Familiarity Breeds Suspicions.

Vaelorian moved swiftly, his senses sharpened by the weight of urgency and danger. Rounding the weathered building, he spotted what looked like an old, battered entrance—rusted hinges, peeling paint, half-hidden by overgrown vines and a faint scent of decay.

He knew better than to hesitate. So, without a second thought, he drew his sword, the blade gleaming ominously in the mid-day sunlight. With a practiced, confident motion, he sliced through the vines and old lock; the metal protested with a screech that echoed into the silence. The door swung open, revealing a dark, grimy staircase spiraling downward into the depths.

The air hit him first—a stale, oppressive dampness that clung to his skin. Every step downward felt heavier, as if the darkness itself was trying to pull him back. He hesitated just for a heartbeat, contemplating turning back, but then a faint, heartbreaking sound stopped him cold.

Someone was whimpering. Tiny, trembling, scared.

It was the kids. His heart thudded fiercely. Relief surged through him—they're safe, they're alive. But the sight that greeted him made his breath hitch. All five teenagers, no older than seventeen, were tied up, their mouths gagged, eyes covered. Yet, despite the bindings and concealment, they were unharmed.

Their bodies were shivering in the shadows.

Probably because of fear and cold, but they were unharmed.

Vaelorian's voice was gentle as he knelt, untieing them one by one. "Hey, it's okay. I'm Vaelorian. You're safe now."

Finally freed, the children looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, some whispering softly, trying to process this unexpected rescue.

He asked quickly, "Did you see who took you? Do you recognize their faces?" They shook their heads, eyes still darting around, fearful of every sound.

"It's okay. Now, I want you to get out of here through that way, run as fast as you can. You'll meet people that will get you to safety—I trust them, you'll be safe." He paused, glancing back toward the woods behind the building. "Go. Now."

As they scrambled away, he felt the weight of what was left undone. The people responsible for this abduction—he had to find them. His gut twisted with suspicion. He moved toward the main house, where a sense of creeping dread prickled his skin. He had to see who was inside—and why.

Before entering the dusty, dilapidated sitting room, he paused. From inside, muffled voices drifted on—men talking, low and deliberate. Four of them, at least. He could take them in a fight—no problem. But what language were they speaking? It didn't sound familiar. His brow furrowed; the unfamiliar dialect piqued his curiosity, along with the dangerous edge it carried.

"Hey!" a voice suddenly called from behind him, startling him from his thoughts.

Then, bam! A gunshot rang out. In that split second, adrenaline surged, and Vaelorian dodged instinctively.

Crap! He'd let his guard down.

The sharp crack of the gun made him flinch, and chaos erupted. Men surged toward him, he scrambled for cover, their voices rising with every gunshot. They sounded panicked, but mostly enraged. The metallic scent of gunpowder filled the air as he darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the first flying bullet.

"Are you the one that took the kids?" the shooter demanded, voice cold and cruel, in English. Vaelorian's eyes widened in disbelief.

They can speak English.

While foreigners aren't uncommon in Lumina, their presence this deep in Dawnspire city is highly unusual. This particular area of the city was specifically chosen for its vast, undeveloped lands and forests to serve as a training camp for the Empire's Youths. Their presence here alone is already alarming, and they had taken the kids

"That accent, where are you from?" he blurted, trying to dodge another shot as adrenaline coursed through him.

"Why should I tell you when you're going to die?" the man sneered, voice dripping with menace.

Vaelorian moved with inhuman speed, but so did the attacker's bullets that somehow seems to match his agile reflexes. He was the one running yet the bad guy kept pace, matching him in speed just by shooting.

Vaelorian could kill them easily of course—so easy—but he needed answers.

When Lady Isolde discovered the kids were not in their tents this morning. Vaelorian thought, maybe they'd snuck out last night and simply missed their way back. He'd done a discreet perimeter check with teleportation—nothing. No sign of the children. Now, finding them tied up this deep in the woods, where no one was supposed to be—no buildings, no humans—Vaelorian has begun to wonder if this is connected to the recent disappearances.

These men shooting at him? No signs that they're gift users, yet they weren't surprised that he was moving this fast. They know about gift users—familiarity breeds suspicions.

"Oops!" Vaelorian muttered dryly, landing gracefully as one of the bad guys mistakenly shot one of his own. The others roared in rage, reloading and firing with renewed fury.

Tired of playing this fruitless game with the bad guys, Vaelorian cracked his knuckles, urging them one last time to talk, but their responses were merely taunts and threats.

