Rory leaned casually against the arched threshold of the tower entrance, arms crossed, his long, banded tail swaying behind him like a metronome.

  His presence exuded unshakable confidence—not arrogance, but the quiet self-assurance of someone accustomed to being underestimated… and always right.

  Tall, poised, and undeniably striking, the monk cut a commanding figure in the dim light. His eyes—emerald and vivid as sunlit moss—burned with an unnatural brilliance, laced with quiet mischief. They swept over the group with discerning ease, assessing without condescension. A faint, knowing smile played at the corner of his mouth, as though he were already in on a joke no one else had heard.

  He wore a robe of midnight black, trimmed in golden thread that shimmered faintly with residual enchantment. The embroidery, intricate and purposeful, spiralled along his sleeves and hem in the shapes of coiled roots, serpentine beasts, and forgotten runes. A wide earthen sash secured the robe at his waist, grounding its flowing form like the harness of a disciplined storm.

  Beneath it, the high collar of a white tunic rose in crisp contrast against his bronzed skin—skin etched with bold, symmetrical markings that traced across his shoulders and down his arms like ancient ink. The stripes, dark gold and black, followed the musculature of his frame with deliberate precision—less like fur, more like sacred tattoos bestowed by something old and wild.

  His tail, ringed in those same hues, flicked once—subtle, deliberate, and more eloquent than speech.

  Sammy blinked, caught somewhere between awe and confusion. “He’s… a lot cooler than I pictured.”

  Lola elbowed him lightly, whispering under her breath, “Don’t say that out loud.”

  The guards stiffened, their attention snapping toward Rory.

  “Rory,” the older of the two said cautiously, “we’ve had trouble with outsiders lately.”

  “I’m aware,” Rory replied smoothly, his smile edged with charm and the faintest hint of mockery.

  “But I think you’ll find these particular ‘outsiders’ aren’t here to burn your city down. Not yet, anyway.”

  The younger guard shifted uneasily.

  Rory stepped forward, positioning himself between the group and the guards. His voice lost none of its warmth, but there was steel beneath it.

  “Stand down. They’re with me.”

  A long pause stretched between them. The guards exchanged a glance—then, albeit reluctantly, lowered their weapons.

  Rory turned back to the group, his tone brightening once more.

  “Well, come on then,” he said, waving them forward with casual ease. “You’ve earned a proper welcome. Or at the very least, a strong cup of tea.”

  Sammy’s tail twitched in amusement. “You’re Rory?” he asked, eyeing the golden embroidery. “Pupster didn’t mention you had flair.”

  Rory smirked. “He didn’t mention a lot of things, I’m sure.”

  The heavy stone doors groaned shut behind them with a deep, echoing thud.

  Inside, the tower spiralled upward in stone and mystery. The air was warm and carried the scent of aged parchment, polished wood, and burnt sage.

  Light danced from floating orbs to towering shelves lined with tomes, scrolls, and glittering artefacts—each one humming with latent energy.

  Rory led them up the winding staircase, his robe billowing faintly with each step.

  “Welcome to the Sage’s Tower,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Home to wild theories, dangerous truths, and—of course, charming and ruggedly handsome bachelors”. He looked back and winked at the group.

  The party followed him further into the tower.

  The air thinned with every step. The climb grew steeper as the stone staircase spiralled toward the heavens. Sammy, Lola, Pupster, and Nimby pressed on in silence, legs aching and lungs burning—but none of them slowed.

  A deeper hum pulsed from above, like a distant heartbeat, pulling them onward with strange, magnetic gravity.

  At last, they emerged into an open courtyard carved from ancient stone. Towering marble columns ringed the platform, their surfaces etched with weathered runes.

  Beyond them, the valley stretched into golden light, the rising sun casting long shadows across the peaks.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, a knowing smile curling his lips. “I must admit, I wasn’t entirely convinced you’d make it. A thousand steps are a test most fail long before they break a sweat.”

