Darkness claimed him.

  Through the haze of unconsciousness, Pag heard voices—urgent, desperate, dragging him back toward life.

  "He's burning up—" Ellen’s voice, tight with panic.

  "Get that potion in him, now!" Borin’s shout, cracking with worry.

  "He needs a healer, not a tincture," Faelan muttered darkly. "We're running out of time."

  Pag floated between worlds, the scorched memory of his last battle—fire, chains, Ma'khor's ruin—burned into his mind.

  And far away, colder voices stirred.

  Elsewhere

  Across the continent, the orders moved swiftly.

  In the shadowed halls of the Lunar Empire's Ministry of Silence, nine masked Inquisitors convened over a silvered map. At its center pulsed a new, searing beacon—Pag’s signature—too bright to ignore.

  "The aberration is confirmed," one intoned.

  "The Emberkin bloodline, long thought extinguished," another whispered. "Now risen."

  "The Arbiters of Draggor will not shield him forever," the High Inquisitor said. "Send the Hounds. Send the Arbiters' Watchers. Send death."

  Silent nods. Silent oaths.

  Across the land, hunters moved.

  The hunt for Pag began.

  Draggor Kingdom — Capital City — The Arcane Core

  Pag’s body jerked, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

  He gasped in a lungful of sharp, sterile air.

  He wasn't in the village anymore. No ruined walls, no burning homes. Instead, high vaulted ceilings soared above him, polished stone veined with sigils that thrummed faintly underfoot. Braziers of cold blue flame lined the walls, casting everything in a pale, ethereal light.

  The Arcane Core.

  He knew the name instinctively.

  The Arcane Core: the Draggor Kingdom’s secret training center and barracks, hidden deep within the heart of the capital.

  A fortress within a fortress.

  Where mages, battle-tacticians, and special forces prepared for war unseen by common eyes.

  Pag struggled upright on the narrow cot he had been laid upon. His body ached from crown to toe, his veins felt scorched, but he was alive.

  Someone had saved him.

  Saved all of them.

  Across the room, Borin leaned against the wall, armor scuffed and bandaged, one eye cracking open as Pag stirred.

  "‘Bout time you woke up," the dwarf grunted, the barest ghost of a smile crossing his scarred face.

  Pag's throat burned. His voice rasped out. "Where...?"

  "Draggor’s belly," Ellen answered, sliding into view from a side room. Her leathers were cleaned and patched, but the tension in her shoulders remained. "The capital. The Core."

  "You collapsed after... after whatever the hell that was," Faelan said from the doorway, arms folded, posture loose but eyes sharp. "We dragged you out of the ruins. Lucky for us, a Vanguard patrol out of Dustreach picked up our signal flare."

  Pag's head spun.

  He remembered flames. He remembered the Executioner's broken body collapsing into ash.

  And he remembered—

  The Arcane Core wasn't just a hospital.

  It was a crucible.

  And judging by the stern figures in armor and robes moving along the outer corridors, the Core hadn't brought him here to recover.

  They had brought him here to test him.

  Pag struggled fully upright, sweat prickling his brow. His HUD flickered at the edge of his vision:

  >Status Effect: Mana Burn (Severe) Physical Status: Stabilized Attention: Arcane Core Inquisition Active<

  Footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate.

  A figure approached: a man clad in white battle robes, trimmed in black, a half-cloak thrown over one shoulder, bearing the sigil of Draggor’s royal house: a crowned serpent.

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  He stopped at the foot of Pag’s cot and studied him with cool, appraising eyes.

  "You are Pag," he said, voice as sharp as a blade being drawn. "Survivor of Dustreach. Aberrant of Flame."

  Pag’s mouth went dry.

  The man inclined his head slightly.

  "I am Commander Vaelen of the Core Watch. By order of the High Arcanists and the Crown, you are hereby conscripted into the Arcane Core’s probationary battalion."

  Pag blinked. "Conscripted?"

  Vaelen's mouth twitched—a humorless almost-smile.

  "You burned half a village into molten glass," he said. "You left a beacon so bright the Lunar Empire dispatched execution orders before the ashes cooled."

  He leaned closer.

  "You are a threat," he said, tone matter-of-fact. "To us. To them. To yourself."

  Pag clenched his fists.

  He remembered the figure in the mana vision. The promise whispered through burning veins.

  He wasn't just a soldier anymore.

  He was something new. Something dangerous.

  "I don't care what you are," Vaelen said, straightening. "You have two choices. Train here under the Core’s seal... or be turned over to the royal Arbiters."

  Pag didn’t need to ask what that meant.

  He’d seen what governments did to threats they couldn’t control.

  Behind Vaelen, Borin, Ellen, and Faelan stood silently. Waiting.

  Not pressuring.

  But waiting.

  Pag took a shaky breath.

  The Core or the Grave. He could work with them or gain yet another faction as an enemy.

  And somewhere, out beyond the mountains and rivers, the Inquisitors and their Hounds were already coming for him.

  Pag closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the embers burning behind them had not dimmed.

  "I'll train," he said.

  Vaelen nodded once.

  "Good," he said. "You'll need it."

  He turned on his heel.

  "Your first trial begins at dawn."

  The dawn came cold and sharp.

  Pag stood at the edge of a vast stone arena carved into the depths of the Arcane Core, his breath misting in the frigid air. The arena floor stretched out before him—a wide expanse of broken pillars, jagged debris, and shifting platforms that ground against each other with mechanical groans.

