Trial records. Disciplinary archives. Names scratched out from attendance logs. A disciple here. Another there. One every year. A pattern so subtle that none had noticed.

But she had.

Every Mani Disciple Trial saw one disappearance. Just one.

Never more.

No explanation. No investigation that lasted more than a few hours. Some dismissed it as desertion. Others whispered about fate or karmic imbalance.

But she knew better.

It was not fate.

It was him.

The Sect Leader.

She didn't know the method. Didn't understand the purpose.

But it was him. It had always been him.

Once, even an elder assigned to the final segment of the trial had vanished. Swallowed by the same unseen hand.

And yet…

Even now, even with everything she knew… she had nothing concrete. Just fragments. Her word against his. And if she moved too early, she would lose everything—including the chance to avenge her.

No, she wouldn't let that happen again.

Not this time.

The petals of the tirthan tree drifted down around her like falling blood.

And beneath its canopy, Shiela did not look like a grieving aunt mourning a lost child.

She looked like a storm held in flesh—silent for now, but ready to shatter the sky.

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