  Lola, panting, wiped the back of her hand across her brow. “We’re not really the giving-up type.”

  Rory raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “Ah, such fire. I like that.”

  His gaze shifted to Sammy—those amber-gold eyes sharp enough to cut through stone. “And you must be Sammy. The boy with wild hair… and the spirit of a thousand beasts.”

  Sammy tilted his head. “Not sure about the ‘thousand beasts’ part, but yeah. That’s me.”

  “A pleasure, my friend.” Rory offered a mock bow, the tails of his robe fluttering behind him.

  Then his attention turned to Pupster. The air shifted—just a fraction—as his smile deepened.

  “And if it isn’t the spear-wielding storm cloud himself. How long has it been, old friend?”

  Pupster folded his arms. “Not long enough.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Rory said, stepping forward with arms spread. “We had a wonderful time on the Kinaran road. A few bandits, a lot of walking, some spirited debates over stew recipes...”

  “You tried to flirt with every merchant we passed.”

  Rory raised a hand solemnly. “It would’ve been rude not to.”

  Sammy blinked. “Wait, you two travelled together?”

  “Briefly,” Pupster said, tone flat. “Few weeks. Long enough.”

  “Oh, but what a memorable few weeks they were,” Rory added, grinning. “Now we are bosom friends.”

  Pupster sighed. “I wouldn’t go as far as friends.”

  Rory chuckled. “See? That’s practically affection coming from him.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Then—like a switch flipped—his whole demeanour changed. He turned to Lola, eyes gleaming, voice rising in grand declaration.

  “Ah! My goddess in white!” He dropped to one knee, arms spread theatrically. “A vision of radiance who has ascended to grace my humble perch! My heart is not ready!”

  Lola blinked, taking a cautious step back. “What in the world…”

  He gently seized her hands, bringing them to his lips with exaggerated reverence.

  “Your presence turns stone to silk, dear lady. Rory—monk, scholar, and utterly smitten—is forever at your service!”

  Sammy burst out laughing. “Oh no. He’s worse than Renward described.”

  Pupster groaned aloud. “He always does this.”

  “Alright, Loverboy,” Sammy said, stepping in and clapping Rory’s shoulder. “Ease it back a notch.”

  Rory rose with a flourish, utterly unrepentant. “What is life without performance, my friends? A radiant soul like hers deserves nothing less than poetic worship.”

  “Or,” Lola said dryly, slipping her hands free, her cheeks pinkening slightly, “just a little personal space.”

  Rory placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Ah! A dagger to my chest—but fair.”

  He straightened, his tone mellowing. “Now then, let’s get to what really brings you here.”

  Rory straightened, his tone mellowing for the first time since their arrival. The playful glint in his eye didn’t vanish—but it dimmed, just enough to suggest something else behind it. Thoughtfulness. Calculation.

  “I’ll admit,” he said, leaning on his staff, “when I received a raven from Elder Renward, I expected trouble. He didn’t give details—just said the world had shifted, and a few souls might come knocking who needed more than a warm meal and a place to sleep.”

  His tiger-striped tail curled lazily behind him. “You know… I meet a lot of travellers. Mercenaries. Thieves. Heroes in their own minds.”

  His gaze swept across the group—not unkindly, but with quiet weight.

  “But you’re… different. You’ve all seen something. Carried it with you up those thousand steps.”

  Lola’s brow furrowed. “You’re not just talking about the Mist Dragon.”

  Rory offered a noncommittal smile. “Am I not?”

  Sammy stepped forward slightly, arms folded. “If you know something—about what happened in Vey—say it.”

  “I suspect a lot of things,” Rory said, turning from them to glance out at the valley below. “But suspicions are like seeds. They need the right ground to grow. And I don’t plant mine lightly.”

  Pupster crossed his arms. “So, this is a game, then?”

  Rory looked over his shoulder, that familiar grin returning. “Only if you’re bad at it.”

