The storm had passed, but the sky above Zantaru Cliffs still churned with fading echoes of power. Pale strands of lightning lingered in the clouds like ghosts unwilling to leave. Below, the blackened rocks steamed faintly, scarred from the battle that had unfolded there only hours before.

Kazi stood at the edge of the clearing, her arms crossed as she watched the last tendrils of smoke curl into the wind. Her mark still tingled, not with pain or alarm, but with a strange sense of recognition. It had bonded with the storm, acknowledged the Volt Line’s presence.

And now, it was quiet.

Rhazir crouched nearby, drawing in the dust with the edge of a broken twig. Strange sigils and paths took shape under his hand, pieces of a language Kazi didn’t recognize but instinctively knew was old. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“They’ll be back.”

Kazi glanced at him. “The shadows?”

Rhazir nodded. “They weren’t scouts. They were collectors. They weren’t sent to kill Dakarai. They were sent to bring him in.”

Dakarai sat a few paces away, arms resting on his knees, lightning still occasionally sparking from his fingertips without his permission. He was quieter now. Less aggressive. But his eyes had not lost their edge.

“What would they want with someone like me?” he asked.

“You’re awakened,” Rhazir replied. “And not everyone sees that as a blessing.”

Kazi looked at Dakarai. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a shrug, he said, “I don’t know yet.”

They moved on not long after, hiking down a narrow pass that led away from Zantaru Cliffs and deeper into the wild stretch of land north of Novara. There were no roads here, only deer paths and moss-covered ruins swallowed by trees. The world felt older, untouched by the shine of cities or the structure of civilization.

That night, they made camp beneath a cluster of weathered stone arches, remnants of an outpost long forgotten. Rhazir lit a small fire using nothing but a whisper of shadow drawn from the stones around them. It didn’t burn like normal fire, it flickered with a faint violet hue, casting long, uneven shadows.

Kazi leaned back against a rock, eyes on the stars overhead. “Do you think this mark is changing who we are?”

“Yes,” Rhazir said without hesitation. “But not how you think. It doesn’t rewrite you. It reveals you. The real you. The part that’s been waiting to surface.”

She looked down at her forearm. The mark shimmered faintly, as if breathing with her. “Feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“You haven’t,” he said. “That’s what training is for.”

Dakarai raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re going to teach us?”

“Not everything,” Rhazir replied, “but enough to keep you alive.”

He walked to the center of the camp and raised one hand. A faint ripple passed through the air, and shadows bloomed upward around him like smoke. With a flick of his wrist, they coiled and hardened into blades, each hovering in place for a breath before dissipating into mist.

“Elemental power is like breath. You don’t think to use it. You feel it. You let it move through you.”

He pointed at Kazi. “Flames wants to rise. Let it climb.”

Then at Dakarai. “Lightning doesn’t wait. It reacts. But you control when it lands.”

Kazi and Dakarai exchanged a look.

“Tomorrow, we train,” Rhazir exclaimed “But tonight, we rest.”

And somewhere far behind them, the stones of Zantaru Cliffs still hummed softly, holding the memory of lightning.