The day after the incident, Arion had ordered the Guardians to gather in the main hall. The gray light filtering through the open windows cast long shadows across the central tapestry. The chairs, arranged in a semicircle before the fireplace, stood waiting like mute witnesses. The fire crackled weakly, insufficient to drive away the chill in the air, and the heavy curtains swayed slightly in the breeze.

  Dharion stood with arms crossed, the trace of the wound still visible on his cheek. The leather of his bracers creaked as he tensed, and the rigid stillness of his posture spoke louder than words.

  Artan occupied a low chair, resting his weight on the edge of his sword. His calloused hands gripped the pommel, and the weight of the steel pressed into his shoulder, as though he were ready to rise at any moment.

  Daoan, the most serene, watched with keen eyes, measuring each gesture. The austere order of her garments and the steady rhythm of her breath gave her presence a different edge: she did not impose by force, but by control.

  Lord Arion entered without escort. He wore no armor, only a gray tunic tightened at the chest, the fresh bandage still visible at his side. He stepped into the center of the room, and for a moment only the crackle of the fire could be heard.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said gravely, without raising his voice. “That I acted recklessly. That I risked you all for a boy who should not have survived, that I broke the promise I made to you.”

  The silence thickened. Dharion pressed his arms tighter to his chest, the wound on his cheek taut as if it still burned. Artan lowered his gaze to the blade of his sword, reflecting faint firelight, but his white-knuckled grip spoke clearly. Daoan, by contrast, met Arion’s eyes without flinching, her calm heavier than reproach.

  Dharion was the first to speak.

  “It wasn’t just recklessness, Arion.” His voice rumbled through the hall, rough as broken stone. “That boy… Hyura… he isn’t like us. There’s a darkness in him. He’s a danger, an imbalance.”

  The words lingered in the air. The fire hissed as if to punctuate the accusation. Artan slowly raised his eyes, lips pressed into a hard line; he did not contradict Dharion, but his expression betrayed that he shared some of the fear. Daoan tilted her head slightly, observing both. Her eyes weighed each word like a silent judge, not yet swaying to either side.

  The lord straightened and fixed his gaze on Dharion.

  “A danger? Because he is different? Because he doesn’t fit what our laws dictate?” His step echoed through the hall. “What I saw in him was courage in facing what lies within. I saw restraint over a power he doesn’t yet understand. A will that many of our warriors could not have mastered.”

  The silence grew heavier. Dharion held Arion’s gaze, lips tight, the scar on his cheek reddening as if the wound itself flared with anger. Artan grunted low, a sound half-stifled, betraying his unease. Daoan sighed faintly, her fingers interlaced in her lap as though restraining the urge to intervene.

  “Courage doesn’t erase the threat,” Dharion replied at last, each syllable forged in iron. “You can dress it in hope, but it doesn’t change what he is: a risk to us all.”

  Daoan’s voice cut through, calm but firm.

  “Arion, we do not doubt your judgment… but understand this: the city will not see it kindly. If we shelter him, we risk the stability of this household. You won’t be able to defend him in a trial if what happened here becomes known, and even if you hide it, I doubt the tribunal will spare him. As of now, we have nothing to speak in the boy’s favor… if anything, the opposite.”

  A heavy stillness settled. Arion closed his eyes briefly, drew a deep breath, and spoke with a weight born of old memories.

  “I have spent years watching Lybendol rot under its own laws. I’ve seen the strong crush the weak, and the weak resign themselves to being forgotten. That boy is different, yes—but does that mean he must die? The council is corrupt; it has grown both weak and dangerous. Inequality festers. The floating city drifts without direction. I refuse to believe that Hyura’s only fate is death. We don’t even know what afflicts him. What if he is possessed? Would we kill an innocent simply out of ignorance? We must be better than that—at least we must.”

  The words hung, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

  Artan rose slowly, eyes fixed on his lord.

  “Your words burn, Arion. But fire consumes as much as it lights. If you choose to save him… you had better be ready to bear everything it will bring.”

