The streets of Althmire grew quieter as they approached the heart of the city, the towering spires of the Sanctum of Aether casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The air here felt different, heavy with a kind of quiet reverence. This was the Order's stronghold, a place where the Weave itself seemed to pulse more intensely, its threads binding reality in intricate patterns.
As Solin and Lirien approached the great gates of the Sanctum, the ground beneath them seemed to hum, almost as if the very stones were alive. The city around them had a strange mix of serenity and anticipation, as though the weight of history itself rested on this sacred ground. The Sanctum of Aether was more than just a fortress—it was a nexus where the Order studied the Weave and protected its balance from those who would abuse it.
But as they reached the gates, the air shifted. There was a sudden, sharp whistle, and before Solin could react, a sword whistled through the air, heading straight for him.
In a fluid motion, Solin's body shifted—his form blurred for a fraction of a second, like a mirage caught in the wind. The sword passed through him as though he were a wisp of smoke, its edge missing him entirely. It embedded itself into the stone behind him with a dull thud.
Lirien instinctively stepped back, her hand reaching for her weapon, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of an attack. But Solin merely glanced down at the sword lodged in the stone, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
He walked over to the sword, grasping its hilt. The blade was sharp, finely crafted, and pulsed with a faint energy—a signature of the Order's weaponsmiths. Solin twisted it free from the stone effortlessly, his movements fluid and deliberate.
"Benedict, is that you?" Solin called out to the empty space beyond the gates. His voice carried the weight of recognition, yet it was tinged with amusement.
There was a beat of silence before the sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows. A tall figure, clad in a dark cloak adorned with the Order's insignia, stepped into view. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his face, though young, held a look of perpetual challenge, as though he was always searching for something—or someone—to test himself against.
He grinned when he saw Solin holding the sword. "Still dodging blades, Threadbane?" the figure called out, his voice filled with mischief. "I've been bored out of my mind. Didn't expect you to show up so soon."
Solin raised an eyebrow, the smirk still lingering on his face. "I see the waiting's getting to you, Benedict Voss. The fight's always better when you're itching for a challenge."
Benedict stepped forward, his tall, muscular frame a stark contrast to Solin's calm and composed demeanor. He carried himself with the swagger of someone who had spent his days honing his skills and seeking the thrill of combat. He was one of the Order's most skilled warriors, a master of both the blade and the Weave, known for his reckless abandon when it came to battle. He was also known to get restless when things were too peaceful—a fact that the Order tolerated for the simple reason that his skills were unmatched.
"Well, if you're done dodging my greeting, Threadbane," Benedict said with a grin, "how about we head inside? I've been itching for some real action."
Solin handed him back the sword, his gaze hardening slightly. "Not today, Benedict. We've got business with the Order. But don't worry," he said, his voice darkening, "there's always time for a fight later."
Benedict's grin widened, but there was an unspoken understanding between them. There were larger forces at play, and the Sanctum of Aether was not a place for personal quarrels. Yet, Solin knew that once this was over, Benedict would be looking for his next challenge—and he might just find it in Solin.
As they made their way toward the gates, Benedict followed at a distance, his steps echoing behind them, the anticipation of future battles already stirring within him.