The cool night air greeted Rowan as he stepped out of the Oracle’s chamber, the door creaking shut behind him. The quiet streets of Kethra seemed unnaturally still, the distant hum of the Nexus Spire more pronounced in the silence. The shard in his pocket pulsed faintly, its rhythm steadying after the chaotic resonance it had shared with the Oracle’s chamber.

  Rowan paused at the edge of the alley, his sharp gaze scanning the plaza beyond. The spire’s glow illuminated the area, its light rippling across the cobblestones like water. He tightened his cloak and moved cautiously, his steps silent as he slipped into the shadows.

  He didn’t notice the figure watching him from the edge of the plaza.

  Rowan stopped abruptly as a figure stepped into his path, blocking the narrow alleyway ahead. The man was tall, his dark robes trimmed with intricate glyphs that faintly glowed in the spire’s light. His sharp features were calm, but his piercing gaze seemed to cut through the darkness.

  Rowan’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his blade, the shadows at his feet rippling faintly in response. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone cold.

  The man tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I might ask you the same question. You don’t belong here.”

  Rowan’s jaw tightened, his grip on his blade steady. “You’ve been watching me.”

  The man’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ve made it hard not to. The fire in the market, the magical disturbances… all threads leading to you.”

  Rowan’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t recognize the man, but the glyphs on his robes marked him as someone important—someone dangerous. “If you’ve been watching, you know it’s best to leave me alone.”

  The man’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “You’re carrying something powerful. Something dangerous. I can feel it.”

  Rowan’s chest tightened, but his face remained impassive. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” the man asked, his voice low. “The Nexus Spire is reacting to you. Its magic is faltering, its balance disturbed. That doesn’t happen by chance.”

  Rowan’s grip on his blade tightened, the shadows coiling around his boots. “If you know so much, why haven’t you stopped me?”

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  The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I want to know what you’re after.”

  The shard in Rowan’s pocket pulsed sharply, its light briefly illuminating the alley. The man’s eyes flicked to the faint glow, his expression darkening.

  “The Riftwood,” he said softly, almost to himself. “You’re marked by it.”

  Rowan tensed. The man’s words carried a weight that set his teeth on edge. Few in the human world knew of the Riftwood, let alone recognized its power.

  “You’ve been touched by shadow,” the man continued, stepping closer. “But you don’t understand it, do you? Not fully.”

  Rowan’s shadows lashed out, coiling like serpents as they struck toward the man. He moved quickly, raising a hand as a glyph flared to life in the air. The shadows struck the glyph, dissolving into mist as the man held his ground.

  The man lowered his hand, the glyph fading. “You’re strong,” he said calmly. “But strength without understanding is dangerous.”

  Rowan’s voice was cold. “I’ve survived this long without your advice.”

  “Survival isn’t the same as control,” the man replied. “The Riftwood’s power is a burden, not a gift. If you don’t learn to wield it, it will destroy you.”

  Rowan’s chest tightened. The man’s words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. The Riftwood’s whispers had grown louder since he entered Kethra, its power more volatile. But he refused to show weakness.

  “You don’t know me,” Rowan said, his voice hard. “And you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  The man’s gaze sharpened. “I know enough to recognize a threat. And I know that if you continue on this path, you’ll bring Kethra to its knees.”

  Rowan stepped forward, his shadows rippling. “Then stop me.”

  For a moment, the tension in the air was palpable, the hum of the spire seeming to amplify the silence. But the man didn’t move to attack. Instead, he studied Rowan, his expression unreadable.

  “I’ll be watching,” he said finally. “If you threaten the spire—or this city—I’ll stop you. But for now, I’ll let you make your move.”

  Rowan’s eyes narrowed, his hand resting on his blade. “And who are you to decide?”

  The man’s faint smile returned, though it carried no humor. “Magister Kaelen.”

  Rowan didn’t flinch, but his mind raced. The title was unfamiliar, but the weight it carried was clear. This man was no ordinary mage—he was a figure of authority, someone with the power to match his confidence.

  Rowan’s shadows rippled again, but he didn’t strike. Instead, he stepped back, his voice cold. “Then you know to stay out of my way.”

  Kaelen’s smile faded. “For now.”

  Rowan slipped into the shadows, his movements swift and silent as he left the alley. The shard’s pulse steadied, its rhythm aligning with the spire’s hum. But Kaelen’s words lingered in his mind, threading through his thoughts like a warning.

  The Magister was right about one thing: Rowan didn’t fully understand the Riftwood’s power. But he wasn’t about to let someone like Kaelen decide his fate.

  As he approached the spire, the glyphs on its surface flared brighter, their light casting long shadows across the plaza. The shard pulsed sharply, its glow intensifying as Rowan stepped closer.

  The spire was waiting. And Rowan’s next move would decide everything.