Otrebor sat in the same tavern as always. The stool creaked beneath his weight, as though it had endured his comings and goings for years. The tavern wasn’t much, but he had spent more nights there than he cared to admit—especially when his wife gave him no chores at home.

  Across from him, Oiton drank slowly.

  “Have you heard about the boy in the Guardian trial?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  Otrebor raised an eyebrow, as if the question itself were an offense.

  “Heard it? I was there myself.”

  A brief silence followed. Oiton watched him with his mug in hand, waiting for more.

  “The fight was even…” Otrebor lowered his voice. “But at one point, the wingless boy started moving strangely. Then… that smoke appeared. On his back.”

  Oiton leaned forward.

  “And?”

  “They looked like wings.” Otrebor pressed his lips together. “Demonic wings.”

  Oiton swallowed hard.

  “By Aetherios…”

  The tavernkeeper, pretending to polish a glass, snorted.

  “Nonsense. Some trick, or a cursed object. Nothing more.”

  Otrebor turned his head slowly.

  “And were you there?” he asked, his tone sharp.

  The tavernkeeper didn’t answer. He knew those old miners too well to argue.

  Oiton spoke again, his voice hushed:

  “They say he’s possessed. By… the fallen god.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Otrebor didn’t answer at once. He clicked his tongue, as though searching for a name that slipped from his grasp.

  “What was his name?” Oiton asked.

  Otrebor looked at him with disappointment, as if the answer should have been obvious. But his silence betrayed him.

  An uneasy quiet followed. Oiton lowered his voice even further.

  “And that boy… where did he come from? Does anyone know where he lived?”

  The tavernkeeper cleared his throat, still rubbing the glass in his hands.

  “From what they say, he was found in the tunnels, years ago. Just a child.”

  Otrebor stared, intrigued.

  “In the tunnels?”

  “Yes. And he wasn’t alone,” the tavernkeeper added, lowering his voice. “There was a pool of blood around him. As if… as if his wings had been torn off. Or as if something had taken them.”

  Oiton’s eyes widened in horror.

  “And who found him?”

  “Guards, I think. Or miners. No one knows for sure. All I know is that since then he’s lived like a shadow among the passages and sewers, without name or family.”

  Otrebor snorted, though unease flickered in his eyes.

  “A wingless boy, a boy with no past… and now, a monster.”

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  The worship of the gods was sacred in Aethoria. Nium, creator of the universe. Nox, goddess of destiny. Eonara, of time. Aetherios, of light. All etched into the memory of every child.

  But the name of the fallen one… no.

  It was like trying to recall a dream after waking. The harder you searched, the quicker it unraveled.

  The conversation slowly withered away. The tavernkeeper kept polishing glasses, Oiton lowered his gaze to his mug, and Otrebor muttered half-formed names he couldn’t quite catch.

  Outside, the murmur of the city carried on. Every word about “shadowed wings” or “fallen god” found new lips eager to repeat it. The rumors spread across the crystal bridges and seeped into the marble halls of Lybendol like a dark wind.

  Meanwhile, in the House, all attention was fixed on the wingless boy.

  They arrived in parts. Daoan was first, giving Hyura only a severe glance.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Artan, cheerful. “She’s like that with everyone… though it’s true she seems to have a special dislike for you.”

  Hyura eyed him, pensive. He had been going in circles for a while now—what was happening to him, why he couldn’t remember anything about his past. The harder he tried, the more it slipped away. Unease gripped him like a clenched fist, and the thought of whether Lord Arion had discovered something weighed on his chest.

  “What have you been doing?” Daoan asked, serious, her eyes fixed on Artan.

  “Just having a little fun,” he replied with a shrug. “Not fair that you leave me babysitting.”

  Daoan’s stare was icy.

  “Artan, this is serious. You know Arion is growing…”

  She stopped, realizing Hyura was watching them.

  Artan waved a hand in the air, like brushing away a fly.

  “It’ll turn out to be nothing. And if not, we’ll solve it like always.”

  He said it with a crooked smile, but his tone carried an edge—one that sounded almost like a threat aimed at Hyura.

  Hyura shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, as though he no longer belonged where he was.

  “And you—did you get what you went for?” Artan asked.

  “Yes,” Daoan answered seriously. “But I won’t speak of it in his presence.”

  She ended the matter with a curt tone.

  Luckily for Hyura, just then Lord Arion and Dharion entered through the House balcony. Dharion, stern as always, walked with a straight back and a stone-carved expression. Arion, on the other hand, gave Hyura a weary, almost fraternal smile.

  “The truth is, we found little,” he admitted with a sigh. “Which leaves us in the same place as before. Have you remembered anything else?”

  Hyura shook his head.

  Arion ran a hand across his face, tired.