  A pause.

  Then he tapped his staff lightly on the stone underfoot. A faint vibration ran through the courtyard.

  “What I can tell you,” he said, his tone quieter now, “is that power answers power. That’s always been true. Something in Vey stirred because something within you called to it—whether you meant to or not.”

  Lola glanced down at her hands, fingers curling slightly.

  Rory noticed.

  “Don’t look so troubled,” he said gently. “Whatever brought the dragon to your side—it didn’t destroy you. It revealed you.”

  He stepped closer, staff balanced over one shoulder. “The question now isn’t what it was. The question is… what are you becoming?”

  The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—but it lingered.

  Then Rory grinned again, turning toward the tower doors. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Come on. There’s tea. And, if you’re ready for it… the beginning of an answer.”

  The group returned to the sky courtyard. Rory turned and addressed them. “All right, my new friends. Renward asked me to prepare you. To offer knowledge, if I found you worth the effort.”

  “And...?” Pupster prompted.

  Rory glanced back, eyes gleaming. “’Lucky for you, I did. However, I have something a little different than simple knowledge sharing in mind.”

  Lola tilted her head. “Like some kind of training?”

  “Oh, yes,” Rory said, winking. “You’re in for a treat.”

  Rory led them in silence to the courtyard’s centre, where the stones were smooth and worn, as though countless feet had passed through over countless years.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  Just paced a slow, deliberate circle around them, hands clasped behind his back, emerald eyes flicking from one face to the next.

  Lola exchanged a glance with Sammy. Pupster shifted his weight slightly. Even Nimby tilted his head.

  There was no wind. No birdsong. Just the sound of Rory’s soft footsteps on stone.

  “Knowledge,” Rory said finally, his voice lower now, more measured, “is like fire. Mishandle it, and it consumes you. Wield it well, and you reshape the world.”

  He paused directly in front of Sammy, but his words were meant for all of them.

  “I’ve seen would-be champions crack under truths they weren’t ready for. I've seen strength turned to ruin because someone assumed raw power was enough.”

  He stepped back, tail flicking once.

  “So before we delve deeper…”

  He let the silence linger.

  “Let’s see if you can follow one simple thread.”

  The last rays of sunlight spilled into the courtyard, casting molten gold across the worn stone.

  Rory stood at the centre, tiger-striped tail slowly curling and uncurling behind him. His midnight-black robe shimmered with golden embroidery, each thread catching the light like it was alive.

  He didn’t speak at first. He only smiled.

  Not a smirk. Not a grin.

  A knowing smile—like he’d seen this moment before. And had been waiting for it.

  Sammy stepped forward, arms loose at his sides, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t look like much of a fighter.”

  Rory tilted his head, amused.

  “I’ve taken down monsters twice my size. Spitting acid. Breath of fire. One even had wings and a name.” Sammy shrugged. “So unless your robe’s hiding something, I’m not seeing the threat.”

  Rory’s smile didn’t budge. But something behind his eyes sharpened. Just a touch.

  “Alright, my little cubs,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, rich with hidden mirth. “Let’s put all that muscle and bravado to the test.”

  “Cubs?” Pupster scowled.

  Sammy rolled his eyes “Here we go”.

  Rory ignored the sarcasm. He lifted a single finger.

  A subtle tremor passed through the air—like the world took a slow breath.

  From Rory’s palm, a golden orb bloomed to life.

  Not conjured. Not summoned.

  Revealed.

  As if it had always been there, waiting. It hovered—soundless, weightless—shedding light without casting shadow.

  “If you think you’re ready,” Rory said, “take it.”

  Sammy scoffed. “That’s it?”

  Rory nodded once. “That’s it.”

  Sammy stepped forward, tail twitching. “You’re gonna regret this, stripes.”

  “Perhaps,” Rory said, “but only one of us has ever tried.”

  Sammy lunged.

  Rory simply stepped aside.