  Dharion’s glare smoldered with restrained anger, but he held his tongue. Daoan inclined her head, thoughtful, as though she knew the decision had already been forged elsewhere.

  Arion lowered his gaze, and for a moment his sternness faltered. His voice came raw, frayed by guilt, as if every word cost him blood.

  “I know I did wrong. I promised never to break your will, and for all these long years I never did. I carried that promise like a sacred oath… and now I’ve broken it. I ask your forgiveness. It will not happen again.” He lifted his eyes slightly, where exhaustion and supplication mingled. “But if you have trusted me all this time, trust me once more. Not for the boy… for me. Because without you, nothing remains. I need you.”

  The hall fell still. Rain tapped against the windows as if straining to listen.

  Dharion clenched his jaw; his white knuckles drummed on his sword’s hilt. He meant to lash out, but the sincerity in Arion’s eyes held him back. Memories assaulted him—years of battles fought shoulder to shoulder, nights of silence shared by the fire, promises sealed without words. Arion had always been his beacon in the storm, the most steadfast man he had ever known. His faith urged him to obey the law without question… but loyalty to his lord weighed heavier than any doctrine. Dharion did not speak—he was not a man of confessions—but the slight nod of his head and the rigid set of his posture were enough for all to know his choice.

  Artan remained seated, breath tight; his expression wavered between doubt and memory. At last he raised his eyes and spoke, grave but uncertain:

  “I’ve argued with you more times than I can count, cursed your decisions more than once. But I’ve also seen your hand when others would have let me fall.” He pressed his lips, doubtful yet steady. “If I must choose between the city and your word… I choose you, even if it burns me in the end.”

  Daoan, unnoticed until then, rose with tears in her eyes and placed a hand on Arion’s arm—a gesture both of comfort and oath.

  “Arion,” she said, her voice breaking, “we’ve followed you when your orders seemed madness; we’ve stood by you when the city scorned us. It wasn’t for pride. I’ve seen the weight you carry, heavier than your own. If you ask forgiveness, I grant it. If you ask trust, I give it.”

  Her tears slid freely, eyes fixed on Arion without reproach, only loyalty.

  “Hyura isn’t just a matter of rules or judgment,” she continued. “He is a question our laws cannot answer. If we abandon him, what will the city we claim to protect say of us? What will history say?”

  Dharion looked between Daoan and Arion, his tone less sharp now:

  “If it is your will, if you see hope in him… I won’t break the chain of trust between us. But I won’t do it blind. If we protect him, prepare a defense. We must be cautious, not reckless.”

  Artan pressed his palm on the table, a sign of pact.

  “We’ll cover him. If something turns, we’ll know—and we’ll face it together, as we always have.”

  Arion let their words wash over him like rain. His breath eased.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “I don’t ask you to accept him without watchfulness. Only that you walk with me. This isn’t pride. It’s because we can still be better.”

  Daoan squeezed his hand and turned to the others.

  “We begin at dawn. Artan, you’ll watch him. The girl stays—if he loses control again, she can help. We’ll need to explain it to her parents, but she won’t leave. I’ll see to it that she sends a letter sealed by you,” she nodded at Arion. “I’ll also find out if word of yesterday has left this house. And you, Dharion… if it comes to it, you’ll have to protect the boy. Can you?”

  He nodded. Daoan turned back to Arion.

  “You go to the council, buy us time, learn what you can. But remember—we may yet have to flee the city to save him.”

  A new calm settled over the room. Not indifference, but the steadiness of those who accept risk as duty. The lamps flickered; clouds drifted slow over Lybendol. Outside, the floating city had no inkling that within Arion’s house, a decision had been made that might change everything.

  The weight of words thinned like smoke. Daoan stepped forward and, without thought, embraced Arion briefly—firm more than tender. The gesture surprised all; even the lord hesitated before returning it. Artan snorted softly and approached with a crooked smile.

  “Well… never thought I’d see Daoan crying over us.”

  Dharion lingered, then clasped Arion in a rough embrace.

  “Don’t say I’m made of stone,” he growled. “I’m here if I’m needed.”