  “Lucares is pushing hard for execution,” he admitted quietly. “But to me it seems madness to proceed, especially when we don’t know what happened in the arena. The lack of proof that you’re not Valdori doesn’t prove you are one either.”

  He searched Daoan’s eyes for support, but she slowly shook her head.

  The silence weighed until Artan broke it, springing from his seat.

  “Well, I tried,” he said, nervous light in his eyes. “I tried to make him bring that thing out again… but nothing worked.”

  “What?” Dharion’s voice was harder than his face, sharp enough to tense everyone in the room… except Arion.

  Artan faltered, shrugging faintly.

  “I thought it’d be a good idea to see it directly, to figure out what happened.”

  Dharion stepped toward him. His shadow stretched in the balcony light, and when close enough, he laid a heavy hand on Artan’s shoulder. Artan went rigid.

  “In this House we walk the path of Aetherios,” he said, voice like immovable stone. “There is no place for darkness here. Don’t do it again.”

  Arion considered Artan’s words.

  “Wait, Dharion. Perhaps it isn’t such a bad idea.”

  Dharion looked at him, stunned.

  “But my lord—”

  Lord Arion smiled faintly.

  “What better way than with the sharpest blade of the god of light in this House?” he said calmly, meeting Dharion’s gaze. “I am certain you can subdue any darkness that rises in this boy.”

  Artan eased slightly at those words. Dharion’s jaw tightened, but at last he released his comrade’s shoulder without another word.

  “It would be interesting to see firsthand,” Daoan said, supporting Arion, curiosity glinting in her eyes.

  “Then to the arena,” Arion decided. “Dharion, let’s make this boy angry.”

  Silence hung like an anvil. Dharion stepped forward, and the room tensed. His mere presence eclipsed them all.

  Hyura clenched his teeth. He had no wings, no Guardian’s strength, but he did have the speed of one who had always survived by instinct. He darted forward, swift, feinting and striking.

  At first, Dharion stopped him effortlessly. Every blow deflected with minimal movement. Every rush smashed against an invisible wall. Hyura strained, panting, but the Guardian barely moved.

  Then something changed.

  Dharion narrowed his eyes and swatted him aside, sending him rolling across the floor. By the time Hyura stood, the Guardian was already on him. This time Dharion didn’t block calmly—he pressed him with brutal force.

  The air filled with noise: marble cracking under Dharion’s steps, the sharp clash of his strikes against Hyura’s guard. Each impact rattled Hyura’s bones. He dodged as best he could, slashing desperately, slipping through impossible gaps… but Dharion was faster than his size suggested.

  A fist grazed his face, another hammered his stomach. Pain doubled him over, but still Hyura fought. His eyes searched for escape, his muscles burned.

  “Come on!” Dharion roared, his voice cracking like a whip. “Show what you are!”

  He hurled Hyura against the marble wall. The impact stole his breath. Blood trickled from his lips.

  Hyura tried to rise. The world spun. Around him, Daoan, Artan, and Arion watched tensely. They all waited for it to happen—for smoke to burst from his back, for darkness to swallow him.

  But nothing came.

  Hyura charged again, staggering, with what little strength remained. He lunged at Dharion once more, with the fury of one who has nothing left. He was swift, instinctive… but the Guardian struck him down with one final, decisive blow.

  Hyura crashed to the floor, this time not rising. Blood flecked his coughs, his arms shook, and his wide eyes showed no darkness. Only fear, exhaustion… and a broken will.

  Dharion loomed above him, his shadow falling like a mountain.

  “Nothing,” he declared.

  The silence was unbearable. No darkness appeared. Only a defeated boy, unable to stand.

  To everyone’s surprise, Hyura began to cry. Not for the beating, but for the years of helplessness, of not knowing who he was. For the rage of never fitting in, of being different, of bearing a void no one else could understand.

  He thought of Vaenia. The ache of missing her was unbearable, and in that moment he would have given anything to have her beside him. To hear her laugh, to feel her warmth, to draw strength from her. The image of her running to him in the square, after the Council’s judgment, burned in his mind like a wound he couldn’t let go of.

  And then it happened.

  Darkness burst from his back. First a tremor in the air, then a silent explosion: vast wings, black as living smoke, unfurled violently. Hyura’s eyes sank into purest shadow, and his wounds knit shut instantly, flesh obeying a force that was not his own.

  He rose slowly, taller than before, bearing an aura no boy could claim. When he lifted his gaze to Dharion, a crooked, mocking smile curled his lips.

  He was no longer Hyura.

  He was something else.

  The room fractured. Daoan stifled a curse, Artan unconsciously stepped back, and even Dharion, stone-steady, narrowed his eyes with unfamiliar tension.

  Arion,

  however, did not look away.