  Dozens of other recruits lined the perimeter. Some wore sleek battle robes, others heavier mage-plate. All bore the same gaunt, wary expressions of those who had survived their first taste of real war.

  Above them, balconies ringed the arena—silent figures watching from the shadows. Instructors, commanders, and the unseen eyes of the Draggor Crown.

  Pag flexed his fingers, the faintest heat flickering under his skin.

  The ember inside him was quiet, for now.

  Dormant.

  But waiting.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Today wasn’t about unleashing it.

  Today was about surviving without it.

  Commander Vaelen stepped forward, his white battle robes snapping in the cold drafts, his voice cutting through the gathered recruits like a blade.

  "Welcome to the Arcane Core," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. "You are here because you are dangerous. Unstable. Useful."

  He paced slowly, his boots clicking against the stone.

  "You will be tested. You will be broken. If you rise, you will become weapons worthy of the Crown. If you fail..." He gestured vaguely at a cluster of black-stained stones in the far corner. Scorch marks. Blood.

  Pag swallowed hard.

  Vaelen turned back to face them.

  "Trial One: The Gauntlet."

  Behind him, heavy gates ground open with a roar of ancient machinery. From the darkness beyond, hulking shapes began to emerge—constructs of stone and steel, their eyes burning with artificial malice.

  Pag counted six.

  Each construct easily twice the height of a man, their hands ending in massive, crushing mauls or serrated blades.

  Gauntlet Constructs - Class: Magi-Killer Prototype Units Tactical Notice: Target Weak Points or Disable through Mana Disruption

  Vaelen raised his hand.

  "Rules are simple," he said. "Survive. Disable your target. Do not die."

  His hand dropped.

  The constructs charged.

  The arena erupted into chaos.

  Pag darted sideways immediately, rolling behind a shattered pillar as one of the constructs slammed its hammer-arm into the ground where he had stood a heartbeat before. The impact cracked the stone, sending shards flying like shrapnel.

  He cursed under his breath, forcing himself to focus.

  No Emberkin. No flame. Not yet.

  He needed to think.

  Around him, recruits unleashed their powers—arrows of ice, bolts of shadow, shimmering barriers that shattered under the constructs’ relentless strikes.

  Pag spotted Faelan across the field, moving with brutal efficiency, loosing pinpoint shots into a construct’s exposed gears. Ellen blurred past another, twin daggers flashing as she darted for vulnerable joints.

  Borin—gods bless the stubborn dwarf—simply charged his opponent, hammer swinging with reckless fury, denting armor and knocking the construct off balance.

  Pag gritted his teeth and sprinted.

  The nearest construct whirled on him, its blade arm cleaving a massive arc. Pag ducked low, feeling the rush of displaced air scrape his hair.

  He thrust out his hand—not to cast a spell, but to direct.

  "Break the joint. Shatter the gears."

  Mana tingled at his fingertips. He shaped it—not into fire, but into a concentrated spike of force.

  "Ignis Vinculum!"

  The spell fired—a narrow lance of kinetic heat—hitting the construct's knee joint dead-on.

  The metal shrieked and buckled, the construct stumbling with a mechanical bellow.

  Pag didn’t hesitate.

  He leapt up the construct’s side like a spider, scrambling for higher ground.

  The construct shook violently, trying to dislodge him.

  At the shoulder joint, he saw it—raw, exposed conduits of mana energy pulsing through a thin layer of plating.

  Pag rammed both hands against it and channeled every ounce of his remaining mana.

  The construct spasmed, its inner workings frying in a burst of crackling arcs.

  It toppled forward with a deafening crash, sending a wave of dust and debris rolling across the arena.

  Pag dropped heavily to the ground, panting, his muscles trembling from the effort.

  Around him, the battle still raged.

  Two more constructs had already been taken down by the other recruits—but three remained, and they were learning, adapting, moving faster.

  Pag forced himself upright, blood pounding in his ears.

  He could feel the ember inside him stirring at the edges of his exhaustion.

  One spark, it whispered. One flare, and you could end this.

  He shook his head fiercely.

  Not yet.

  Not here.

  He clenched his fists, forcing the dangerous power back into its cage.

  Not unless he had no other choice.

  Pag sprinted forward, weaving through the battlefield. Another recruit—a slender woman wrapped in ice magic—screamed as a blade arm tore through her barrier. Pag gritted his teeth, reaching her just in time to yank her out of the killing blow’s arc.

  She stumbled, grateful, and unleashed a freezing blast that locked the construct’s legs in place.

  Pag didn’t wait.

  He circled wide, building momentum—and then hurled himself at the construct’s back, channeling another focused spike of kinetic force into its exposed servos.

  The giant machine bucked once, spasmed—and collapsed.

  Only one remained.

  The final construct pivoted toward them, its hammer arm lifting high.

  Before it could strike, a dozen recruits unleashed their spells at once—bolts of shadow, flame, ice, and force slamming into it with relentless fury.

  The construct shrieked—a metallic sound like a dying beast—and collapsed into ruin.

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Pag dropped to his knees, gasping, the last wisps of his mana dissipating into the cold air.

  Above them, the instructors on the balconies watched in silence.

  Commander Vaelen descended the steps, his expression unreadable.

  He surveyed the battered, bloodied survivors.

  Then, he nodded once.

  "You live," he said. "Barely."

  He turned away.

  "Tomorrow, you fight each other."

  Pag slumped back against a pillar, every nerve ending screaming.

  He had survived the first day.

  But tomorrow?

  Tomorrow he would bleed.