  Artan’s coarse laugh eased the heaviness. The group folded into an awkward, sincere embrace, the fireplace their only witness. Arion, in the center, closed his eyes: guilt remained, but the certainty he was not alone struck him like lightning.

  They parted.

  “Thank you, truly,” Arion said. “But before we end this meeting, Hyura must come and tell us what happened yesterday. We need clarity.”

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Daoan went to fetch him. Vaenia did not leave his side. Hyura’s face was weary, his gaze adrift; she, however, stood fierce, almost maternal, as if daring anyone to take him away.

  “I’ve called you here, Hyura, because we must know exactly what happened yesterday,” Arion asked. “What did you see? What did you hear?”

  Hyura swallowed hard. In a trembling voice, he recounted the vision that had torn him from Arion’s courtyard.

  The hall grew silent as he described that nameless place: the mirror-floor stretching into darkness, the thin layer of freezing water rippling with waves that seemed ready to shatter the world, the circle of light marking him as the only living being in a dead universe.

  “The air vibrated,” he said. “It was a heartbeat that wasn’t mine. I walked as if beneath water. And then… the voice.”

  He told them how it sounded: weary, sharp, mocking. How his reflection broke to reveal the silhouette of a man wreathed in smoke, with black eyes and horns at his brow. How the being named himself the Fallen God, erased from the hymns, and told him he must make him remembered.

  When Hyura admitted the voice knew his pain, tension cracked the floorboards. He confessed the being had offered him power—not wings like the Lynhes, but others—and that he could not recall accepting or refusing. Only that, when he returned, it had not been him moving his body in the attack.

  “He said: ‘That one out there wants you dead. And I, for now, don’t. Not yet. I am not ready.’” Hyura’s eyes flicked to Dharion. “When I asked, ‘Ready for what?’, he answered: ‘To be freed.’ Then he raised an arm of smoke and added: ‘You must find me wings.’”

  Then came an image, half like a memory of his own: ruined columns beneath a crimson sky, a blackened altar, a symbol he could not recognize. The void tore apart… and he returned to the house.

  The revelation shook the group. Vaenia sobbed; Dharion paled; Daoan stifled her reaction; Arion clenched his fists.

  “This is no ordinary possession,” Arion muttered. “What you describe holds greater implications than I feared.”

  He sank into a chair, voice low.

  “The Fallen God… this is larger than us.”

  Daoan placed her hands on his shoulders. Though frightened, her eyes glimmered with secret curiosity—she had always been drawn to the myth of the slain god, always doubted its truth.

  “How do we know he doesn’t lie? What if it’s another form of possession?” she asked.

  Dharion answered firmly:

  “He speaks truth. The old writings mention this being, describe him exactly as the boy just did… Forbidden scrolls. There’s no way he could know what little survives. Arion, this isn’t something we can face alone.”

  “We follow the plan,” Daoan cut in. “No more arguing. We already knew this was vast and unknown. Now we know what we face.”

  Arion, deep in thought, finally raised his eyes to them, seeking a decision.

  “Very well. As Daoan says, we follow the plan. I’ll go to the council, seek what lore I can about the Fallen God. And the healer—perhaps she saw something we can use.”

  Daoan’s gaze darkened.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “She may not speak, but she can write or nod in answer—”

  “You don’t understand…” Daoan’s silence said the rest.

  Hyura blanched. The girl who had tried to heal him in the trials—dead? Because of him? A crushing weight sank into his chest. Vaenia gripped his arm in comfort.

  Tears spilled down his face. He was a killer. Exactly what he had told the Fallen God he never wished to become.

  Hyura whispered he wanted no harm, no manipulation. Daoan stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder, both gentle and warning.

  “We understand, Hyura. We will do what we can to help you.”

  “Even if it means our deaths?” Artan asked, uncertain.

  “Listen,” he said, rising. “This is cosmic. I don’t even know what would happen if he died. Would we awaken the Fallen God? Can this boy even die? This is beyond us.”

