He watched the battle unfold, his abyssal black eyes absorbing every detail.
The vile beasts that had torn through the Academy were slaughtered—annihilated by the strange, unrefined power of the boy they fought. And when the last of them fell, so did he.
Belphet descended.
He landed softly beside the unconscious boy, studying him with quiet intensity. His eyes traced the blood-streaked face, the slight rise and fall of his back. Alive.
"What is my connection with you?"
Belphet had no answer. He only knew that he felt something—an unease, a familiarity he could not explain.
He was taller than Leon by a foot, his frame lean yet powerful. Pointed ears marked his heritage, a signature trait of the elves. But when the wind caught in his unkempt white hair, lifting the strands away from his face, the resemblance became clearer.
Soft, childlike features—much like Leon's. Yet where Leon's face was merely delicate, Belphet's was sharp. A higher cheekbone, a finer nose. The structure of an Earth Model, refined in a way that made him appear both young and ancient at once, his facial tattoos still present.
And then, his gaze shifted.
He turned toward the direction Leon had fallen to—and ran.
His bare feet barely touched the ground before he propelled himself forward, faster than any human could ever hope to match. The wind howled around him, his form cutting through the trees in a blur. He did not move through strength alone. The world bent to him, the very Laws guiding his motion, carrying him forward like an unseen current.
Soon Belphet saw him. Malrik.
The man had tried to flee, dragging his battered body through the undergrowth in a futile attempt at escape.
"You don't deserve my kindness."
Belphet did not hesitate.
A single strike. Quick, precise. Malrik collapsed without a sound, his consciousness severed in an instant.
The Laws wrapped around him before he even hit the ground, binding him in place. And then Belphet lifted him—effortless, as if he weighed nothing—and turned back.
When he reached Leon again, he let Malrik drop. The man's limp form landed in the dirt, motionless.
Belphet did not spare him another glance.
He had no need to.
Leon would wake. And when he did, Malrik would not leave this place alive.
"What will you do afterward?"
* * *
In the heart of the desert, where sandstorms raged with ceaseless fury and tornadoes tore the land apart, a castle stood untouched. A barrier of unseen power wrapped around its spiraling towers, shielding the grand structure from the chaos outside. There were no towns, no villages—only the castle, a city in its own right, rising from the wasteland.
At the base of the tallest spire, in a throne room carved from gold and onyx, a man sat upon a seat that gleamed with gemstones. The throne, towering and ornate, should have commanded the room, but it was the figure resting upon it that held all weight.
His posture was lax, elbow propped against the armrest, a soft fist beneath his jaw. But there was no mistaking it—this was not leisure. It was patience.
At his feet, the Awakened knelt. Men of intelligence, cunning, and power, their presence in his court a testament to their value. Yet, before him, they trembled.
"Malrik has not returned?" The words were smooth, each syllable measured, betraying no urgency.
A man, older than most, lifted his head. He was calm, seasoned—one who had long learned to temper fear with wisdom. "No, Your Majesty."
Silence.
The throne room stilled as Salim closed his eyes. His presence did not waver, yet something unseen shifted in the air, heavier than before. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, an idle gesture that sent a ripple through the room. The weight of it was suffocating.
Malrik had not returned, which meant one thing—Leon was alive.
Salim exhaled softly, the sound barely audible, yet it sent a shudder through the gathered court. The failure had been predictable. Malrik, for all his arrogance, had always been shortsighted. A loose end that tried to tie itself too late.
Then, the voice of the experienced Awakened rose once more. Carefully. "Your Majesty, why not get rid of the Oaken family?"
The air thinned.
Salim's eyes opened, dark and unreadable, yet the hunger within them was unmistakable. He lifted his hand—just slightly, an unspoken command.
Come.
The Awakened's breath caught. The ripple became a wave.
He rose, his movements stiff, mechanical. His mind screamed for restraint, for life, but he had already spoken. A single misstep. A single suggestion. There was no undoing it now.
His legs carried him forward, his body betraying his instincts. When he reached the base of the throne, he knelt. His head bowed, his voice did not waver. "Your Majesty."
Salim extended his hand, palm open.
The room darkened, and the man shuddered.
Then, his body began to wither. Skin sagged, veins blackened, the strength he had cultivated over a lifetime unraveling in mere seconds. His breath left him in shallow gasps, and as his eyes dulled, his frame collapsing inward, he did not resist. There was no point.
His body turned grey.
Then to dust.
The air stirred slightly, carrying the remnants of a man once feared, now reduced to nothing.
Salim lowered his hand, and the weight in the room lifted.
The throne room remained silent.
And then, with the same leisure as before, the king rested his face against his knuckles once more.
"Now," he murmured, voice smooth as ever, "bring me the orphan."
* * *
As the first rays of the sun stretched across the land, the flora of Kaelar stirred, yawning open to the light.
The night had been peaceful. And so, the vegetation flourished, as it always did—hardy, unrelenting, shaped by a world that had never been kind.
Leon's eyes shot open, the golden light reflecting in their dull white depths. He lay on his chest, unblinking. The air was thick with the scent of dry blood—clinging to his skin, mingled with the black ichor of last night's slaughter.
A struggle outside his vision dragged him back to the waking world. The muffled sounds of desperate, frantic movements.
He moved to sit up, but his body resisted—sore, heavy, numb in places he hadn't known could go numb. His fingers curled against the dirt as he pushed himself up.
And then he saw him.
Malrik.
The man was bound by invisible strings, his mouth sealed shut by forces beyond his control. Yet even in his helplessness, his eyes burned with defiance.
Leon rose, his movement sluggish, his thoughts swimming through the haze of exhaustion. There was a weight pressing down on him—not just the pain, not just the fatigue, but something deeper.
He stepped forward.
Malrik trembled, but his eyes did not yield.
Leon lifted a hand, and the Laws around the mouth were erased. The silence unraveled, and Malrik gasped for breath.
"Do not kill me!" The words spilled out in a desperate plea, as if they alone could shift the inevitable.
Leon did not speak.
Malrik swallowed hard, eyes flickering, calculating a way out. "If you kill me, you kill her." His voice was steadier now. "Would you murder a child your age?"
Leon tilted his head slightly, listening.
Malrik was not lying.
Leon had always been able to sense the truth in others—the weight behind their words, the emotions they tried to conceal. He understood Malrik's fear. He understood his reasoning.
And so he did not care.
"You smiled," Leon murmured.
Malrik stiffened. "What?"
"You smiled." Leon's voice did not waver. "Not now. Not here. But before. When you had power. When you thought you had won."
Malrik flinched.
Leon continued, his tone devoid of warmth. "You do not love her. She was an excuse. A reason to reveal your true self."
Leon surmised that she was a hostage. But Malrik reveled in it, to be forced to do what he wished to do—inflict pain.
Malrik's breath hitched. He moved—or tried to. His bound limbs struggled against the unseen force, his body twisting just enough to press his face into the dirt. He could not fight. He could not flee.
Leon walked beside him.
"You do not deserve death." His voice was quiet now, almost thoughtful.
And then, he pressed his foot against the back of Malrik's head.
"And yet, I will grant it to you."
The skull caved.
Leon exhaled. He straightened, stepping away from the mess of blood and bone. Ignoring the grey matter between his toes, he turned his gaze toward Kindrall.
He did not question why Malrik had been placed before him. Did not notice the distant presence that lingered.
He only wanted to see his family.