The first light of dawn did not simply enter Arathen’s palace—it spilled like liquid fire through the stained-glass windows, igniting the marble halls in rivers of gold and crimson. The glass panes caught the sunlight and scattered it across the high ceilings, turning every archway into a cathedral of morning flame. Marble floors glowed warm beneath the shifting colors, and for a moment, the palace seemed less a fortress of kings and more a holy reliquary awaiting divine judgment.

But dawn brought no silence. The palace thrummed like a hive, its servants already in motion. Barefoot attendants hurried along polished corridors, balancing trays of bread, roasted meats, and steaming pitchers of spiced tea. The fragrance of cinnamon and cardamom clung to the air, mingling with the tang of oiled steel from the armory. Knights in polished breastplates marched the courtyards with practiced steps, their halberds catching and refracting the sunrise into spears of light. Even the gardens, tended before the dew had fully dried, seemed to bow beneath the weight of expectation.

Because word had spread in whispers through the night—

The Heroes had come.

The palace was alive with gossip. Maids whispered in alcoves about the foreigners’ faces and rumored powers. Stablehands stood straighter, their menial tasks performed with exaggerated pride, as though the summoned champions’ presence ennobled even the mucking of stalls. In the kitchens, cooks doubled their efforts, shoving trays of golden bread into ovens, muttering that heroes summoned from another world surely needed to eat like gods.

Behind one chamber door, Ethan stirred from uneasy dreams. A knock roused him fully, followed by the quiet creak of hinges and the scent of saffron. A young maid bowed low, her movements rehearsed, before setting a silver tray upon his table.

“Good morning, Hero Ethan. Your breakfast.”

Ethan blinked at the array: saffron-poached eggs gleaming like amber, thick slices of dark bread steaming beside fresh butter, a cluster of berries sparkling like rubies in the sun. It looked too perfect, like a meal staged for a royal feast—or a cooking show back home.

“…Not bad,” he muttered, though his stomach turned sour with nerves.

When the maid slipped out, he wandered to the window. Beyond the carefully trimmed palace gardens, the city unfurled like a living tapestry—whitewashed houses stacked along narrow streets, banners flaring in the wind, towers rising against the pale sky. It should have been breathtaking. Instead, Ethan felt the walls closing in. Gilded, ornate, suffocating.

“Heroes, huh,” he muttered bitterly to the glass. “Guess they forgot my gym membership expired four years ago.”

Across the hall, Maya had risen far earlier. Her breakfast had gone untouched, the steam long fled. Instead, she hunched over a desk, quill scratching furiously, ink already blotting her fingertips. The parchment filled with notes—half dream, half theory.

The library of infinite shelves.
Mirrors fractured, selves refracted.
A whisper: time like clay.

She underlined the last words, hand trembling. Chronomancy. The very word felt dangerous. Her scholar’s mind warred with itself: to cage it in reason, or to marvel at the impossible. She recalled myths of gods who bent ages and oracles who drowned in visions of futures they could not change. Now, she feared she stood on that same precipice.

“Don’t lose yourself,” she whispered to the empty room, pressing the quill to still her shaking hand. “Knowledge burns just as fire does.”

A knock startled her—just as another fell upon Ethan’s door. Two knights appeared in unison, steel polished to a mirror sheen. Both bowed deeply, voices echoing in practiced harmony:

“Hero Ethan. Hero Maya. The Magus awaits you in the courtyard. Your training begins.”

The courtyard lay vast and solemn, a square of polished stone ringed by fluted columns woven with climbing roses. Beyond its outer walls, mountains towered, their jagged peaks piercing the morning sky like blades.

Ethan and Maya were escorted through the grand archway together. Already, dozens had gathered: knights and servants, scribes and apprentices, all craning to glimpse the strangers chosen by fate. The air bristled with expectation, thick enough to taste.

At the courtyard’s heart stood High Magus Veylan, staff planted firmly at his side. His robes of deep indigo stirred faintly in the wind, his silvered beard catching stray threads of sunlight. His eyes—sharp, weary, unreadable—surveyed them like one measuring the weight of scales.

“Welcome,” he intoned, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “I am Veylan, one of the High Magus of the Council. Others you shall meet in time, but for now, my name will suffice. Today, the Blessing shall reveal its shape. You will touch your power—discover whether it shall serve you… or master you.”

Ethan swallowed hard, scratching at the back of his neck. “No pressure, huh.”

The Magus ignored him. His staff tapped against the stone. “Step forward, Ethan Cross.”

Heart pounding, Ethan obeyed.

“Close your eyes,” Veylan commanded. “The Oath has seeded the blessing within. Reach inward. Do not fear the fire—it belongs to you.”

Ethan hesitated, then shut his eyes. At once, memory returned: the wasteland aflame, the sword of molten light in his hands, the bitter anger of a life stolen from him. Rage unfurled like a tide.

Heat surged. His veins burned. His fists trembled—then erupted in flame. Not red, not orange, but searing azure streaked with violet, a fire that devoured the very air. Gasps broke the silence. The stone beneath his boots cracked like ice. Servants shrank back, clutching one another.

When Ethan opened his eyes, faint embers smoldered within them. He staggered, fighting for control. The flames guttered, dying into smoke. He panted, shaken, whispering, “…Holy shit.”

Maya’s breath caught. For all his bitterness, there was something dangerous beneath his skin. Something hungry.

Veylan’s gaze sharpened. “Soulfire,” he declared. “Rare. Volatile. Destructive. Rage fuels it. Yield too much, and it will consume you.”

Ethan flexed his fingers, still trembling. He tried for humor. “Guess anger management isn’t optional here.” His joke fell flat; silence weighed heavy. He coughed, embarrassed, and stepped back.

“Now, Maya Tanaka,” Veylan said, turning. “Step forth.”

Maya obeyed, knees weak.

“Focus. The Oath has already whispered to you. Seize it. Bend it.”

Closing her eyes, she summoned the dream—the endless shelves, the fractured selves, the voices murmuring from futures unchosen. Her breath slowed.

The air shifted. A ripple passed through the courtyard, subtle at first, then undeniable. Sunlight warped, shadows lengthened, and the very air thickened like syrup. A sparrow mid-flight froze, wings locked. The crowd gasped.

Ethan blinked—and Maya was closer, as though space itself had yielded. No trail, no blur. Just… displacement. Or perhaps time had betrayed its master.

Maya opened her eyes. The world crawled sluggishly, the crowd’s faces distorted by the drag of slowed seconds. Her temples throbbed; her hands shook. Then she exhaled, and the spell snapped. The sparrow winged onward, the world racing back into motion.

A beat of silence—then a roar of cheers.

Veylan’s eyes glittered with rare light. “Chronomancy. The rarest of all gifts. You grasp the threads of time itself. Dangerous, yes—but in mastery, it may rival even the Demon King’s might.”

Ethan swore under his breath, envy knotting in his chest before he shoved it down. Fire was one thing. But time? Time was godhood.

Maya folded her arms tight, trembling. “It didn’t feel… natural.”

“Power never is,” Veylan replied. “It is taken. Shaped. Wielded.”

Side by side again, Ethan and Maya bore the weight of the crowd’s awe—and the truth settled upon them like a chain. Their powers were real. Their fate was no longer theory or dream.

It had begun.