  He sought Dharion’s support, but the man stayed silent, studying Hyura with new eyes. For the first time, his faith was not blind—he had not seen the god he prayed for, but he had proof that gods were real, not myths on parchment.

  “We follow the plan,” Dharion said flatly. “Perhaps Aetherios tests me. I must find a way to aid this soul… and destroy the Fallen God forever.”

  Tension coiled once more. Artan, resigned, accepted the group’s choice. Arion rose.

  “Then we begin at once. Time runs short.”

  The following days passed in unexpected calm. The Guardians’ severity softened—fewer harsh words, watchfulness born of protection rather than disdain. Dharion no longer shunned Hyura, his gaze holding caution but no longer condemnation. Vaenia never left his side, her letter to her parents sealed with Arion’s hand. She was his shield; each time Dharion neared, she tensed like a tigress.

  Artan lightened meals with rough humor; Daoan tempered sparks before they caught. Hyura, surrounded by fragile peace, remained troubled. At night, silence pressed like a dark river. What he had felt in the arena—the heat in his back, the alien force—the healer’s death tormented him most. Why had he been chosen? Vaenia noticed it in his eyes; sometimes she distracted him with childhood tales, sometimes she simply pressed his hand to anchor him.

  The days yielded no new answers. Arion grew resolved to confront the council, even if it meant rebellion and blood. His time with Hyura had sown a mix of affection and pity. The Guardians knew they stood on the brink of upheaval, a possible coup that might divide the city.

  The last night was tense. Tomorrow they would go to the council, preparing as men do before battle—with sad embraces, final words, and unbearable uncertainty.

  Artan approached Hyura quietly.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” he asked with a bitter half-smile. “Nervous for tomorrow?”

  “Honestly, yes. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”

  Artan glanced around to ensure no one watched.

  “Then I fear you’ll get the opposite.”

  Hyura stared at him. The Guardian spoke idly:

  “If I were you, I’d run. You’d spare them this bloodshed. Live far from Lybendol. With luck they won’t send Guardians after you… and if they do, only you will die. But if you stay… you’ll destroy everything you love. And what I love too.”

  His voice carried weary bitterness, though he disguised it with indifference. Then he clicked his tongue, adding lightly:

  “Bah, don’t mind me. Just thinking aloud. Tomorrow will surely go well.”

  A pause, then in a murmur:

  “Still… if you wanted to escape, tonight is my watch. I’m tired. Might be I wouldn’t notice if you slipped away.”

  He clapped Hyura’s back with a weary smile and walked off.

  Hyura had thought of it many nights, yet fear chained him. And then Artan’s words forged his resolve. When the house lay quiet, he decided he could not wait. He would not be a burden, nor endanger anyone further. A compass within pulled him toward the temple of his vision. Tonight would be the last: he would leave before dawn.

  Leaving Vaenia was the hardest, yet also the reason he had to go. He found her, gazed at her, memorizing every line of her face.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, blushing.

  He shook his head.

  “Just… thinking how beautiful you are.”

  It startled her; Hyura had never spoken so. He embraced her and whispered:

  “Thank you, Vaenia… for everything. You’ve always been by my side. I only remember kindness from you. Forgive me for your wing. Whatever happens tomorrow, live your life if things go wrong. Please.”

  Vaenia gently pushed him back.

  “Don’t say that. It will be fine. And if not… we’ll face it together.”

  Hyura nodded, unwilling to plant doubt in her.

  That night he shared small talk with the Guardians until the house dimmed. As Artan had said, his post was empty. Hyura slipped from his room, down the hall. He passed Daoan’s door, where Vaenia slept, and nearly called her to flee with him. But no—better alone.

  He crossed the yard, slipped past the armory hut, climbed the rooftops, descended alleyways smelling of rain and iron. Every shadow seemed to watch him; every shuttered window hid eyes. The city itself seemed to clutch at him, unwilling to let go.

  At last, the entrance to the tunnels. A carved stone gate. Hyura paused, looked back: Lybendol’s rooftops etched against the cloudy sky, forever suspended above the abyss. There was all he loved. And yet, he must leave it behind.