  Not hurried. Not strained. Just a smooth, effortless pivot—his staff tapping once against the stone for balance.

  Sammy spun on his heel and tried again—faster this time. A jab. A feint. A tail sweep.

  Rory arched backward and flipped into a handstand, one leg bending slightly as if posing for a painting. The orb remained hovering just behind him, untouched.

  Sammy lunged again. Rory stepped lazily away.

  Lola muttered, “He’s showing off.”

  “No,” Pupster said, arms folded. “He’s not even trying yet.”

  Sammy snarled, pushing harder. A flurry of strikes now. Quick footwork. Elbow, shoulder, a low sweep of his leg. Every time he closed in—

  Rory wasn’t there.

  He flowed around the attacks like water—turning, ducking, one hand behind his back, even twirling the orb playfully between his fingers at one point.

  Ten minutes passed.

  Sammy stood panting, sweat clinging to his brow, fists clenched tight. “It’s a trick.”

  Rory’s gaze didn’t waver. “Is it?”

  “It’s... it’s not real.”

  “It’s as real as your frustration.”

  He flicked the orb into the air and caught it with a palm. Then, with a subtle twist of his fingers, it dissolved into a soft burst of light—gone, as if dismissed from thought.

  He stepped closer, his voice calm but grounded. “You’re fighting like the world is something you can grab and shake into submission. But you’re not listening to it. Not feeling it.”

  Sammy’s jaw tightened. “I’m plenty strong.”

  “You are,” Rory said gently. “But strength without understanding is just noise. Power without control?” He paused. “That’s not mastery. That’s a tantrum.”

  Lola stifled a laugh behind her hand.

  Pupster snorted, low and amused.

  Nimby chirped twice—like a knowing drumroll.

  Sammy muttered, “Stupid orb…”

  Rory placed a hand on his shoulder—light, but grounding. “Come back when you’re ready to listen. Then I’ll show you how to feel the world move before it does.”

  Sammy pulled away but said nothing. No comeback this time—just frustration, simmering behind narrowed eyes.

  Then Rory turned to the others.

  “Now,” he said, smiling once more. “Who’s next?”

  As the sun dipped behind the mountains, the golden orb returned—hovering once more, warm and silent.

  One by one, they stepped forward.

  Lola first—light on her feet, deliberate. She moved like a dancer, circling, testing for an opening.

  Rory barely shifted. With a simple tilt of his wrist, the orb drifted out of reach like a falling leaf on the wind.

  Pupster followed. No flair, no wasted motion—just clean, efficient strikes. Calculated angles.

  Rory met each one with quiet counterbalance, his staff catching Pupster’s spear mid-thrust, redirecting it without force.

  Even Nimby tried, darting in with feints and unpredictable zigzags.

  Rory didn’t swat him away. He simply wasn’t there when Nimby arrived.

  They reached. The orb remained.

  And Rory—he never raised his voice. Never moved his feet more than needed.

  He just watched.

  Measured.

  When they were done, he let the orb dissolve with a slow exhale, as though releasing a breath he’d held for years.

  “Not bad,” he said. “But not ready.”

  Sammy sat heavily on the stone, arms crossed, glaring at the spot where the orb had been. “I had it.”

  “No,” Rory replied. “You wanted it. There’s a difference.”

  Lola glanced sideways at him, teasing. “So much for natural instinct.”

  Sammy groaned.

  Rory smiled—but something behind it had shifted. The gleam in his eyes now wasn’t mischief. It was something older. Wiser. Watching.

  “Tomorrow,” he said softly. “We start again. This time, not just with hands. With awareness.”

  He turned, staff tapping gently against the stone as he walked.

  Author’s Note:

  Thanks for reading! Chapter 5 arrives next week. Feel free to leave a comment—I read every one.

  ? Tom Devoil, 2025. All rights reserved.

  This work is the intellectual property of the author. No part of it may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author. Unauthorised use, reposting, or adaptation is strictly prohibited.