"You can get your answers in hell, asshole!" one of them spat.

Sighing with irritation, he withdrew his twin swords. With terrifying speed, the remaining four men were decapitated, their heads rolling messily to the ground.

"How annoying!" he muttered, wiping his blade clean while glancing at the carnage. If only they had cooperated. Seems they were just pawns—no more than hired muscle.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him. Answers—he needed answers. His thought was interrupted by distant sounds upstairs. His instincts screamed for him to move, so he hurried toward the second floor.

But as soon as he crossed the threshold, his body froze—immobilized, as if an invisible hand gripped him tight. No, not just a hand—something, someone, had rendered him powerless.

"I saw your little display down there," a calm, calculated voice said from the shadows. A figure emerged into view, confident and unhurried. "I couldn't take chances."

'He's a gift user.' Vaelorian thought.

Another voice, cold and dismissive, spoke. "Let's just kill him and leave." A gun twirled in a gloved hand, then aimed directly at Vaelorian.

A gunshot, it wouldn't kill him—but it would hurt. A lot. Vaelorian grimaced inwardly, bracing himself.

The bad guys spoke in the same foreign language again, then exchanged strange glances. They look scared. As the one with the gun lifted it and prepared to pull the trigger, a voice—smooth, chilling—cut through the tension.

"Drop it!"

The man froze, then the gun clattered to the floor. The men's eyes widened, and before they could react further, the voice issued another command.

"Stop. Turn around!"

They obeyed, and Vaelorian's body suddenly regained control. His instincts took over and he drew out his swords.

"Start walking!" the voice commanded again.

The bad guys, zombielike, shuffled forward toward a broken window.

What is going on? 'That voice…' Vaelorian's mind raced, 'it sounds so familiar.'

"Riven?" he asked in disbelief, watching as the younger boy strode fully into view, eyes focused intently on the bad guys.

The henchmen moved like automatons, heading straight for the shattered glass, unseeing, unthinking. Vaelorian's eyes widened—Riven has activated his second gift again.

He was using mind control. He's going to kill them?

"Riven, stop! We need them alive!" Vaelorian yelled, panic creeping into his voice.

The spell shattered instantly. The men gasped, eyes wide as they broke free from the invisible grip. Horror replaced their previous zombie-like obedience—they looked around, bewildered, as if awakening from a nightmare.

For Riven, this was like a scene from a movie. One moment he was sprinting toward the building after hearing the gunshot, and the next, he was amidst a massacre—headless bodies strewn across the floor. His frantic search for Vaelorian led him upstairs, and then, he saw Vaelorian kneeling, a gun aimed at his head. Suddenly—his vision blurred, something inside him snapped—rage, protectiveness.

He didn't even know how it happened, but he found himself telling the bad guy to drop the gun—an instinct driven by pure instinct and fury. An overwhelming desire to protect Vaelorian burned through him. He wanted them dead.

The next time control returned, Vaelorian was holding his twin swords at the necks of the remaining men, Lady Isolde and other adults rushing into the scene.

Pain shot through Riven's head—sharp, searing—and images flashed through his mind: a pale, scrawny kid with long black hair standing in front of another with short blonde hair, a menacing man pointing a gun. The scene was distant, yet painfully familiar—like a fragment of a memory but out of reach.

Clutching his head, Riven knees buckled. Before he collapsed, warm, large hands caught him.

"I've got you," Vaelorian's soft voice soothed as he cradled the younger boy.

Riven groaned, the pain ebbing away, and looked up, still lying in Vaelorian's arms.

"Have we met before? When we were kids?" Riven's voice was hoarse but curious.

Vaelorian's face softened, a trace of sadness in his eyes. "I was right. You don't remember me." He spoke gently, a faint smile touching his lips. "Then again, It's been eight years. I look nothing like I did back then." Riven just stared back, confusion flickering. "Yes… we've met before Riven. You saved me, just like you did now." Vaelorian finally said the words he'd been holding forever.

"Is that how you found out about my second gift?" Riven asked in a hushed tone, trying to keep his voice quiet.

Vaelorian nodded, his expression tender. "Thank you—for everything. I never got a proper chance to thank you back then, or even to know your name."

Lady Isolde's voice broke through softly. "Your Highness, are you both alright?"

Vaelorian nodded, carefully rising, Riven still cradled in his arms. "He's just tired. I'll take him back."

And with that, he turned, walking away from the chaos—the only thing important to him at the moment was the boy in his arms.