  Inside, the air shifted—cold dampness sank into his bones. Drops echoed from the vaults, each one a warning. The smell of earth, rust, rotted wood. Pools reflected dim lamplight. Every step echoed too loud, betraying him.

  The guard stood hunched as ever, vigilant. Before him shimmered the barrier, humming like insect wings, filling the air with metallic tingle. Hyura crouched in the shadows, breath held.

  He studied the scene like a hunter: the guard’s stance, the rhythm of his breath, the slow blink after each turn. The barrier’s hum wavered faintly, ebbing at moments. Hyura counted, timed them, heart hammering but mind cold. Now… wait… now.

  He crept forward—one step, two, three. The barrier’s hum dipped. He prepared to leap when—

  “Hyura, no!” Vaenia’s voice rang out, bursting from the shadows.

  The guard spun, spear lifted, Hyura nearly upon him. The blade sliced air at his side. Hyura dove, rolled—felt the wind of steel graze his cheek. The guard cursed, pivoting, but Hyura had already surged past.

  He ran straight for the barrier. Its light spat sparks like a curtain of lightning. It engulfed him—icy, clinging, like air itself sought to bind him. Sound warped: the guard’s cry, the magic’s buzz, even his own heartbeat stretched, heavy, inhuman.

  He had made it. He had escaped. But now came what he had never reckoned with: the void.

  He fell. The wind tore his breath away, the ground below a dark smear rushing closer. He remembered the guard’s words: “A canopy of trees may break the fall.” That was why he’d chosen the lowest exit. But the height mocked that hope.

  I won’t survive.

  The thought struck like a hammer. What a foolish death. What an idiot he had been.

  “Come on!” he roared, face warped by the wind. “It’s time to rise—give me your wings, god of darkness! We’re about to die, can’t you see?!”

  His voice echoed into the abyss. No answer.

  Then he felt it: something behind him. For a heartbeat he thought the guard had followed, and almost felt relief—better a spear than the fall.

  But it wasn’t the guard.

  It was Vaenia.

  She had crossed seconds after him and now plummeted, unconscious, undone by the barrier’s shock. Her body spun helplessly, hair and arms flailing like a broken doll.

  Hyura’s heart tore in his chest.

  “Vaenia!” he cried, but the gap widened like a sentence.

  And then—he ceased to be himself.

  From his back erupted wings of black smoke: dense, jagged, edges sparking, stinking of molten metal. Not Lynhe wings—these were heavy, dragging their own gravity, rending the air.

  The first beat ripped a cry from his throat—terror and ecstasy fused. The world shuddered. An alien will gripped him, steering with cold hand. But the force lifted him, hurled him forward with inhuman fury.

  He dove, arms trembling, and caught Vaenia in the void, clutching her as if to snatch her from death itself.

  The impact was thunder. The canopy burst like shattered stained glass, leaves spinning in storm. Branches cracked like bones under a hammer. Resin stung the air with earth’s damp breath.

  They struck roots and undergrowth with the violence of a lightning strike. The forest roared, birds shrieking into the sky, and then silence—reverent, stunned.

  A crater marked their fall: earth sunken and scorched, foliage charred as if a shard of storm had pierced the heavens.

  Hyura had shielded Vaenia. Now he lay beside her, breath ragged.

  She was unconscious; blood seeped from her temple, a branch had cut her palm. Hyura, hand stained with her blood and his own, brushed her hair from her face, pressed his cheek to hers until he felt her faint pulse.

  Only then did he breathe.

  He looked up—and for a heartbeat, wonder stole the air from his lungs.

  Lybendol floated above them like a sleeping god: magnificent, veiled in lights trembling like captive stars, its towers like golden spears piercing the heavens. From below, the city was not only a distant home, but a colossal mirror suspended in nothing—a miracle defying the world.

  And yet Hyura felt it as indifference incarnate, a vault of stone and fire that could crush his small life without notice. It was the image of all he loved, and all that had rejected him—a shining temple whose beauty weighed upon him like a curse.